'You get one for free,' I said. 'More will cost you.'
She cried out with joy, and the Marquis reached over and grabbed her hand, running his thumb over the design, peering at it with wide and inquisitive eyes. Then he looked sharply over at me, and took a sharp bow.
'How could I not concede to such skill?' he said. 'Dakota may ink any of us.'
And then I was swarmed with a hundred werewolves, tigers, and stags, pressing around me, all asking what I could do for them-or just trying to get close enough to rub up against my bare skin. The referees and vampires pushed them all back and made a space for me at the edge of the ring, where, exhausted, I quickly began putting back on my clothes.
The Marquis and wolf-boy were staring at the feral girl's tattoo. She was alternately looking at it and looking at me with equally wide eyes.
'I'm sorry,' I called out to the Marquis.
'I do not feel robbed,' he said bitterly. 'I just lost.'
'I do want your advice on the control-charm tattoo,' I said. 'I really need your help.'
'I think it is safe, but I will… review it,' he said, looking back at me. 'I will report my findings to the blind witch, and charge only my standard fee. But if any other… requests… come out of your little display, any other ink for one of my wolves, you must first show me.'
The little putz wanted to see my flash. Fine. Apparently he didn't know the new rules, the Edgeworld rules which recognized our need to collaborate; perhaps it was time to show him.
'Of course you can see my flash,' I said, and he looked over sharply. 'I can bring you a selection of designs, even show you how to ink some of the more complicated-'
'Why are you placating me?' he snapped, almost taking a chunk out of the air.
'This is the twenty-first century,' I reminded him. 'And I'm not an old-world, secret-magic practitioner keeping all my best tricks for myself. I'm an Edgeworlder, and we share our gifts with each other and the world.'
I stood, letting my coat drape over me. 'Besides, I might get another request for a tattoo from a werewolf. You give me good advice on this one, and I'll send more work your way.'
The Marquis nodded, pulling on his own coat. Then without another word, he swept off, taking with him wolf-boy and the feral girl, both looking back at me.
I looked up to see Lord Buckhead standing at the edge of the ring, and the Bear King slinking off his stage towards the farther loading docks. 'I have smoothed over any remaining difficulties,' the werestag said, 'but the Bear King does not wish to speak further with you today. We should go, before the crowd becomes… boisterous.'
'Amen to that,' I said, shifting my coat, turning back to Calaphase. 'You know what? Thank you, Calaphase. You're quite a decent fellow-'
'For a vampire?' he asked.
'For not leering like all the rest,' I said.
'Oh, that. Well, I do like to be a gentleman,' he said, and then, leaning close, whispered, 'And just between you and me? Half the time-your back was turned.'
16. Not-So-Secret Admirer
I woke up sweaty, feeling warmth beside me in the bed, where one of my cats had curled up into the curve of my body. The rest of them yowled around me, and I shifted sleepily, trying to push off the heat source-boy, they didn't know their own weight, did they?-and ignore them. But my nose wrinkled: whoo, the stink. Had one of them farted or, worse, sprayed? No; the scent was different, less cat stink than gym sweat… with a touch of cinnamon.
I opened my eyes to see the face of the feral girl.
'Aaaaa!' I screamed, jumping and klonking my head on the headboard. She was still there, and I shoved away, falling onto the floor, dragging half the bedcovers with me. I lay there frozen a minute-I couldn't see her; had it been a dream?-and then pulled myself up to see the feral girl still curled up on my bed, looking straight at me.
'I let myself in,' she said. 'I hopes that's OK.'
'How the hell did you manage-' and then I saw overturned glassware in the kitchen: she'd let herself in through a second floor window. 'Never mind. How did you find me?'
'I followed you. You gots the world's lamest bike. It was easy to keep up-'
'My precious Vespa is a scooter,; not a bike,' I said, 'and she gets like sixty miles to the gallon.' My brow furrowed. 'You mean followed, like on foot?'
She smiled, her tail flickering up in the air.
'I find myself less and less enamored of were-whatevers,' I muttered, cracking my neck where the collar had kinked it in my sleep. I reached up to the desk next to my bed and batted at my computer mouse: after a moment the monitor turned itself back on, and I peered at the system clock. 'Jeez! It's like, eight in the morning! Who's up at this ungodly hour?'
'The day is young,' she purred, slinking forward to peer down at me on the floor.
I eyed her warily. I didn't like the way this was going. And in the light I could she was a lot younger than she'd looked at the werehouse. 'What's your name, kid?'
'You called me Cinnamon,' she said dreamily. 'That will do.'
'Look, Cinnamon, the last thing I need is another spice-themed girlfriend, suitor or ex,' I said, standing up at last. 'You had a name before I smelled your perfume. What was it?'
'They called me Stray,' she said. 'Or Foundling.'
Oh, God. She was serious. That was horrible. 'I'm so sorry.'
'Don't-don't you be sorrying me!' she said, face fierce and tragic all at once. 'You didn't talk down at me before!'
'I'm sor-' I stopped, and held up my hands. 'I'm sorry you're an orphan and I'm sorry I'm sorry. Get the hell over it.'
She started to get mad, then just smiled, a huge sunny smile. 'Okay, DaKOta!'
I stared at her suspiciously. 'How the hell old are you?'
'Twenty-three,' she said proudly.
'And how old are you when you're not trying to buy beer?'
Her face fell. 'Nineteen.'
'And how old are you when you're not trying to get down my pants?'
Her face fell further. 'Seventeen.'
'Not likely,' I said, looking at her face. Lots of baby fat, few lines even for a street cat. She had a lot of tattoos, but-'Not even fifteen. Maybe thirteen-'
'I am too fifteen,' she said indignantly, then held her hands to her mouth.
'Jeez,' I said. 'You are not old enough to be alone on the streets-'
'I can take care of myself,' she said.
'I don't doubt it,' I said. 'But being able to take care of yourself, and having to take care of yourself, are two different things.'
'I'm a foundling,' she said. 'My mother spent most of her time as a beast during her pregnancy so… so I wouldn't die when she changed. And after all that time.'
'She couldn't change back,' I said. 'I'm so sor-so, you know.'
'They say my dad went with her so…' She stared at her hands, at the tufts of fur between her fingers, then said, 'So I don't have any parents. The werehouse is my home, but I gots to take care of myself.'
'Look… uh, Cinnamon. Why are you here?'
'T-to get down your pants?' she stammered, eyes wide, a little shocked at herself. 'I-I-means, I means like you said that you thought that-'
'You haven't thought this through at all, have you?' I said quietly.
