'We're off to see the werewolf,' he warbled terribly, and my blood grew cold. 'The wonderful werewolf of Krog. He is the were the wonderful were-'
'The full moon is like, ten days away,' I muttered. 'No, I'm not at all worried.'
4. ENTER THE WOLF
At night you can't see the color of my tattoos-unless I want you to. The darkness robs the blue from the scales of the dragon, the red from the feathers of the eagle, and the gold from the wings of the butterfly, leaving a black pattern of tribal runes like columns of hieroglyphics.
They're mesmerizing-at least I hoped that's why the werewolf stared at me so intently with his gleaming eyes. Oh, he looked human, even handsome, crouched on the dock under the yellowed lantern light, but his white incisors were a bit too sharp, his brown beard a little too scraggly, and something hungry lurked behind the lashes of his green eyes.
I stared back, frozen. Deep in a maze of tunnels marked with magical signs I couldn't decipher, surrounded by blocks of stone that rose above us like a dungeon, trapped in a rocking boat too precarious to even stand, here I sat with the bare flesh of my arms exposed to a werewolf staring at me like dinner. Charming.
The tension grew thick enough to scare me out of my wits before the werewolf said, in a deep, rumbling voice that chilled me to my bones, 'Such exquisite color. Such attention to detail. I could gaze on them all night, and not ask the question-can you do this?'
The werewolf flicked an old photograph at me, but I was too stunned to catch it.
'Don't lose it,' Spleen cried, reaching out impulsively and damn near falling out of the boat, and both the werewolf and I reached to steady him.
Our hands touched-the werewolf s was shockingly warm-and we both jerked away. Spleen leaned back up, one hand drenched where he'd pitched forward, but the other-and the photograph- still held high and dry.
'Idiot,' Spleen snarled at me, shaking stinking drainwater off his hand. 'Why do you think I brought you down here? So he could eat v you?'
'No,' I said, staring at the werewolf a bit sheepishly. We were both holding our hands carefully, mirroring each other, and I'd caught a lively spark in his eyes that seemed to promise that he was interested in more than dinner. 'That wasn't what I was worried about.'
'What then?' he asked, handing me the photograph.
I ignored him, holding the photograph gingerly, trying to parse it. It depicted a… stone carving of a wolf-a wolf in chains, which looped around it in an elaborate design.
'A control charm?' I guessed.
'I'm told you are the best,' the werewolf said. 'Seeing your work-' he stared hungrily, no, appreciatively, at my arms-'I'd trust no one else. Can you ink the image on me?'
I pocketed it. 'Of course, but I have to get this vetted by a local witch. I don't ink marks I haven't done before without a second opinion-you never know what lurks in the magic.'
The wolf pursed his lips. He had nice lips. Very nice lips, and a strong jaw beneath the scraggle. I notice these things.
'Of… course,' the werewolf said. 'But this cannot take too long-'
'She can do it,' Spleen said, jerking forward slightly. 'Believe me. Dakota, give him the show. He needs to know what he's buying-'
'No need,' the wolf said, eyes fixed on me. 'I can see the magic in her marks.'
I held his gaze, then cracked my neck a little and prepared to breathe a word. It didn't really matter what word; an old-school magician or one of my Wiccan friends would no doubt have a whole vocabulary of nonsense for every different occasion. But the specific word didn't matter: with magical tattoos, all that mattered was the intent of the wearer.
'Show him,' I said, and the tiniest magical tremor rippled through my body, the barest fraction of power, gleaming down my tats, spreading through the vines, illuminating the scales, the feathers, the wings in a sparkling array like a cloud of fairy dust marching down my skin. I even made the wings of the butterfly on my left wrist lift up and flutter in the air. The big bad werewolf's eyes lit up like a little child, dancing over my form, drinking in the magic, edges crinkling up in a smile.
'All but these are mine,' I said, holding up my right forearm as the last glimmers of magic sparkled away, 'and the man who did my inking arm works with me in the Rogue.'
The wolf leaned back, impressed. 'I would say I am now convinced, but I was before.'
I glared at Spleen. 'You could have brought him to the Rogue-'
'NO,' the wolf said. 'It's not safe-'
'This,' I said, 'is the twenty-first century. In Atlanta. In Little Five Points. Trust me, no one is going to hassle a werewolf. Heck, no one will even notice you.'
'I didn't mean it wasn't safe for me,' the werewolf said, still staring at me with those hungry eyes. His eyes no longer lingered on my tattoos, but roved all over me, like I was a particularly delicious banquet. Then he caught himself and looked away, shaking his head, face twitching in a pained grimace-I was a banquet he was forbidden to touch.
He was embarrassed. I felt sad for him, forced to hide in these tunnels, afraid of himself, holding on to what little scraps of dignity he could, like his battered suit. Even looking away, his chin was held up with pride, as of he were trying to be more than the monster most people would choose to see.
Not that a twinge of fear wasn't still nagging me: here I was, facing a real Edgeworlder, ripe with danger, popping his cork monthly, all too interested in my tattoos. I couldn't help but think of that skin-covered lid in the evidence tray. But I sensed no malice in this werewolf-in this man, this dangerously scruffy but still charming man with gleaming green eyes. And behind the hunger and the pain in those eyes I saw sadness… and interest?
'What's your name?' I asked.
The green eyes looked away. 'Uh… Wulf.'
A lie. Charming. Unoriginal. But not unexpected. He was hiding in the basement of the Edgeworld; no big surprise that he felt like he needed to hide even his name. I didn't know what drove him to that-but I did know I didn't like how guilty that lie made him feel.
'Well, 'Wulf,'' I said, cracking my best smile, 'I'll get right on it.'
Wulf glanced back to see acceptance, not judgment, on my face. He smiled back, an odd, shy grin, and I brushed back one of the feathers of my deathhawk, where it had curled about my neck. Then Wulf leaned back again, all the way on his heels, putting his hands easily on his knees. 'This,' he said, addressing Spleen, 'has been an unexpected pleasure.'
And then he looked straight at me, eyes hungry with something new. 'I look forward to seeing more of you, Dakota Frost.'
Without another word he rose and left, climbing stone stairs up into the blackness of the vault. Even as Spleen turned the boat around, my eyes still lingered, watching Wulf go.
By the time we got back to Mary's in East Atlanta it was damn near 1 a.m., and my evening was a lost cause. The tiny dance floor was empty, the VJ was putting up his discs, and even the bar was starting to thin out. I was so stressed I debated downing a Jager, but it was just too late and I had to drive.
The streets glistened blackly as I steered the Vespa back to Candler Park, and hidden shapes flitted among the bony fingers of the trees. The moon had long since set, but I could feel it out there, looming, itching for fullness, an hour closer to midnight each day.
When I parked my Vespa underneath the stairs and lurched up to my flat, I could feel a presence behind me, every step of the way. Wulf, stalking me? The yowling of my cats and the mechanics of setting down some canned food on the kitchen floor did nothing to dispel my mood.
In the end I lay in bed, alone, staring at the ceiling.
Someone out there wanted the skin off my back.
And I just might be doing a tattoo for him.
