mystics, hexes-all nonsense. Ley lines, sacrifices, potions- mere dabbling. Only necromancers come close to the true nature of magic; their every spell is powered by the spilt blood of a living thing. But do they recognize the source of their power? No-they let all that magic bleed out into the air, catching only a whiff to make some dead thing dance like a marionette.'
'Only the Art truly understands the true source of all magic: life.' He shrugged his shoulders, and his tattoos seemed to glow to life, coming off his body in a haze of psychedelic color. 'All the inks and powders and designs and rituals are just a way of focusing the power that is life. Understand that, and you can do anything.'
'From the olden days, the Hebrews tried to stamp us out,' he said, raising his voice. 'They knew what we could do and murdered us, overturned our stones, defiled our altars. We had to go underground, practice our rites in secret-'
'Baal,' I said. 'You're literally a priest of Baal-' 'Close enough,' Mirabilus said, bowing slightly. 'You know enough to recognize the words, but have forgotten what they mean. Should I… introduce you to the rites of Ba'alat Gebal before I take my prize?'
Something about his tone made my skin crawl-fuck that. 'I knew I saw something Middle Eastern in your skin tone,' I said. 'You're a descendant of priests of Baal who escaped persecution by pretending to be Jews. You threw me off with that 'Christopher Saint Valentine's Day' stage name, but I'm sure of it now-what did your family do, switch to pretending to be Christian once the Jews were the ones being persecuted?'
Mirabilus was silent for a moment, then laughed bitterly. 'Wrong, but close enough-the Inheritance of Byblos has taken many guises over the millennia. You know, the rites of Ba'lat would make this easier on you. Call it professional courtesy for a fellow priest-'
'Fuck that' I said, this time aloud. 'I'm no priest of Baal or of anything else. I don't believe in any of that hocus pocus-but I was brought up a Christian and if I have to choose I'll go out with Jesus. Fuck Baal.'
'Now, now,' Mirabilus said, 'you'll make me change the order-'
'If you were planning to rape me after ripping open my back,' I said, 'I'd prefer you switched the order.' Though I couldn't imagine any order of those things that I'd prefer.
'I will kill you tonight,' Mirabilus said icily, pulling out the dagger and drawing it over the skin of his arm without a flinch. The dagger's pommel began to glow red. 'I will link my life with yours with the Art of Ink and Life, drain your power and add it to my own. It will be done now as in centuries past by the Children of the Ba'alat of Gebal.'
I swallowed, clenching my hands tightly. I could feel the mana building in my hands, but underneath the stinging pitch it had nowhere to go and the skin of my hands got hotter and hotter until it felt like it was burning fire.
'Oh, please, Dakota, build up the mana in the vessels on your hands until they burst,' he said, laughing-and something tickled the back of my mind. 'It will only make my job easier, the flow faster. I will kill you, tonight, and then Buckhead, and Jinx, and then Alex-a pity for him, he had such potential.'
But I was ignoring him now, concentrating. Build up the mana in the vessels of your hands until they burst. What was wrong about how he said that?
'Sorry I'm late,' Transomnia said, hopping up to the podium nimbly and tossing down a hammer with a kind of glee. 'Anything left for me, old man?'
And then it hit me. He'd hadn't said the vessels in your hands, but on your hands.
'You can have all the blood,' Mirabilus said, grinning. 'I just want the skin.'
Vessel was an old skindancer word for magical capacitor. He didn't mean my blood vessels-he was talking about the magical marks on my palms and knuckles. The word was old, falling out of use in the 1800's, used now only by faux-ancients like Wiccans… and true ancients like Mirabilus. If I was right about his use of such an old word, Mirabilus had extended his life a century or more with his lifedraining tricks-and maybe, just maybe, he was like the Marquis, trapped in a prescientific view that saw magical tattoos as mystical lenses, projecting mana from living bodies into the air through their two-dimensional designs.
In that view, my hands were the biggest threat: with their flexible skin, they were my quickest source of power, whereas any other skindancing movement would be slower, giving him more than enough time to stab me in the back. With my hands coated with goo, all that power could do was burn out my skin, like black paper thrown over a light bulb.
But reality was more complicated: the line between air and skin, skin and flesh was blurry; each had its own capacity to carry manabut a difference of degree, rather than kind. After all, a cell phone is just like a land line-once you realize the air can act like a wire.
I could use that coating of pitch, project the power of my tattoos inward, make my body like the air, to hold that power and release it. It might damn near kill me-but with the magic hidden away behind my skin, Mirabilus would never see it coming.
I had a chance, if I could only find a distraction.
'Every drop of blood in her body,' Transomnia said, breathing heavily. 'Oh, yessss, juice of the forbidden fruit. I will enjoy defying the Lady Saffron again.'
But… he hadn't defied Savannah before. He had practically been a rules lawyer, skirting what harm he could do to me without defying her ban. I twisted my neck to look at him, and he raised an eyebrow, eyes trying to communicate… something. He knew what he was saying was wrong. What the hell? What was I missing?
My eyes widened as I remembered it had been awfully easy to get in here-and yet Transomnia knew exactly how to shut me down. He just hadn't told his guards.
'Maybe I'll make Jinx my apertif before I feast on you, Dakota,' he hissed, leaning down close, his desperate face in opposition to his words; but when he leaned back where Mirabilus could see him, he was practically leering in hunger. 'And Alex will make a nice palate cleanser before I have Buckhead for dessert-'
I writhed and squeezed my hands. The mana built up in them and fed back, burning my skin, sinking into my body, like I'd drunk an entire pot of hot coffee. I could feel the tingling start, rippling down my insides-but held on to the power, held onto it tight.
'Please burn out your hands trying to awaken your marks,' Mirabilus said, raising his dagger. 'I'll drink in your power until not a scrap is left-'
Transomnia stepped up behind Mirabilus for a better view, leaning in, winking at him, leering down at me, making me duck and flinch. Mirabilus glared and Transomnia stepped back, hands raised in mock surrender. But the moment the wizard's face turned away, he caught my eye and raised his finger to his lips… and showed me the pruners.
I looked away in terror. What new horror was this? But his face had shifted from eager leering sycophant to… something else, just for a second. Mirabilus stepped forward, to the edge of the platform, and placed his clammy geezer hand on my bare backside. I looked back one last time, and saw Transomnia raise the pruners high behind Mirabilus's head.
'Whatever you're going to do, do it now, Dakota,' he said.
And rammed the pruners down with vampire speed.
Mirabilus whirled, crying out in pain as the pruners stabbed into his collarbone. Faster than a vampire, stronger than a werewolf, his fist popped out and clocked Transomnia under the chin; Transomnia staggered back, but pulled with his right hand on the pruners, making Mirabilus scream as they ripped free. Mirabilus shook the pain off, shifted his shoulders and chest, and his tattoos blazed to life.
Transomnia tumbled backwards, screaming as Mirabilus poured all his power out into the air. Snakes snapped at him, bees stung him, and spiders whirled around him, twining his legs so he tumbled backwards off the stage. But somehow, despite all the power, all the artistry, even with the magic flying through the air, there was something off about Mirabilus' designs… something flat, and two dimensional.
Mirabilus was an old school magician. He had thought Transomnia had taken my weapons away by coating my 'vessels' with pitch to keep the magic from leaking out into the air and awakening my marks. But that theory of magic was over a hundred years out of date. I, on the other hand, was an Edgeworlder. We experiment, not inherit; and I knew from the burning in my gut that what we'd learned was true: as mana was concerned, the flesh of the body was just another kind of air-except it could hold a thousand times more mana.
I ignored the sounds of Transomnia's screams, and drew in one painful breath. Then I let it out slowly, sinuously rippling my back, pouring every ounce of mana I had into the Dragon.
The pain of so much mana was incredible as it reverberated through my body and streamed out of my skin. I
