the tower. I’d heard it earlier-I’d thought it was an air conditioner-but now I could see it came from a big device far above the magic circle, like an upside-down glass jar wrapped in hundreds of sheets of metal: a massive magical capacitor. As it charged up, I could see a dance of light sparkling off a silver spear, pointing down out of the glass.
“So, now that we’ve established that I don’t make wild claims without something to back them up,” I said, “can you answer my question about how the graffiti bent space?”
“Sure. It didn’t. It had to be an illusion-you didn’t go anywhere, after all. There’s no way graffiti could affect the metric enough to change its topology.” At my baffled look, Doug tried again. “Look, it isn’t likely that any magic could bend space. It’s a matter of gravity.”
The rising whine reached its peak, and with another crack of thunder, a beam flashed down from the point of the spear. The test membrane flared with blue-white light, and the bee buzzed back to life. Doug looked back at it, amazed, as Lenora frantically took pictures of the moving tattoo. Then he shrugged and used what we’d just seen as his argument.
“That’s the largest magical capacitor on the East Coast,” Doug said. “Two hundred layers of infused papyrus and cold iron. When it fires, it puts out more mana than any magician in history-and it doesn’t affect gravity. If it can’t, then your graffiti can’t. It just can’t.”
“But it didn’t feel like the graffiti was affecting gravity,” I said. “Like you said, our feet were on the ground. The tag was… I don’t know what else to call it but bending space… ”
“But bent space is gravity,” Doug said. “Gravity is just… a kink in time that makes matter want to move together. It’s like setting two bowling balls down on a trampoline-first they’ll dent its surface. Then, slowly, the dents will come together.”
I squinted. “I’m… I’m not quite seeing it.”
“Don’t worry,” Doug said. “There are PhDs in physics that never get it. But the point is, bending space is so hard it takes the entire mass of the Earth just to keep our feet on the ground. And that’s just attraction, a dent in the trampoline. To make a tunnel from place to place-”
“You… couldn’t do that,” I said, starting to get it. “That’s not just bending space, it’s punching a hole- changing the topology, like you said. You can’t stretch a surface to make a hole-the trampoline would burst and the springs would snap back, going everywhere.”
“I’m not sure what that would mean in terms of my little example,” Doug said. “But either way, the amount of mass needed would be… astronomical.”
“But the tags aren’t using mass,” I said. “They’re using magic, and magic breaks all the rules. We don’t know how it works, or what its limits are.”
“And that’s why I hope you’re wrong,” Doug said. “Magic gravity would be completely new-and the last time that happened in physics was when we realized matter was energy. No one ever thought we’d be able to use that, but a few years later, we had atomic bombs.”
I felt my eyes widen.
“So that’s why we’re stuffed in this building,” Doug said. “We’re afraid magic can make nuclear weapons look like firecrackers. And if the graffiti can affect gravity -”
“If a tag on a wall,” I said, “can bend space harder than an entire planet-”
“-then graffiti magic,” Doug said, “is powerful enough to crack open the planet.”
Vampire for Dinner
There was nothing left to do. I’d finished the paperwork and gotten Cinnamon’s books. I’d made an appointment to inspect the school’s safety cage and picked up a cage of our own. I’d worked out a schedule at the Rogue Unicorn that let me juggle my tattooing, karate workouts, and shuttling Cinnamon to and from the Academy. I’d even found an auto repair shop that had given me a loaner while they repaired the seats; with any luck, I’d be back in the blue bomb when I picked up Cinnamon at the werehouse tomorrow.
There was nothing left to do but dress, drive, and meet the vampire for dinner.
Canoe was only a short jaunt up I-75, a river of black asphalt swimming through hills green with trees. Red taillights blinked northbound, and scattered headlights winked on to my left as the sun went down. I rarely went to Vinings, but somehow I remembered Exit 255 and soon found myself going into deep green hills along the winding path of Paces Ferry Road.
I’ll admit I was apprehensive. I had no idea what kind of restaurant a vampire would have as a current favorite. Based on its name, I was pretty certain Canoe wasn’t an ancient Victorian nestled deep in the woods, with creaking iron gates or mysterious valets to take my car, trapping me there to dine by candlelight under the watchful eyes of my predatory companion, served by black-garbed waiters trained not to notice when the vampire started noshing on me instead.
And I had a moment’s fright as I came to the Paces Ferry bridge and snatched a glimpse of graffiti. But it turned out to be what I was now calling wanker graffiti: white lines, hastily drawn, not magically active. And then I was over the bridge into Vinings, staring down into a cluster of quaint, cozy, houselike shops.
I gave the loaner Accord to the valet without a second thought, and stood before a warm wooden canopy topped by a glowing sign that spelled C A N O E, watching uber-chic yuppies from the Buckhead party district and upper-crust natives of Vinings itself flowing in and out of the restaurant with warm, friendly, satisfied smiles.
OK, this is the last place I’d expect a vampire to have as a favorite.
Even more heads than usual turned towards me as I ascended the steps, but I tried not to mind. I knew I was doubly out of place. In addition to my deathhawk and tattoos, I now wore a tight, patterned corset bustier, my most stylish leather pants and my best matching leather vestcoat. The outfit went so well together there was no doubting that this was eveningwear, but there was no escaping that it wasn’t normal eveningwear either.
Inside was warm, cozy, brick, with huge glass windows looking out onto garden paths. I was early; even with traffic it was still only six-ten, so I decided to wait by the bar. The sun had set only minutes ago; it was highly unlikely that the vampire would be… early?
Calaphase glanced up from the bar and smiled at me. He was wearing another long-tailed coat, narrowly pinstriped, expertly tailored, that gave the impression of impossible elegance from a bygone age. He saluted me with a glass of what looked like liquid gold, finished the last swigs with a flourish and grimace, and then pushed the squat empty glass back to the bartender with a wink and a twenty. I just stared, as the man I’d once known as a biker walked up to me, as sharply dressed as a Victorian James Bond-and twice as appealing.
“Dakota,” Calaphase said, with a smile and a gracious bow. “I’m glad you made it.”
“Afraid I’d jilt you?” I responded.
“Never,” Calaphase said, his eyes drifting over my tattooed midriff, my corset, my breasts. Then he caught himself and looked up. “Sorry. That is quite the outfit.”
“Thank you,” I said, smiling. “Yours is easy on the eyes as well. Shall we dine?”
“We have fifteen minutes,” Calaphase said, extending an elbow. “Care for a stroll?”
I looked outside. “Are you sure you want to go out there? The sun just went down.”
“I like twilight,” Calaphase said, pulling out sunglasses. “A benefit of the Saffron diet.”
Canoe’s garden was as inviting as its interior and as friendly as its clientele. Another glowing sign hung over the patio, lending electric color to the warmth of the torches; under their luminous glow we strolled through green, inviting gardens, watching the Chattahoochee ripple past. Somehow the river looked cleaner here, even though I knew it was the same water that flowed past the werehouse only a few miles to the south.
“So… ” I said. “How much does a vampire on the Saffron diet eat?”
“Not much,” Calaphase admitted. “I rarely have more than the squash bisque and a glass of wine. If I indulge in too much solid food, I have a thermos of cow’s blood at the werehouse.”
“Appetizing,” I said. “It looked like the drink was killing you.”
“It’s difficult,” Calaphase admitted, stopping to stare out into the black flowing water, barely lit by flickering torches. “But the Lady Saffron is right. It’s worth it. I hunger less, and stay awake longer, every day. I’ve seen the aftermath of sunset, and withstood the onset of sunrise. I can’t yet face the sun, but the day is coming.”
Staring out over the water, he looked noble, even heroic, like a sea captain of old contemplating time passing
