I looked up sharply at her. She was leaning her head on one hand, finger climbing to her temple. She would have been great at poker, I couldn’t tell whether her expression held sympathy or disapproval. Scowling, I dug out my wallet and started rifling through it.
“What happened to your wallet, Miss Frost?” the judge said.
“A truck ran over it when they threw my pants onto I-20,” I said, tossing a receipt on the table. “Eighty-nine fifty-seven, counting the manager discount because they took pity on me.”
Judge Guiterrez beckoned, and the bailiff took the receipt to her. “This morning. Nine-fifteen,” she said, rubbing her forehead. “In Conyers. And you came straight here-”
“Driving like a bat out of hell,” I said.
“Well,” Guiterrez said, and then a slight smile quirked her face, which she quickly tried to suppress. “Well. This isn’t a traffic court, so I’ll ignore that. Miss Frost, you’ve clearly had an, an experience, and if it’s left you shaken, we can reschedule this hearing-”
“No,” I said. “No, please, I came all the way here to get Cinnamon back. I don’t want to wait. All that matters is that I get Cinnamon back as soon as possible.”
“That won’t happen today,” the judge said. “But I will hear your case- after you have a chance to calm down and report your story to the police.”
“But-” I began.
“No buts, Miss Frost,” Guiterrez said, with quiet finality. “Bailiff, bring Miss Frost and counsel to my chambers and call an officer down here to take her statement. Next case… ”
So they dragged me off-not literally-to the judge’s chambers, where a sympathetic female APD officer took down the whole story. After she left, Helen came in and plopped her briefcase down on the table with a weary, wary look. “Damn, Dakota,” she said. “I’m so sorry, but I hope this wasn’t a stunt-”
“Helen!” I said, then stopped. Then I extended my hand. “Smell that?”
She stared at my hand like it was a snake, then cautiously leaned forward. “That smells like… rubber gloves? Baby powder? Mildew?” Her eyes furrowed. “What-”
“The sick fucks tore up my clothes and put me in a rubber suit because they were scared of my magic tattoos,” I said. “No, I’m not making this up.”
“Well, your tattoos are pretty fearsome,” Helen laughed, a bit forced. “And I believe you, I guess, but this makes things more difficult. We missed our slot. Even with a good explanation, their first impression is that you were late and they had to reschedule. It doesn’t look good.”
“But-” I said. “But that’s not fair. ”
“Dakota, let me tell you something I’ve learned,” Helen said. “I’m a defense attorney, so I’m biased, but a child custody hearing isn’t a criminal trial or a civil suit. It has its own twisted logic, and anything and everything can be used against you. If your child is retarded, then they’ve been neglected. If they’re gifted, then they’ve been coached. If they’re acting up, then you haven’t been setting boundaries. If they’re polite, you’ve been repressing them.”
“Then how does anyone keep their child?” I said.
“Basically, the judge and the prosecution will decide who they think should have the child and twist everything to fit their prejudgment,” Helen said bitterly. “That may not be the law, but it is what I’ve observed from doing this for the last seven years. That’s why it is absolutely, positively critical that you present the best possible picture to the judge.”
“All right,” I said. “All right. What do we do?”
“First,” Helen said, “we’ve rescheduled to Monday. Try not to get kidnapped, ill, or even disheveled between now and then. Make sure you arrive on time, dressed nicely, and that you’ve gone over all the materials we went over yesterday. Hopefully, this will blow over quickly once we get a chance to present our case. If not… well, then we can talk about that then.”
“Don’t keep me in suspense,” I said. “What’s the worst case scenario?”
“Oh, hell, I can’t tell you what the judge is going to ask,” she said, rubbing her forehead. “Who knows what they will want you to address? It may be as simple as documenting a fixed abode, or settling with the Valentine Foundation to show you have a good source of income.”
“I have a good source of income,” I said. “Fifty thousand dollars a year tattooing.”
“Well… ” she said, tilting her head, “that may not be good enough for the court.”
I just stared back at her. “What are you saying?” I said. “You can’t mean-”
“Magical tattooing is an unconventional profession,” Helen said, “and you’re not Cinnamon’s biological mother. If you want to keep her
… you may have to give that up.”
Heading For Trouble
I drove back to the Rogue Unicorn early for my shift and talked things over with Kring/L, my defacto boss. The court let Cinnamon keep going to the Clairmont Academy, but it would be days, if not weeks, until I could take Cinnamon home. So I renegotiated my shifts, picking up extra hours in exchange for being able to bail more frequently to deal with the custody case… and the vampires, and the graffiti, and whatever else life was going to throw at me.
As night fell and I finished my last tattoo for the evening, Kring/L came to talk to me. He’d talked to the rest of the staff, and everyone was on my side. By then I had a better handle on my schedule from Helen, and we went over it together.
“We’re going to have to get you a revolving door,” Kring/L said with a grin. Big, beefy, bald, and completely untattooed, Kring/L was our best tattoo artist, conventional or otherwise (no, really, it hurts to say that, but he was) and the unofficial leader of our little partnership.
“As long as I could come back here,” I said. “I’d hate to lose this.”
“Dakota, you’re half our draw,” Kring/L said, following me back to my office. I glanced back at him, and his grin quickly faded. “Dakota, seriously. The rest of us know what you’ve been through. Hell, the publicity has made business better. Why would you even… ”
I told him what Helen had told me, and his face turned red with rage, actually mottled.
“You do what you have to,” he said, “but you are always welcome here. Got that?”
“Yeah,” I said, sitting in my office chair. “Thanks.”
My office phone rang. I glanced at the number, then savagely tore the earpiece off the cradle and snarled, “What the hell do you want, Zinaga?”
“To be the bearer of bad news,” she said, and I could just hear that smirk in her voice. “Arcturus just gave me an earful. Like I told you not to, you didn’t show, and he’s really pissed. You’re persona non grata now, Kotie, sent straight to Coventry, whatever that means. .. ”
As she nattered on and on about how Arcturus had said he never wanted to talk to me again, two and two came together in my mind. Arcturus had bawled her out today-so she hadn’t gone to the shop to meet me last night. She’d known I wouldn’t show.
“Fuck you,” I said, and Kring/L backed out of my office, eyes wide. “Fuck you!”
“Hey, don’t blame me,” she said smugly. “You’re the one who bailed-”
“You threw me to the vampires!” I screamed into the phone. “To Transomnia!”
There was silence. “Oh, shit, ” she said, and then the line went dead.
I slammed the handpiece back into the cradle repeatedly. “Damnit, damnit, damnit!” The phone rang again, and I picked it up. “Haven’t you done enough damage!”
Again the line was silent. “What did I do?” Calaphase asked, all kicked puppy.
I laughed, an odd broken cry. “Oh. Oh, Calaphase. I’m so sorry. I’ve had a bad day, and I thought you were someone else.”
“I’d hate to be them,” he said. “Do you have any news on the graffiti?”
“Oh, hell,” I laughed. “Do I have news, yes. About the graffiti, no.”
I told him everything. At first, when he heard what Transomnia’s goons had done to me, Calaphase looked
