ready to leap up and go tearing after him-but as I started to explain I didn’t want to pursue Trans, Calaphase got it, just like that, and smoothly changed the subject.
And then… we talked. Really talked.
Not about graffiti or vampires, but instead about Cinnamon and school supplies, about coffee and restaurants, about moving and meanies, about how you always get pulled over for running a red light after you’ve caught yourself getting sloppy about yellows but before you’ve learned to put your foot on the brake earlier.
Calaphase wasn’t a vampire to me anymore. He was a person who happened to be a vampire. I wanted to more than just talk to him. I wanted to see him, to go to another stupid coffee house and watch him grimace his way through a mocha.
But why did I need an excuse? We had talked about seeing each other. In fact, we had planned on it, sometime after the hearing was done, but never set a time.
“You free Thursday night, vampire?” I said. “Ready to go out on a real date?”
Thursday night, I sat on a stool before a full-length mirror, naked to the waist at the center of a magic circle. The tail locks of my hair curled round my neck and dusted my back, resting between two tattooed wings of rainbow feathers that one day would be joined together. My arm curled around me, holding the tattooing gun, slowly inking the outline of a claw.
Once my skin had held a Dragon, a huge tattoo covering me from shoulder to toe, inked by my own hand. I’d released it to save my life, but I couldn’t just let it go. It was my icon, on my business cards and stitched on my jackets. It would be a lot of work to re-tattoo the Dragon: this was my fifth session, and there would be at least twelve more, plus touchups.
Now, seventeen sessions is no little thing. I may be a bit of a masochist, but tattooing hurts, and it strangely seems to hurt more when you’re doing it to yourself. Skindancers have to tattoo themselves, out of fear that a rival would leave them with a subtle-and permanent-hex. Non-magical tattooists, on the other hand, rarely tattoo themselves because it’s painful, unnecessary-and darn near impossible to get a good inking angle on your own body.
And inking your own back is quite the challenge, even for someone as long-limbed and limber as I am. The outline was barely finished, and already my neck hurt, my shoulder hurt, my back hurt, and I was getting a cramp in my lower leg. But I didn’t care: I could feel the buzzing of the tattooing gun, the insistent scratching that shimmered into a sensual, almost sexual warmth, and the vibration that fed back into my hand, giving me a feeling of power.
The main tattooing room had a wide plate glass window that was usually covered by a screen, but I had it down so potential customers could watch-and there was quite the crowd now. I was turned three-quarters away, my breasts hidden by a long dentist’s bib, alternately inking the line carefully in the mirror and then wiping the blood away with my free hand.
Kring/L opened the door and stared at me, then closed at it behind him. “Annesthesia said you were on the prowl,” he said. “I guess she was right.”
“This is how I always do this,” I said.
“Not yourself,” he said. “Not your back, sitting there half naked, blinds down.”
“But… ” I began, then stopped. I did tattoo myself in here, with the blinds open, but always small marks on the arms, never my own back. That I had done back in Blood Rock, with no-one watching. Arcturus insisted that a skindancer ink their masterwork alone.
“You’re right,” I admitted, wiping away some blood. “Maybe I am prowling a bit.”
“For whom?” he asked. “I thought you were dating that Virginian.”
“We split,” I said, eyes and hand tracing a line carefully.
“He was nice,” Kring/L said. “You gotta learn to hang on to somebody sometime, or you’ll end up alone as I am.”
I pulled the needle away from my flesh, then looked up sharply. He was grinning, but for the first time I could see lines of pain in the friendly wrinkles around his eyes. He shrugged.
“I’m so sorr-”
“Don’t,” he said, eyes on my waist. He picked up a wet wipe from the dispenser on the counter and stepped forward, before I could stop him. “You should wipe-”
“Don’t-” I said, but it was too late. He stepped forward across the line of the magic circle, and there was a tingling pop as the circle of protection was broken. The slight shift in the light halted him, and I jerked the needle away from my skin. “Idiot! This is a magic mark!”
Kring/L stood halted, looking around like he’d actually felt the magic for once. “Dakota, you worry too much. Nothing will get you if you break a circle-we’re inside the Perimeter.”
“Less likely does not mean impossible,” I said, wiping myself down. “Look, Kring, no offense, but sometimes you’re thick as a brick. You’re the most skilled tattooist I’ve ever worked with-and I really mean that-but you only think breaking a circle is safe because you ink basic magic marks, too simple to hold a stray intent. I hope you’re not inking any of Jinx’s flash on clients without drawing a circle, or you risk a nasty magical infection, or worse.”
“What’s worse than a magical infection?” he laughed.
“A magical possession,” I said.
“Come on,” he said, grinning, but twisting the wet wipe in his hands. “We do moving butterflies and watches.”
“And controlling charms that took a good friend’s mind, whenever someone wanted,” I said. “The expression of magic is dictated by its intent. Never think it can’t go the other way.”
I stared at the mark in the mirror: I had done enough for the day. I reached for the bandages I’d prepared, and Kring/L stepped forward again. “No, don’t help me, I’m recreating my masterwork. I need to do this myself.”
“All right, skindancer,” Kring/L laughed, dropping the wipe into the biohazard bucket. “Mission accomplished, though. You caught a big fish in your net.”
I looked over at the big window and smiled.
Calaphase stood at the window, trim and proper in a dark suit with a long-tailed overcoat, an even more dazzling turn on his vintage look. The frame of the window and the darker waiting room beyond made him look like a magazine model: his blond hair was perfectly styled, his pale face stern, and his blue eyes were staring at me with glittering fascination.
“Calaphase,” I said. “So good to see you. I’ll be with you in a moment.”
Then I got up and walked behind the screen, quickly wiping down, pulling on my sportsbra and a ‘vamp- hither’ top-a tight, midriff-exposing corset with shimmering rows of chains that looked vaguely like bat wings. It just popped against the slightly purple folds of my best ankle-length faux-snakeskin vest, and riffed off my tight leather jeans quite nicely. I checked my hair in the mirror, then fluffed my deathhawk a little and sprayed it out.
“On the prowl,” Kring/L muttered, leaning against the jamb. “Girl, you’re on the hunt. ”
I smiled at him. “He’s quite a catch,” I said, “even if he is a vampire.”
If that bothered Kring/L, he didn’t let it show, and we walked out into the waiting room together. Calaphase waited there, lounging in the chair, one leg propped up. He had on black leather boots, a surprise beneath the suit that made him look more dashing and dangerous.
“You guys stay out of trouble,” Kring/L said, grinning, his eyes even more sad than before. “I’ll pass on your information to your audience.”
Only then did I see that there were three men and two women who had all been watching me. Apparently I just hadn’t seen them. I only had eyes for Calaphase. My mouth opened and I started to introduce myself, but Calaphase rose smoothly and took my arm.
“Now, Dakota,” he said, steering me to the door, “Kring/L will look after your clients, but I am here to look after you and you need a night on the town.”
I squeezed his hand with my free one. “Thanks,” I said, as we stepped out the door. “I would have been there all night. It’s hard to put the needle down. Your car or mine?”
“I was dropped off,” he said.
“You never do have a car,” I said.
“I have a driver when I need one,” he said, “but my bike is more fuel efficient.”
