and skulk among the cola cases until my ride came.
As the West End receded and the driver rode quietly on, I started to think I was paranoid: of course the police were called to the scene. After the cab dropped me off at the hotel, however, I went with my gut, quickly grabbing toiletries, my riding gear and helmet, then hopped on my Vespa and took off, just before a police car swooped up to the hotel, sirens blazing.
I figured using my credit card would be a dead giveaway, so I drove up far north up I-85. I felt that magical tingle again as I passed the Perimeter, but I kept going, all the way to the Mall of Georgia, and withdrew as much as the parking lot ATM would let me.
While it was spitting out money I called Dad. He didn’t answer, probably zonked out on the recliner, so I left a brief message. Then, the moment the receipt was in my hand, I hopped back on my bike and headed back south. With any luck, they’d think I was fleeing to South Carolina-when instead I was going to ground in the city, my city, Atlanta.
I rode the first few miles on the highway to get some distance-always a danger even when the police weren’t specifically looking for me, as the Georgia Highway Patrol sometimes pulled me over just to try to figure out whether the Vespa was a motorcycle or a moped. But by the time I reached Gwinnett Place Mall I knew the area well enough to take the surface streets, slipping off onto mini-mall infested Pleasant Hill before finally escaping to the wide pine-lined lots, wooden fences and aging split-levels that dotted sleepy Old Norcross Road.
I was still OTP-outside the Perimeter-but the suburbs were well trafficked enough that I didn’t worry about trolls. Soon, I found a Waffle House where Old Norcross crossed Buford Highway, swallowed my pride, and settled at the counter to take stock.
No one noticed me. Wearing old jeans, a brown bomber jacket, riding gloves and a bandana, I didn’t look much like myself. In fact, with the bandana covering both my deathhawk and the tattoos on my temples, I looked normal. It was an odd, good feeling. I found myself enjoying not being stared at, swigging sweet tea, and having a damn good waffle.
In theory, they couldn’t pin the fires on me, but I was already accused of one crime I didn’t commit, and everyone had warned me juries simply didn’t understand magic. So I needed my freedom of action, at least a little while longer, until I could either figure out how to cut off the graffiti’s power source, or find the prick who was orchestrating it, or both. And to do that I needed a place to crash, snag some Internet, and make some phone calls.
But who to call? I really wanted to leave mundanes out of it. Half my friends had nearly gotten killed trying to take on Valentine, and I didn’t want the karate club getting burned alive by Zipperface, or Michael Bell arrested for aiding a fugitive.
The Edgeworld was also cut off from me. After the werehouse fire, I had tried and failed to contact Lord Buckhead, the werehouse itself was gone of course, the werekin now hated me, my contacts at the Oakdale Clan were dead… including Calaphase. Damnit.
Thinking more broadly, there was the Underground, the network of tunnels under the city. But it was werekin territory, and Philip had mapped all of the Underground that I knew, so he could find me, if he was forced to. Being a fugitive sucked: like walking a minefield, there were many places to step, few of them safe, and no way to tell which from which.
Finally, I swallowed my pride and called the Vampire Consulate. After all, it was a Consulate; who knows what that really meant, but maybe Saffron could offer me some temporary protection until the police sorted out I was innocent.
“Junior Van Helsing Detective Agency,” a sweet voice answered. “This is Nagli.”
“Hello, Nagli,” I said. “This is-”
“I know,” Nagli said quickly. She sounded strained. “Caller ID.”
“Ah,” I said. “Actually, I was calling on Consulate business.”
“I know,” she repeated. “Each number has its own line.”
“Uh-huh,” I said. This was damn peculiar. “That’s good to know.”
“Your discretion is appreciated,” Nagli said, voice suddenly hushed. “Don’t-”
And then there was commotion in the background, a new voice talking. Nagli started to respond, but there was a sudden racket, as if the phone had been ripped from her grasp.
“Who is this?” said the new voice-Saffron. I didn’t respond, and she said, “Frost.”
“Yes,” I said.
“Darkrose is gone,” Saffron said, voice acid. “Went hunting for three other vampires gone missing-and never came back. You were too busy with your new friend apparently.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, but I couldn’t leave it at that. “Calaphase is… gone too.”
“I know,” Saffron said, some of the acid leaching away. “I’m sorry
… Dakota. And I heard you were arrested.” She paused, then asked, “How are you holding up?”
“Fine,” I managed, “until I was attacked again.”
“When?” Saffron said.
“Just now,” I said, and told her. “I left the Candlesticks on fire. It happened less than twenty four hours after I got out of jail. And a fire started when I went back to Calaphase’s to pick up my car. I think the police are looking for me.”
“Almost certainly,” Saffron said. “Since you got out, fires have broken out all over the city. Dozens of people have been killed. The media’s talking about a plague of arson, which is bad enough… but I’m just waiting for someone to break out the t -word.”
“Terrorism,” I said. “Oh, flying fuck me. Saffron… I may need some help here.”
“Damnit,” Saffron said. “I can’t take you in. You’re not wearing the collar.”
“Can’t you-” I said, and then let the words hang there. “Forget it.”
“I… I took you off the roster,” she said, embarrassed. “The police can’t search the Consulate without a warrant, but if someone saw you, if they get even a whiff, they can get one. If you were a vampire, I could actually give you asylum, but for human ser-uh, don’t take this the wrong way, Dakota, but for human servants, there’s negotiation involved. If the police come knocking, unless you’re already on the roster, I’d have to give you up.”
“And they will come knocking,” I said-I knew how this worked. “You’re my ex.”
Saffron was quiet a moment. “Look, Dakota. I can’t aid you. I’m a public official. I have to follow the law. It will raise a stink if it even sounds like I told someone to help a fugitive. And I think you should expect the police will be watching all of your friends too.”
“Damnit,” I said. I needed to go completely off the radar. “All right. Look… I should go.”
“All right, Dakota,” Saffron said. “Well, then… good luck.”
She hung up.
Quantum Magic
There was one more person to call: Jinx. I didn’t immediately get an answer, but then I realized I knew one person who was technically a mundane, but was as deeply involved in the Edgeworld as I was, if not more-and through him, I’d get access to Jinx for free.
“Doctor Zetetic!” Doug said happily into the phone. “ Guten morgen to you! Thanks for calling so early, I know it’s the crack ass of dawn in Berlin-”
“Doug?” I said slowly. Doctor Zetetic? It took me a moment, but then I got it: Zetetic was the original name of the Skeptical Inquirer . Doug was covering my identity. Of course the police would talk to him. One of my known associates. Great. “You know who this is?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he said breezily. “Anyway, I did talk to Finkelstein about your problem, and it’s tied to the Bekenstein bound. Care to talk some loop quantum gravity?”
“Sure,” I said, even more slowly, “if you’re free to talk.”
“Oh, yeah, yeah,” he said. “What you’re dealing with is a quantitized bijection between disjoint manifolds-I’m sorry, am I bothering you guys? Sorry. Hold on a minute, Doc.”
“Sure,” I said, hearing voices, then some bumping around. The line got a little more quiet, and I asked, “Doug? You still there?”
“Yeah, Doc,” he said, voice tense-and he was still coding the conversation. “I’m going to take a walk outside. I was over at my fiancee’s, but the police are questioning her.”
Oh shit. They’d already gotten to my friends and family. “I hope it’s nothing serious.”
