Authors: Anthony Francis
I left the podium, and Vickman and Schultze jerked to follow me. Saffron and Darkrose pushed back their chairs. I turned to Cinnamon, standing by the Warlock; she looked stunned and distraught. Well, fine. I’d rather her emotionally crushed than physically attacked.
“Cinnamon,” I called—then I softened my voice. “Cinnamon, I’m so sorry, but we have to go. I thought San Francisco was a civilized place. I never meant to bring you to a war zone. I’m very sorry we’ll have to miss the ceremony, but they can ship you your award—”
But before Cinnamon could move, the Warlock put his hand gently on her shoulder.
“Do not worry, Dakota Frost. While Cinnamon is in the San Francisco Bay, she is under my protection,” the Warlock said, his voice oddly calm. “But as formidable as my protection is . . . still, 243 people were killed in California last year with magic.”
That was terrible . . . but still, I felt myself relax. The Warlock had just done more than stick up for me, he’d shown that he understood my two most important values—protecting my daughter, and protecting everyone else from the fate that befell my boyfriend.
The Warlock stepped past Cinnamon and went to the podium, half-sitting against the conference table on one hip, hands folded over his raised knee—relaxed, easy, but with sadness in that genial grin beneath his moustache.
“That means that almost ten percent of all murders are done by magic,” he said, voice without bitterness, but pain in his eyes. “More than domestic violence, more than
assault weapons
, and it’s getting worse every year as you so-called ‘Edgeworlders’ spread.”
I scowled at the “Edgeworlder” crack. To me,
everyone
who practiced magic was an Edgeworlder, and living in Atlanta, the de facto world capital of the magical Edgeworld, it was easy to forget that most old-school magicians didn’t see it that way.
To the old school, there were people who deserved respect because they kept to the old ways, because they kept magic secret . . . and then there were people who were ruining it for everyone else—“playing on the edge, out in the world,” the saying originally went.
I folded my arms and stared at him. What did he drag me here for? Not to get assaulted under a banner of truce, clearly, but where was he going with this? Some kind of old-school versus new-school magical lecture?
I
sure wasn’t going to take the blame for—
“Thank God it’s mostly practitioner-on-practitioner crimes,” he said, checking his watch again. “And a fair share of dumb-shit accidents. Still, it’s a miracle no outsider has noticed yet—that’s all the excuse some witch hunter needs to start a crusade.”
“You’re telling me,” I said. “Back home, one partially-reported magical assault in Atlanta led to the DEI raiding a secret werehouse. Two hundred and fifty people?
Ten percent of all murders?
I’m surprised the DEI hasn’t arrested you all on general principles—”
“They’ve tried that in the past,” Carnes said, scowling. “And they’re still trying. The DEI
still
conducts witch hunts—technically, of witches who are also criminals, but we have long memories. We remember when the DEI
proudly
called itself America’s Inquisition.”
I frowned . . . because he was right.
“No one here will risk going public,” the Warlock said. “Most practitioners are too private, too vulnerable. They start burning us again, literally or metaphorically, and . . . most of us will have to go hide. We need someone already
in
public to take a public stand.”
I clenched my fists.
Damn it.
Yes, I flap my yapper about being the best tattooist in the Southeast, but I had not really set out to become one of the most public magicians in the country. Yet, I now was, and I had no intention of going and hiding, witch hunt or no.
The Warlock was right, and I’d played right into his hands—not a trap, my ass.
“What, precisely, do you think the lesbian mafia here is going to do about reducing practitioner-on-practitioner crime when just their being here stirs up trouble?” Carnes asked. He gestured at the petite fae, Sidhain, who slumped forward again, letting her brittle white hair cover half her face. “I
warned
you about this. This is precisely the kind of mess—”
“This was nothing. Glares were thrown, but no fists or blasts,” I said. “We aren’t here to start fights, but we’ll stand up and stop them. Some goons attacked a friend with
fire magic
on the streets of Oakland last night. If I hadn’t been there, they’d have maimed her for life—”
“
You
fought off the goons?” Carnes asked. “All by yourself?”
“Yes,” I replied, and as he held my gaze I amplified, “All four of them, all by myself. But
nobody
should be assaulting
anyone
with magic. And if someone does, there are ways to handle it. We defended, but didn’t escalate. We called the police—”
“And they didn’t arrest you for a magical misdemeanor?” Carnes asked.
“No,” I said, “because I have experience dealing with the police—”
“That how you ended up being charged in Atlanta for murder by magic?”
“No, but you see how that worked out,” I said, spreading my hands. “I’m still here. But, since you brought it up, that left me willing to stick up for
anyone
using magic in self-defense, whether it’s making their case respectfully to the police—or fighting off their attackers.”
Carnes shifted in his seat.
“All right,” he said. “I agree—people should feel safe here. Your friend shouldn’t have been attacked, and I’m glad you were there to defend her. Clearly, we have a lot to work on. But look at it from our perspective. A wizard’s perspective. You’re a vampire’s servant—”
“I am no such thing,” I said sharply.
“Troubleshooter, employee, ally, whatever,” he said, waving his hand. “I understand the distinctions, but at the end of the day, you brought the head of a new coven of vampires into the Bay, which is already overrun with them. You can’t expect us to welcome
more
—”
“Am I not in the room?” Saffron asked, incredulous.
“What?” the wizard asked. “What are you talking about—”
“I think she’s offended,” I said. Carnes stared at me blankly. The whole daywalking thing was new here. I clarified, “Did you think she was a fae just because she got in a fight with one? This is the Vampire Queen of Little Five Points and her consort.”
Carnes froze, staring at them. “Damn it, that little prick didn’t give a full report,” he muttered to himself, and confirmed that he was probably Ferguson’s unnamed boss. Carnes slowly rose from his chair. “I didn’t realize—but
how?
You shipped only one coffin—”
“You didn’t tell them,” I said, suddenly realizing why neither Carnes nor Ferguson had any clue about Saffron. The Warlock just smiled. “You
knew
you had vampire-slash-wizard problems out here in the Bay, and you didn’t tell your
own people
about us—”
“It’s sometimes easier to ask forgiveness,” the Warlock began, “than—”
“Damn it, no,” Carnes said. “She can’t be a vampire. It’s
daylight
now—”
“I’m a daywalker,” Saffron said. “Ah, I take it you’ve heard of the phenomenon—”
“Don’t be absurd, of course I’ve heard of daywalkers. But I also know they’re rare,” he said, gesturing at Darkrose. “There’s only one I know of on the entire West Coast. One of you I could believe, but
two
in Frost’s
entourage
—”
“
We
are not in
Frost’s
entourage,” Saffron said sharply—then her mouth quirked up. She stuck her tongue in her cheek, then nodded. “Perhaps we are. Regardless, that
is
the thesis of my PhD: daywalking is possible for any vampire, if, early on, they adopt a vegetarian diet.”
Carnes blanched, his chair falling behind him now. “Oh, fuck me—”
“They rolled your mind yet, Chuck?” the Warlock asked. “Drained your magical blood? If they even
tried
to ‘swamp your will with vampiric power,’ don’t you think someone in this room, even one of your enemies, would have noticed? Would have
done
something?”
Carnes looked at Saffron, then back at the Warlock.
“No, Warlock, but what do you want me to say? We’ve been at war with the vampires of the City for almost a hundred and twenty five years. What good did you think would come by bringing more vampires into a room filled with wizards, werekin, and fae?”
I sighed. “Let’s just start,” I said, “by building on what we just did. Vampires met wizards without a battle. Factions had a discussion without declaring war. And two powerful magical creatures got together in the same room and didn’t kill each other.”
The little fae girl suddenly looked up at me, grinning a white toothy grin that would have done Cinnamon proud. Carnes, for his part, still looked wary, but the ice seemed to be breaking inside. Finally, he sighed, righted his chair, and eased himself back into it.
“I’m starting to believe you did stop a war brewing in Atlanta, Dakota Frost,” he said. “To be frank with you, I’m trying to do the same thing here, but as you may have guessed, San Francisco is so much of a powder keg, I’m not sure we can handle any more factions.”
“I have no intention of adding my ‘faction’ to the mix,” I said, raising my hands . . . but then something started to eat at me. “But, to be frank with
you
, I’m worried to hear that a war might be brewing out here too. Clearly, you all can at least share the same room—”
“
We’re
trained in the proper use of magic,” Carnes said. “But magic is out of the hands of the Guilds and in the wild. The Edgeworld started as hippie magicians casting peace spells, love charms, and flowers of power, but now there are rogue adepts doing terrible damage—”
“There are plenty of rogue
old-school
magicians doing damage too,” I snapped.
“We know. We still tell of the horror at the fords,” the little porcelain fae said. “In the hills of Los Vados, a witch tried to wreak vengeance on a rival and fell to her own spell.” Then the fae’s façade cracked, and she shuddered. “It was . . . horrible. A big old splattery mess.”
“We don’t want to shove magic back into the darkness,” Carnes said. “My wizarding master is a university magician. But now, textbooks are filled with magic once hidden in cryptic tomes that took years of study to understand—and magic can be horribly abused.”
“Out here, there’s no law,” said a werewolf. “The vamps only protect humans, their
food supply
. The only police the Edgeworld has are the wizards, and when they care to, the fae. But a small-g god rides herd over the packs in Georgia—Buckhead, Lord of the Wild Hunt.”
It was true. Buckhead, a stag-headed fae, intervened in werekin battles that went too far. And Christopher Valentine had called Buck a “fading, wannabe god.” Personally, I reserve the word “God” for the Big G; I hadn’t realized how seriously people took Buckhead’s title.
“Werekin combat
is
formalized in Georgia,” I admitted cautiously, not wanting to draw Buckhead into a trap like the one the Warlock had made for me. “Staged battles, with betting and rules, like a sport. Maybe you could adopt such contests here, blow off steam—”
“Maybe,” the werewolf said. “Maybe you could ask Lord Buckhead to preside.”
The fae all became attentive, and the little porcelain fae looked up, bright and hopeful.
Unexpectedly, Carnes spoke. “If you could, it would mean a lot. To all of us.”
“I’ll . . . ask,” I said. “No promises.”
“Since she agrees to ask,” the Warlock said, “can the Conclave at least agree to bless Dakota Frost’s mission in the Bay, to extend her our protection while she sojourns here—”
“And to wish her daughter success at collecting her prize,” said Carnes. “So moved.”
The Warlock blinked. “Seconded. Speak, all who concur.”
“So mote it be,” said the little fae girl, and all around the table concurred.
———
“Excellent,” the Warlock said warmly. “Welcome to San Francisco, Dakota Frost.”
10. Clearing the Schedule
The meeting adjourned, and the various groups of the Conclave began leaving by threes according to some obviously prearranged order. Each departing group bowed to some groups while snubbing others, and the targets of their bows respected or disrespected the departing groups with equal randomness. Interestingly, the werestags and werewolves were among the most respectful and cordial, the beefy werewolf getting up and muttering something to the Korean, who smiled. But it was the departure of the Wizarding Guild I was waiting for.
“Mr. Carnes,” I called out. He turned, and I raised my hand to my ear in a “call me” gesture. He stiffened, then clenched his teeth. Yep, as I had guessed, Carnes was Ferguson’s boss. I said, “The next time you need to talk, do it direct. I think you have my number.”
Carnes broke from his companions and came back, looking at Cinnamon and me.
“You
really
came here,” he murmured, “just so she could collect a
math prize?
”
Now Cinnamon stiffened, and I clenched my teeth. “Yes,” I said. “Yes, we did.”
“Then,” Carnes said, clearly debating something internally as he looked between the two of us. “Then . . . you should take her to the Exploratorium while you’re here. My daughters love math and science too. If she’s anything like them, she’ll love it.”
My lips parted slightly. “Uh,” I said. “Thank you, Mr. Carnes. We’ll consider it.”
“Yeah,” Cinnamon said, still stiff, staring at him. “T-thanks, sir.”
He nodded to her, then to me, then turned and walked out of the room.
That left us with just the Warlock and the fae. Everyone had bowed to the fae; no one had bowed to us. But when the fae rose, they all bowed in our direction. I spread my hands out; Saffron and Darkrose stood, and we all bowed, quite formally.