replied, his eyes curiously flat as he looked at me. “The Consulate is just following up on its responsibilities.”
As we drew closer to the waiting area, I started to hear voices. Then I started to smile.
“I can just hear her now,” someone was saying. “What the fucking-fuck de fuckedy fuck do you fucking think you are fucking doing?”
I put my head in my hand, embarrassed. That sounded like me, all right. When did an ex-Bible Bowl girl end up with the mouth of a sailor? Then I raised my head as Philip wheeled me into a corner waiting room, seeing the raft of friends waiting for me.
Savannah was still crashed on a sofa, blissfully asleep, head and hands leaning on the lap of an older, priestly gentleman in a beige coat, black shirt and white collar. In a pair of chairs next to them, Andre Rand talked with a wiry, bright-eyed young man with wavy hair and a lumberjack shirt that barely contained his barrel chest. Catty-corner to them sat Doug and Jinx, clasping hands, him rapt, her staring straight ahead as she explained something animatedly.
“… fungal corneal opacity,” Jinx was saying. “It’s like… take a piece of construction paper and punch two eyeholes in it with a pencil. Off-center is better to get the full effect. Then tape a piece of wax paper to the back and hold that over your face, so all you see are two blurry dots with some diffuse light leaking in from the sides— Dakota! Is that you?”
“Yeah, she’s here,” Doug said, squeezing her hand. “I’m sorry for you—”
“I survive,” Jinx said, patting his hand with her free one. “But does she?”
“I survive,” I croaked, voice unexpectedly weak. “Ahem. I’m all right. I’m all right.”
“Oh, Dakota,” Jinx said. “I’m so pleased. We were all so worried. So worried.”
“Well, speak of the devil,” Rand said, looking up at me. He had been the one I’d heard miming me in the hall, and the athletic young man he was talking to was starting to look oddly familiar. “Welcome back from the dead.”
“I didn’t actually die,” I said. “But it sure did feel like it.”
“I’m so sorry I couldn’t get to you sooner,” the young man said, eyes bright on me, and then he made the same sliding motion with his hand I’d seen back… back at Manuel’s Tavern! The Guinness dude. “That bastard sure could run.”
“You were the cavalry,” I said, remembering the shouting voices. “Thanks.”
“I wish I could take all the credit,” he said. “As soon as I saw him standing over you, I yelled for help and started running—but then this huge dog leapt out of the bushes and chased him off before I could even get to you guys. Crazy. The thing looked big as a wolf.”
My eyes widened and I wasn’t sure I liked the direction my mind was talking. Could that have been… Wulf? “Well, however it went down, thank you,” I said. “Who knows what he could have done if he’d had more time?”
His nostrils flared, and he shook his head. He had a strong jaw and cleancut features, and now that I’d been wheeled a bit closer I could see that while he wasn’t weightlifter bulky, his whole body seemed to bulge underneath his clothes wherever they touched him.
“I gotta level with you,” he said, embarrassed. “I ran after you to ask for your number.”
“Dakota Frost,” I said, extending my hand. “And it’s 404—”
“You don’t have to do that,” he said, shaking it. His grip was gentle, but beneath the surface I could feel muscles like marble. “Darren Briggs.”
“I think I do have to. It’s a rescue rule or something,” I said. “At least come by the Rogue Unicorn when I’m back tattooing—I’ll give you a free Frost bite.”
“Oh, you’re that Dakota,” he said, impressed.
“Best magical tattooist in the Southeast,” I responded.
The older, priestly man, in whose lap Savannah still lay, looked up sharply when I said that, and I realized he probably had the same feelings about magical tattooing Savannah did. “Sorry,” I said. “Didn’t mean to offend you with that ‘Satanist crap.’”
He looked surprised. “Offended? No,” He looked over my shoulder. “Agent Davidson, could you work your magic and get us a blanket? The sun’s creeping up on her.”
“No problem, Canon Grace,” Phil said. “Back in a minute, Dakota.”
As Philip left, the priest looked back at me, smiling. “What Satanist crap?”
“The tattoos,” I looked at the ground guiltily. “Savannah calls them Satanist—”
His eyes widened, and he seemed