get this vetted by a local witch. I don’t ink marks I haven’t done before without a second opinion—you never know what lurks in the magic.”
The wolf pursed his lips. He had nice lips. Very nice lips, and a strong jaw beneath the scraggle. I notice these things.
“Of… course,” the werewolf said. “But this cannot take too long—”
“She can do it,” Spleen said, jerking forward slightly. “Believe me. Dakota, give him the show. He needs to know what he’s buying—”
“No need,” the wolf said, eyes fixed on me. “I can see the magic in her marks.”
I held his gaze, then cracked my neck a little and prepared to breathe a word. It didn’t really matter what word; an old-school magician or one of my Wiccan friends would no doubt have a whole vocabulary of nonsense for every different occasion. But the specific word didn’t matter: with magical tattoos, all that mattered was the intent of the wearer.
“Show him,” I said, and the tiniest magical tremor rippled through my body, the barest fraction of power, gleaming down my tats, spreading through the vines, illuminating the scales, the feathers, the wings in a sparkling array like a cloud of fairy dust marching down my skin. I even made the wings of the butterfly on my left wrist lift up and flutter in the air. The big bad werewolf’s eyes lit up like a little child, dancing over my form, drinking in the magic, edges crinkling up in a smile.
“All but these are mine,” I said, holding up my right forearm as the last glimmers of magic sparkled away, “and the man who did my inking arm works with me in the Rogue.”
The wolf leaned back, impressed. “I would say I am now convinced, but I was before.”
I glared at Spleen. “You could have brought him to the Rogue—”
“NO,” the wolf said. “It’s not safe—”
“This,” I said, “is the twenty-first century. In Atlanta. In Little Five Points. Trust me, no one is going to hassle a werewolf. Heck, no one will even notice you.”
“I didn’t mean it wasn’t safe for me,” the werewolf said, still staring at me with those hungry eyes. His eyes no longer lingered on my tattoos, but roved all over me, like I was a particularly delicious banquet. Then he caught himself and looked away, shaking his head, face twitching in a pained grimace—I was a banquet he was forbidden to touch.
He was embarrassed. I felt sad for him, forced to hide in these tunnels, afraid of himself, holding on to what little scraps of dignity he could, like his battered suit. Even looking away, his chin was held up with pride, as of he were trying to be more than the monster most people would choose to see.
Not that a twinge of fear wasn’t still nagging me: here I was, facing a real Edgeworlder, ripe with danger, popping his cork monthly, all too interested in my tattoos. I couldn’t help but think of that skin-covered lid in the evidence tray. But I sensed no malice in this werewolf—in this man, this dangerously scruffy but still charming man with gleaming green eyes. And behind the hunger and the pain in those eyes I saw sadness… and interest?
“What’s your name?” I asked.
The green eyes looked away. “Uh… Wulf.”
A lie. Charming. Unoriginal. But not unexpected. He was hiding in the basement of the Edgeworld; no big surprise that he felt like he needed to hide even his name. I didn’t know what drove him to that—but I did know I didn’t like how guilty that lie made him feel.
“Well, ‘Wulf,’” I said, cracking my best smile, “I’ll get right on it.”
Wulf glanced back to see acceptance, not judgment, on my face. He smiled back, an odd, shy grin, and I brushed back one of the feathers of my deathhawk, where it had curled about my neck. Then Wulf leaned back again, all the way on his heels, putting his hands easily on his knees. “This,” he said, addressing Spleen, “has been an unexpected pleasure.”
And then he looked straight at me, eyes hungry with something new. “I look forward to seeing more of you, Dakota Frost.”
Without another word he rose and left, climbing stone stairs up into the blackness of the vault. Even as Spleen turned the boat around, my eyes still lingered, watching Wulf go.
By the time we got back to Mary’s in East Atlanta it was damn near 1 a.m., and my evening was a lost cause. The tiny dance