I didn’t take her iPod, which would have interfered with her studies. She’s the math whiz at school now, and I’m trying to encourage that as much as I can. I didn’t forbid her to see Tully again, which would have been pointless. They’re childhood sweethearts, and I’m not going to discourage that, because I know I can’t.
But I did ground her. No running at night, only jogging at the school. No solo dates with Tully, only with me chaperoning. And next full moon, she stays in the safety cage. I know, that last bit sounds cruel. But I find myself thinking that’s a parent’s job, sometimes: being cruel to your child, so she learns not to do things that will destroy her.
It takes a real effort of will to leave it at that, to not blame Cinnamon for the death of Calaphase, or to give her a walk and shift the blame onto Tully. They really didn’t know what they were helping unleash; the blame rests upon the Streetscribe. Thanks to him, no one knows how much Calaphase came to mean to me-and I’ll never know what we could have had.
That last bit burns me. I miss Calaphase. I really do. But everything happened so fast. I hadn’t lied. I had planned to take him home, but that was it; literally, to take him home. I never expected our relationship to progress that quickly, and seemingly moments later it was over. I still couldn’t process it. I just felt a void. So I’ve been throwing myself into my new work.
Doug has been working with Tully to find and destroy all the remaining copycat marks, and he says it’s a wonder Cinnamon and Tully weren’t killed just spraying the damn things. McGough’s been revisiting the arson sites with a magical disenchantment squad, making sure nothing pops up out of the soot. And I’ve been bouncing back and forth between Arcturus and a dermatologist, treating the damage to my skin when my vines were ripped off.
All in all, we were lucky. The tags were all over the city, as were copycat taggers. Tully spread the word about the dangers of the marks, and the copycats stopped; but from them he found enough photocopies to reassemble the blackbook. After Doug had looked at it, he went around for a whole week muttering things damnably Lovecraftian.
Doug wrote up a report on the blackbook, first thinking to publish it, then thinking to suppress it, and finally passing it around, with ample warnings, to all his most trusted contacts. After enough people had read it… the Magical Security Council turned into a real thing, and not just a Hail Mary play to get the lich and his lieutenants to back off.
Delancaster’s announcement of my appointment came just in time for Magnolia magazine to slap together a full story on me, the graffiti, and the Council, running with a spectacular cover of me and my vines looming over Keif and Drive in a shot that looks pretty damn prescient now, even though it was totally unplanned. Magnolia called me an “unexpectedly cantankerous tattoo wizard,” and I was oddly pleased-Arcturus apparently trained me too well.
Between all the publicity and the very real threat, everyone is playing along. Even the Wizarding Guild: they won’t show in person, but have been speaking effectively through Alex (and unofficially, through McGough), analyzing the blackbook and passing on strategies that will help us eliminate the tagger’s marks safely.
I know, I know, councils like this are more about which group is in control of what than about solving the problems we all have, and I keep on expecting one of the old-school vampire or werekin groups to stab us in the back. But it hasn’t happened yet, I think mostly because anyone who takes the time to read Doug’s dossier ends up scared shitless.
So far the arrangement has worked well. We’ve got the misuse of graffiti magic under control, have put procedures in place to keep it from happening again, and are starting to draft rules to guide us in the future. Everyone appears to be pulling their weight, and more importantly, everyone seems to be talking.
Except Nyissa. Scara’s crossbow bolt left her mute. The doctors think that they may eventually restore her voice, but until then, it serves a purpose. She comes as my escort, glares ominously, twirls her metal poker anytime anyone says anything threatening-and, when it comes up, gives Iadimus an excuse to tell Scara to leave. This happens all too often.
Everyone on the council, me included, is looking for my replacement. No one wants me heading this board permanently. But they’re all helping me find people they think can do the job. Unfortunately, while there are plenty of good candidates on paper, it’s hard finding anyone who is competent in practice, willing to take on the problem, and acceptable to everyone.
I’ve even talked to Philip about replacements, but our relationship is strained. Personally, he still resents me dumping him for Calaphase. Professionally, neither he nor Namura are happy about this new concentration of power. But we’re civil, and so, as Alex has taken on speaking for the Council of Wizards, I’ve taken on responsibility of speaking for the DEI.
Hopefully, soon, better hands will take this over. I’m not trained in law enforcement, or law, or even management. Heck, I’m only half-trained in magic or science; I’m a dropout. I’m supposed to be a tattoo artist, for goodness sake. I know I can’t keep doing this forever.
But I’m not going to go through life in the dark anymore. I’m not going to hope that if shit sweeps up on me I can clean up the mess. I have a daughter, friends, and colleagues that count on me, people that have my back, and I’m not going to let them down.
I know I can’t fix everything-the world is darker, deeper, stranger than I ever imagined. I know I can’t make my little corner of the world into heaven-but God gave me the skills to keep it from going to hell, and by God, I’m going to keep it that way.
–
I’m Dakota Frost, skindancer-and Atlanta is my city. Nobody trashes it on my watch.