Blood Rock (23 page)

After she hung up, I checked my email again for any new pictures from my mysterious text-message benefactor. Over the past few days, someone in the APD, probably McGough, had used an out-of-state number to send me pictures of tags from all over the city. Pieces like the one that hit Revy were everywhere, but the ones that hit Tully were focused in Oakdale. And there was a third, cruder set, in Oakdale and Cabbagetown.

The pictures told me a lot about the taggers—I guessed three: a master, a journeyman, and an apprentice or copycat—but not about their magic. I needed to see a master tag
moving
to figure out how it worked. Still, I emailed Jinx the images and printed copies for Arcturus, who couldn’t tell an email address from a fax machine. One of us would figure
something
out.

I pulled up into the dropoff lane of the Clairmont Academy to pick up Cinnamon—and hit my brakes so hard the car behind me almost slammed into me. There was a Fulton County Sheriff’s car pulled up on the curb, lights flashing.
Oh, God no.

I jerked the Prius over into a visitor’s space and hopped out, running up on Catherine Fremont, who was arguing loudly with a blond police officer and a darkhaired, ponytailed woman. “I’m sorry,” she said angrily, “I’m not authorized to do that—”

“Ma’am,” the officer said, leaning back his head, “I don’t think you understand—”

“I do understand and don’t you ma’am me,” she snapped—and then her eyes caught me and her face relaxed in relief. “Oh, thank God. Miss Frost, we have a situation.”

“Miss Frost?” the darkhaired woman said, checking her clipboard, shrugging a couple times to adjust a faux-fur-lined jeans jacket. “Dakota Frost?”

“Yes,” I said, and the woman smiled. She had a pleasant face, open and expressive, with pencil-thin eyebrows that made her look far younger than she was. “What’s going on?”

“I’m Margaret Burnham of DEE-FAX, the Department of Family and Children Services,” she said, eyes flickering over the tattoos on my temples before returning to her clipboard. “Are you currently in custody of a child named ‘Stray Foundling?’”

“Yes, she is in my custody,” I said, “but she goes by Cinnamon Frost.”

—

“Whatever,” Burnham said. “We’re here to take Stray into emergency custody.”

“You’re
what?
” I exploded.

“Ma’am,” the officer said, stepping forward, his hand raised. “Please calm down.”

“What the hell is this, Officer—” and I broke off for a second, eyes scanning him till I found his badge “—Galacci?”

“
Deputy
Galacci,” he corrected, body held firm and forbidding, blue eyes distant and stony. “Ma’am, this is a court-ordered action.”

“On what basis?” I asked. The expression on his stony, hard-muscled face didn’t change, and I transferred my glare to Burnham. “For what possible reason?”

“Housing her in unsafe conditions,” Burnham said, checking her clipboard.

“
What?
” I said. “Since when is an apartment in Candler Park unsafe?”

“According to this,” Burnham said, glaring, “Stray’s living in Oakdale.”

“She goes by Cinnamon,” I said, “and Oakdale is where I
adopted
her from.”

“The address is a condemned factory,” Burnham said.

“It was a werehouse,” I said.

“It burned down.”

“That was arson!”

“I have no info on that,” Burnham said, “but according to the police report, the
second
police report she appeared in in as many days, I might add, Stray was living there as recently as two weeks ago, on the day the police went to shut it down as an unlicensed werekin housing facility—and it burned down around them.”

It took me a few moments to gather my composure. “Cinnamon was
not
living in the werehouse,” I said at last. “That’s simply where they interviewed her
after
the
arson
.”

“But why was she even there?” Burnham said. “In a condemned factory. In
Oakdale
!”

“She’s a
werekin
,” I said. “She was having a bad change. I took her back to the people who I adopted her from because I thought they could help!”

“Why?” Burnham said, eyes flashing with disapproval. “Didn’t you have a safety cage?”

“I’m having one built in our
new
house,” I said angrily, “but it wasn’t ready yet.”

“Well you should have had it built in your
old
one before you tried to adopt a werekin,” Burnham said, oddly smug. “If you had followed the
rules—”

“Hey!” I said, feeling my nostrils flare. “You have
no idea
who you’re talking to about following the rules—”

“Ma’am, look, you’re not helping,” Deputy Galacci said firmly. “Please calm down. Getting angry at us is not going to change anything.”

“That’s right,” Burnham said. “This police report is a clear indication of neglect.”

“Oh, yeah,
this
is neglect,” Deputy Galacci said, cocking his thumb back at the Academy. “Paying for her upscale private school. Look, Miss Frost, it’s clear you do care for Stray—”

“She
goes
,” Catherine Fremont said icily, “by Cinnamon.”

“Cute,” Galacci said. “The point is, I’m sure that the court will recognize what you’re trying to do here and straighten this all out, but I can’t ignore a court order.”

I closed my eyes and rubbed between my eyebrows with one hand. All I kept seeing was that DEI agent that had practically wanted to shoot Cinnamon on sight. It wasn’t helping.

“Look, Deputy Galacci,” I said, “I know you’re just doing your job, but I’m too damn paranoid to let you just waltz up and take her. Cinnamon was
kidnapped
last year, poisoned, almost killed, and I don’t know you from Adam Twelve.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Galacci said—and then the corner of his mouth quirked up. “But Adam would mean a two-man patrol. And it’s LAPD jargon. We don’t use it in Georgia.”

I glared at him. “Regardless, if I don’t see some paperwork I’m going to call the police and let the APD sort this out. Am I making myself clear?”

“Yes, ma’am, and I encourage you to contact the police, or at least DFACS,” Galacci said. “But in the meantime we still have to take her.”

I folded my arms. “Over my dead body.”

Galacci looked at me, hard, jaw set. He put his hand on his pistol. “Ma’am—”

“Don’t do it,” I said. I concentrated my intent and let my shield blossom, concentrated mana, a millimeter beneath the surface of my skin, and let out my breath to activate it. “Phooo. My dad’s a cop, my uncle’s a cop, I’ve dated a cop, so I don’t want to hurt you, but until I see paperwork for this alleged court order, you’re just a man with a gun threatening my daughter.”

His eyes tightened at me and he twitched a little, but he didn’t move. He was angry, but behind the anger he was actually curious, eyes looking me over, trying to see what angle I had that made me so unafraid of his badge, his gun.

“I know, I know, you think I’m a street lawyer and want to take me to jail on general principles just to ‘show me’ and my big mouth,” I said. “I’m sorry to bust your nuts like this. But I did this dance with the DEI last week, and all they needed to do to make me play nice is show me a warrant. You did have a warrant or order or
some
kind of paperwork in hand before you decided to waltz up and take a werekin from her mother, right?”

“Right,” Galacci said. “Burnham, show her your papers so we can get on with it.”

Burnham jerked, then came forward with a clipboard. I took it. “Thank you,” I said, glancing it over. Depressingly official ‘authorization to accept child for short-term emergency care,’ and it all looked in order.
Crap.
“All seems in order. Now how hard was that?”

“Not hard at all,” Galacci said, relaxing. “I’m sorry to put on such a hard nose, Miss Frost. If the order exists, it has to be carried out, whether the paper’s on me or not. But even when we do, many of the parents I have to deal with are
not
reasonable in your situation.”

“How could they be?” I said. “Either they’re asses, or their kids are being taken unjustly.”

“Not
unjustly
,” Burnham said. “but I’ll give you overcautiously. Miss Fremont, please.”

As Catherine left, Galacci spoke to me in a low voice. “Was she really kidnapped?”

“Oh, yes,” I said, swallowing. Fremont leaving to go get Cinnamon was tearing me up, but I tried not to let it show. “And poisoned, to get to me. She almost died.”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” he said, even more quietly, “but you shouldn’t talk to cops about putting them down. Technically that’s assault on a police officer. Less technically, it could get you shot, which could kill you even if you are a werekin.”

“I know, and sorry,” I said. “For the record, I’m not a werekin—but I
did
take a shotgun blast in the chest the other day, and it didn’t faze me. I’m a magical tattoo artist. I can shield.”

“No shit,” Galacci said, curious and amazed. “You
wanted
me to shoot you?”

“No!” I said. “It would be a dick move to provoke you to shoot me in front of my daughter’s school just to test my shield. She’s going to have to come back here.”

“Oh, come on,” he said. “If you really could take a bullet—”

“Have,” I said. “Have taken a bullet. Twice. Both times to protect Cinnamon.”

Galacci swallowed. “Well, if you could take a bullet, the coolest thing in the world for a little kid would be to see your dad, or, uh, mom, pull a Superman in front of the school.”

“It didn’t impress her,” I said. “She’s a weretiger. Claims to soak up bullets, and given how rough she had it on the streets I take it she knows that from experience. But when I got shot in the chest, all it did was make her worry.”

“Well, ah, let’s … not make that worry worse,” he said, more quietly. “This is never an easy thing. You should be the one to explain to her what’s happening.”

Somehow the thought of explaining things to her filled me with a sudden, urgent fear—and I realized Galacci needed to be filled in too. “Deputy, she has a mouth on her,” I said. “Try not to be offended. We think it might be Tourette’s. Seriously.”

“Really? Oh, I’m sorry,” he said. “Thanks for the heads up, I’ll—here she is. You’re up.”

The glass door slid open on Cinnamon and Fremont. “Mom,” Cinnamon said uncertainly, darting forward, then stopping to stare at Burnham and Galacci. “Mom, what’s going on?”

“Cinnamon,” I said, squatting down to look at her.

“Yeah,” she said, eyes wide, staring over my shoulder at the deputy.

“Cinnamon,” I said, and choked it off. Then I started to tear up. “Cinnamon, oh, damnit, Cinnamon, they’re taking you from me. I’m so sorry. They say it’s only temporary—”

“And you
believes
them?” she said, tugging at her collar, head snapping in her tic.

“Yes. No. I don’t know,” I said, “but, regardless—I’m going to fight to get you back.”

“I—I—believes you, Mom,” Cinnamon said, tearing up too. “Fuck! I
believe
you.”

“Oh, Cinnamon,” I said, hugging her. She grabbed me so fiercely my back cracked, but I didn’t care. I just hugged her back and cried. “I will get you back.”

“I knows—I know, Mom,” Cinnamon said, glancing back over her shoulder at Fremont, then looking at me. The tic twisted her face, but she kept it under control. “I
know.
”

She looked up, and I felt movement behind me. “It’s time,” Galacci said.

“This is Deputy Galacci,” I said.

“I gots that,” Cinnamon said, eyes flickering over him.

“And that’s Margaret Burnham. They’re with DFACS. They’re going to take care of you, until I can come back for you. OK?”

“OK,” Cinnamon said.

“Don’t kill them,” I said, “or you’re grounded.”

“Mom!” Cinnamon said, mouth quirking up at Burnham’s horrified reaction and Galacci’s suppressed smile. “I’ll—
fuck!
—I’ll be good.”

“Come on, now,” Galacci said, patting my shoulder. “You’re just making it harder.”

And so I stood, and handed Cinnamon over to Galacci, who wiped his face clean and took her with a flat, stony stare. I glared at Burnham, but she didn’t give me a second glance, just handed a card to me, told me to call her office, and bustled off to her own car.

And then Cinnamon was in the back of the squad car, staring at me. Abruptly Galacci looked back and said something, and Cinnamon looked forward at him. After a moment, she smiled—and then
laughed
, and waved at me. She put her hand against the window, huge clawed fingers spread out in a five-pointed star; and then with her other hand she made a thumbs-up towards me. “It’s going to be OK, Mom,” she mouthed.

And then the police car started up and took her away.