The Starbucks in Little Five Points is on Moreland, at its farthest northern edge, as if the raw power of LFP's eclectic vortex had repelled the chain's sterile corporate heart and this was as close as it could come. Me, I come for the dark roast-at least Starbucks claims it's made from sustainable beans.
My young witch pored over a book, murmuring, dressed in head to toe in frilly black-ornate petticoat and satin dress, Victorian corset and ruffled jacket, black bonnet and folded-back veil, all outlined here and there in shocking white lace. Elegant Gothic Lolita, the style was called, though you rarely saw it outside of a science fiction convention.
Yet here Skye "Jinx" Anderson sat, decked out in the middle of the Starbucks, oblivious to the stares of the college boys at the next table as she moved one hand over a spiral-bound book, still murmuring. Whenever she took a sip, raising her coffee to her lips with a delicate hand wrapped in a fingerless black lace glove and jingling charm bracelets, the boys drew in a breath; when she set the cup back down with deliberate grace, they all seemed to sag.
I knew the drill by this point-Jinx already knew I was here, but didn't care to be interrupted. So I waited in line and got some coffee, creamed it, and joined her.
Jinx looked up at me over her black disc sunglasses, and now I drew in a breath. I never failed to be shocked by her eyes: blue, gleaming, the iris inlaid with a milky white ring, like a snowflake embedded into the surface of blue marble. She caught me looking and pushed her glasses up with one delicate gloved hand, at which point I could see the glowing nub of a Bluetooth mike poking out of the lace mesh and curls of dyed, blue-black hair. Beside her book, there was a cute little laptop with raised spider decals. She'd been dictating notes.
"Hi, Jinx."
"Dakota," she said, smiling, drawing her fingers over one last line of Braille before closing the book. "It's been too long. You're normally not so shocked."
"Actually, I always am, spooky-eyes," I replied. She scowled, and I said, "You'd prefer 'Little Miss Anderson'?"
"NO!" she said, throwing her hands to her cheeks in mock horror. "Shame on you for dredging up high school memories, Miss Frost!"
"Don't you start," I said. "I've heard that far too much over the past few days-"
"So," she said primly, leaning her elbows on the table, folding one hand over the other, and propping her chin atop them, "Let's see this tattoo you've got for me."
"Actually," I said, pulling out the envelope, "I have two today, and maybe one later-"
"Oh, goody," she said, clapping her hands together.
"Don't get too excited, I may be taking one of them on spec."
"Anything for you, Dakota." She leaned her head against her hands. "What are they?"
"The one I called you about is a werewolf control charm. Spleen-"
"Feh," Jinx said. "He smells."
"Spleen hooked me up with a were who wants more control over his beast." I grew uncomfortable, but Jinx kept 'staring' at me from behind her black glasses. "I think it may be a Nazi design, or something they collected. Frankly it scares me. I'm not comfortable inking it without knowing what it does."
"As you should be," she said. "And the rest?"
"A magical wristwatch."
"Oh, my," Jinx said, making gimme, gimme motions with her fingers.
"This one is a… stunt," I said, holding off. "I don't know if I'll get paid, but I'll cut you in for ten percent if I win the contest."
"Dakota," she said reprovingly. "Anything for you. But really! A contest. That's so unlike you. What's my cut going to be?"
"One hundred thousand dollars," I said.
"Mmm. hmm," she said. I couldn't tell whether she believed me. Or maybe she missed the 'thousand' part? "Well, anything for you, Dakota. Let's see what you've got."
I slid the flash out of the envelope and arrayed it on the table. She stared down at it for a moment, then let her fingers run over it, looking off into the distance, murmuring. Then she pushed her glasses down and picked the flash up, holding it close to her spooky geode eyes, staring first at the detailed joins of the clock, then at the edge of the wolfsbane charm.
I felt so sad. Growing up, Jinx had always had the best vision of any of my childhood friends; now she could see little more than a murky blur. It was painful watching her rock her head back and forth, trying to eke some sense of the figures through the ruin of her eyes. Finally she put the flash down on the table, drummed her fingers, and nodded.
"It will take me a day or so to 'look' them over," she said.
"I figured," I said, pulling out a USB key. "I have some files if you want the originals-TIFF, JPEG, PNG, and for the clock, even something called SVG-"
"Scalable Vector Graphics," she said, suddenly breathless, upraising a gloved hand into which I dropped the key. "Excellent. That will save me a step."
"I don't have the other one. We're trying to get a picture now-"
"Do you know the general kind of inking it's going to be?"
"It's…" I stopped, deciding how much to tell her. This was police business, nasty stuff, and I knew how she felt about the police-heck, I felt the same way. But this was Jinx, after all. What could I hide from her? "I'm not inking it. Someone ripped a tattoo off one of Richard Sumner's clients."
"A copyright infringement case?" she said, shocked. "Dakota-"
"No," I said, very flatly.
Jinx's face drained. "Oh, Dakota," she said, horrified. "You mean literally. Oh, Dakota! What have you gotten yourself into? How did you ever come across such a thing-"
"Andre Rand," I said. "He wanted to warn me. Somebody's targeting people with magical tattoos." Her hands went to her mouth. "I'm, uh, trying to help them-"
"Well, duh," she said. "Quit dancing around it, I can smell your reluctance from here."
I didn't say anything. I was a bit embarrassed. Jinx hated the police, for reasons she never disclosed. In fact she'd nearly cut me out when she found out my dad was a cop, and even now she barely tolerated him-though on that score I knew how she felt.
"Well," I said, "It's just, I didn't think you'd like me working with them-"
"'Them,'" she said. "Say it. 'The police'-and 'the Feds,' I'll bet. You're helping the police, and you're worried about what I'll think."
"Yeah," I said.
"Well, stop worrying, Dakota." She sat up straighter. "Someone may be stalking you, and has already killed somebody else. Of course you're helping the police. You have nothing to be ashamed of. I know you better than to think you'd engage in a modern witch hunt."
I let out a breath, relieved. "So, if we could get them to release the pics, you'll help?"
"Dakota," she said reprovingly. "Oh Dakota. Of course. Anything for you."
Her phone beeped, and Jinx sighed. "I have class," she said primly, closing her little laptop, slipping it and the spiral-bound Braille book into a brown leather satchel, and then withdrawing a spirit cane.
"I know," I replied.
"Walk me to the bus stop?" Jinx said, standing, all black ruffles and white lace, unfolding the springloaded white cane to its six foot length sharply, tik-tik-tik-tik-CRACK.
"Certainly," I said, stepping to the door and opening it. She walked forward towards my voice, sweeping the cane back and forth, click-clack, acutely aware of her effect on the boys at the side table as she swept past them. She took my extended arm naturally as she stepped through the door, and we walked out into the warm Atlanta sun. "Just like old times."
"More than you know," she said. "I think I can evaluate the clockwork flash, but as for the control charm… we'll want to call in an were-expert."
"Let me guess," I said. "Not a wereologist, but an actual were."
"Right, first time," Jinx said. "Goes by 'the Marquis.' We're texting all the time, but he's a real Edgeworlder. No email, no fixed address-you'll have to take the flash to him physically, in person, at the local werehouse-"
"Which warehouse?"
" Were-house," Jinx said, pronouncing the first syllable distinctly. I still heard little or no difference, other than she was leaning on the were, but I got the gist.
"Fine, fine," I said. "I actually like werewolves, or werewhatevers-"
"You've never been to an actual werehouse, though," she said. "They're homes for werekin who can't 'pass'. I've only been once, and I had the distinct sensation that I was tolerated only because I'm blind. Humans just aren't wanted there, so you'll have to be escorted in."
"Wonderful," I said.
"Oh, it gets better," Jinx said. Now she was dancing around something, which wasn't like her. "There's a new wrinkle, so." "So what? What's the wrinkle?"
"The werewolf clan has contracted with some… low-lifes… for protection."
"Oh hell," I said. "Vampires. No, let me guess-rogue vampires. I'm going to need an escort to deal with my escorts!"
"It's not that bad," she said. "They're a vampire gang, yes, but they do abide by the protocols. So you can get protection from them… but, it's just… as a Little Fiver…" ^
"Oh, hell," I repeated. "I have to ask for help from my exgirlfriend."10. The Junior Van Helsing Detective Agency
If you follow Auburn Avenue east from Boulevard to Randolph Street, just where Auburn splits back off from Old Wheat, there's a small, unassuming box of a building sitting at the narrowest of the five corners of the intersection. It's shy on windows and has broad double doors pointing straight at the street, giving it a small-church feel; and indeed it was once a church, now deconsecrated. And inside, in the karmic convergence of holy ground built on a ley-line crossing near a five-pointed intersection (found by our very own Jinx), lived the vampire queen of Little Five Points.
My ex-girlfriend, Savannah Winters.
Back when I had my Festiva, you parked on Old Wheat; Auburn had some kind of city right of way and you'd quickly get towed. With the Vespa I expected to be able to putter right up and park on the sidewalk, but when I arrived, there was a new wrought-iron fence up around the whole main building. Finally I parked behind a small connected Victorian building that had once been the church school, next to a couple of unfamiliar cars. Had she moved?
But the church buildings had been reworked too, now with a semi-formal entrance and several carved wooden signs, like a doctor's office: