Anthony Francis - Frost Moon (Skindancer, Book 1)

There is more to magical tattoos than just show, I said loudly, letting the glowing ball rise slowly over the designs inked in my palms, then jabbing it so it exploded in a thousand fiery sparks that jetted out among the crowd of vampires and shifters, pushing them back a full yard from the edge of the pit. And more than just function. True magic is beauty incarnate: let me show you.

I swayed my nearly naked body, drawing mana through the vines on my arms, concentrating it into my upraised left wrist so the tattooed gems gleamed, the flowers bloomed, and the butterfly flapped its wings and raised off my wrist into life.

I whispered, Fly and the butterfly flew on a wind of sparkles and sunshine.

The weretiger squealed and held up her hand, and trailers of magic bounced off her harmlessly. The butterfly settled on her hand, fluttering, and she stared at it with wide eyes, and something closer to delight than fear. It flickered, once more, then lay its wings down and merged with her hand.

You get one tattoo for free, I said. More will cost you.

And then I was swarmed with a hundred werewolves, tigers, and stags, pressing around me, all asking what I could do for themor just trying to get close enough to rub up against my bare, magically inked, skin.

FROST
MOON

ANTHONY FRANCIS

BELL BRIDGE BOOKS

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead,) events or locations is entirely coincidental.

Bell Bridge Books
PO BOX 30921
Memphis, TN 38130

ISBN: 978-0-9843256-8-9

Bell Bridge Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.

Copyright 2010 by Anthony Francis

Printed and bound in the United States of America.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

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Cover design: Debra Dixon
Interior design: Hank Smith

Photo credits: woman - Stanislav Perov | Dreamstime.com

Landscape Michel Mota Da Cruz | Dreamstime.com dragon Jaguarwoman Designs

:Lw:01:

To Isaac, who inspired me to write

To Richard, who taught me to think

To Sandi, who reminds me to dream

1. DAKOTA FROST

I first started wearing a Mohawk to repel low-lifesbarflies, vampires, Republicans, and so onbut when I found my true profession my hairstyle turned into an ad. Peoples eyes are drawn by itno longer a true Mohawk, but a big, unruly deathhawka stripe of feathered black, purple and white streaks climbing down the center of my headbut their gazes linger on the tattoos, which start as tribal vines in the shaved spaces on either side of the hawk, and then cascade down my throat to my shoulders, flowering into roses and jewels and butterflies.

Their colors are so vivid, their details so sharp many people mistake them for body paint, or assume that they cant have been done in the States. Yes, theyre real; no, theyre not Japanesetheyre all, with a few exceptions, done by my own hand, right here in Atlanta at the Rogue Unicorn in Little Five Points. Drop byIll ink you. Ask for Dakota Frost.

To attract the more perceptive eye, I started wearing a sleeveless, ankle-length leather coat-vest that shows off the intricate designs on my arms, and a cutoff top and low-rider jeans that show off a tribal yin-yang symbol on my midriff. Tying it all together is the black tail of something big, curling up the left side of my neck, looping around the yin-yang, and arcing through the leaves on my right shoulder. Most people think its the tail of a dragon, and they wouldnt be wrong; in case anyone misses the point, I even have the design sewn into the back of a few of my vests.

Those who live on the edge might notice a little more detail: magical runes woven into the tribal designs, working charms woven into the flowers, and, if you look real close at the tail of the dragon, the slow movement of a symbolic familiar. Yes, it did move; and yes, thats real magic. Drop by the Rogue Unicorn-youre still asking for the one-and-only Dakota Frost, the best magical tattooist in the Southeast.

The downside to being a walking ad, of course, is that some of the folks you want to attract start to see you as a scary low-life. We all know that vampires can turn out to be quite decent folk, but so can clean-cut young Republicans looking for their first tattoo to impress their tree-hugger girlfriends. As for barflies, well, theyre still barflies; but unfortunately I find the more tats I show the greater the chance that the cops will throw me into the back of the van, too, if a bar fight breaks out.

So I couldnt help being nervous as two officers marched me into City Hall East.

City Hall East is in the old Sears building on Ponce de Leon, a great brick fortress squeezed between the empty parking lot that used to serve the Masquerade dance club and the full one that serves the Borders bookstore. Once it buzzed with activity, but now, in 2006, its like a tomb, soon to be demolished and turned into yet another mixed-use development as part of the new Belt Line project. Even the snack shop has closed. This is the last year of the grand old buildings spooky incarnation as a kind of lonely government outpost. All thats left here are a few Atlanta Police Department offices, more offices for the Feds, and some for permits and land planning.

And lots of police officers, more than I expected for that time of night, most of them scowling. Lots of them, muttering: Look at her? Whats she in for? Is she a stripper? If shes under arrest, why isnt she cuffed? The two officers escorting meone black, one white, both wearing identical buzz cutshad no answers, for them, or for me. Just: The police need to see you, Miss Frost. No, youre not under arrest, but it is urgent. Please come with us.

Our footsteps echoed hollowly as we walked through a canyon of white tile and glass walls towards the metal detectors. There had briefly been a gallery and shops on this floor, but now empty offices surrounded us like cages, only a few showing signs of life.

We paused before the metal detectors, where a fat female officer sat, right hand pumping on her mouse in what could only be Minesweeper. Anything to declare, Miss Frost? she asked.

Frost? Beyond the barrier, a sharply dressed, Kojak-bald black plainclothes officer perked up at the sound of my name: Andre Rand, my dads best friend. Dakota Frost?

No, Ive nothing to declare, I said, trying to ignore him as he stalked briskly towards me. The woman waved me in, and I swept through the metal detector just in time for him to corner me. I sighed, folded my arms, and stared down at the black man. He was tall, but I was taller. Wonderful. Hed known I was comingand probably engineered this whole thing.

Dakota, he said, voice forced cheeriness, sparkling eyes genuine. He was twice my ageId bounced on his knee when he and my father had been partnersbut he was still a fashion plate, if you go in for the whole GQ look. Your dad will be glad to hear youre doing well

Hey, Rand, I said, smiling, shaking my headhalf at his infectious grin and half at whatever he was planning. Lets get this over with. Where is he, and when did he get in? You know, I do have a cell phone. He could call me. Theres no need for the goon squad