Free Liquid Fire by Anthony Francis Page B

an enemy . . . “I’ll put my best foot forward, then.”
    “That sounds like a great idea—because a fae delegation will be at Conclave,” Vickman said. “And because the fae will be there—this is very important—we give them no real names . We don’t want to give them any more power than they already have.”
    “But . . .” I said helplessly. “But they know my name—”
    “And Cinnamon’s,” Vickman said, an ironic smile on his face. “But we only bring vamps who have pseudonyms, and Schultze and I, who operate under nom de guerres. Even then, we will do no introductions, and the rest of our party has to stay here.”
    “Vickman,” Saffron said. “I agree with Dakota. This sounds too dangerous—”
    Vickman smiled more tightly.
    ———
    “I’m not saying we can’t jump off the train,” he said, “but it has left the station.”
    8. Conclave
    Our rental cars crawled up a steep—I mean, stereotypically San Francisco steep—street toward the top of Russian Hill, a densely packed elevation in the City which I remembered from our last visit as the home of the world’s steepest and crookedest tourist trap, Lombard Street.
    But while many of the side streets were essentially staircases, we didn’t see Lombard itself, and eventually pulled into the gated parking lot of a Spanish Mission-style building nestled amidst looming canyons of apartment buildings and three-story homes.
    The place was eclectic: the warm brown stone and curved arches of the mission were Spanish, the dark indigo inscription over the door was cryptic Russian, and inside, the mission was thoroughly modern, with cool carpet and wall hangings in blues and greens.
    “I am the Warlock,” said the tall, genial man who received us in the antechamber. He was pleasant, and kindly, if a bit dated, wearing a three piece suit and sporting a seventies shaggy haircut . . . but I got a peculiar tingle from him, not a spell precisely, but a magical echo in my tattoos, which definitely caught his eye. “Your clan’s inkwork lives up to its colorful reputation. Did your security man warn you about our naming protocol . . . Dakota Frost?”
    I let out a breath. “Yes, and why you have that protocol, on which note, my name—”
    “And Cinnamon Frost’s name, are well known,” the Warlock said. I glared, but he raised his hand. “Don’t worry—celebrity is its own shield. Speaking your names openly may actually help dispel fae threats . . . but please don’t introduce your companions.”
    “This is ridiculous,” I said. “If there’s this much danger—”
    “There must be an equal or greater reward,” the Warlock said, his eye glinting. “You don’t know me, Dakota Frost, but I invited you, and I promise this isn’t a trap. Please trust that I’ve contrived this peculiar situation for everyone’s benefit—”
    “I don’t see how,” I snapped.
    “—because our members can be difficult,” the Warlock continued smoothly, “and you had surprising success dealing with difficult factions back in Atlanta. I think many of us would be grateful if you told us how you did it; please indulge this imposition.”
    I sighed. “All right,” I said, “but I don’t have to like this.”
    The Warlock escorted me, Cinnamon, Saffron, Darkrose, Vickman, and Schultze up to a large conference room with a lopsided figure-eight floor plan that took up most of the upper story of the mission. A ring-shaped mahogany table filled the larger lobe of the room, while behind the ring’s podium, in the smaller lobe, an arc of couches sat beneath mammoth glass windows with a spectacular view of the house-encrusted hills of San Francisco and the blues of the Bay.
    The Warlock gave me the podium. Saffron and Darkrose sat at my left and right, with Vickman and Schultze standing behind me like black and white pillars. The Warlock made space for himself and Cinnamon next to Saffron; then he raised his hand in a beck.
    The oak doors