Frost Moon by Anthony Francis

theories—the potential victims in the book, the good chance that someone else might have the tat, the likelihood that a graphomancer had inked it sometime around the turn of the millennium, and even my fears about Sumner’s death itself.
    “So much fucking time lost,” he said, staring at the book in his hand. “We should have been looking for graphomancers from the very beginning—”
    “You didn’t have a name until yesterday,” I said, hoping it would reassure him.
    “We had hints,” he snapped. “We’re supposed to be the ones that follow up on them. We’re the ones who’re supposed to catch the bad guys based on a torn receipt and a funny smell. At the first clue the tattoos were magical we should have been talking to magical inkers and graphomancers and the whole lot.” He was silent for a moment, glaring off into the distance. “We— they —those dolts at the Bureau —treated it like a normal serial killer case for two years. Two whole years! And when they finally get wise, we have to pick up the crap—”
    “I’m sure you did your best,” I said.
    “Not likely,” he snorted. “We could have found out at least half of what you’ve told me without knowing Sumner’s name. Five minutes listening to you and I feel like I’m caught with my pants down—”
    “Well…not yet you’re not,” I said.
    “Don’t you start,” he said, eyes back on me with that same appreciative look he’d had scoping out my tattoos. “Scratch that— do.”
    Oh, Lord. Me and my smart mouth—I hadn’t meant to open that can of worms. I already had a werewolf as a secret admirer; I didn’t need another suitor. I held up my hands, which made his eyes light on the yin-yang and magic circle tattoos on my palms. “Agent Davidson,” I began. “I’ll do what I can to help you find the killer—”
    And then a horrible thought struck me. All the other tattoos, presumably, had been ripped from someone’s body. But this time, we had the tattoo, not the victim—
    “What?” he said sharply. “What else have you thought of?”
    “You… you don’t have a body for the last one, do you?” I said. Davidson scowled, hand clenching on the book, and my stomach churned. “I mean… at least I hope the victim was dead when they… when they took the tattoo.”
    There was an ugly pause. He just looked at me. Oh, God.
    “I’ll talk to my clients, and to the witch,” I said.
    “I’ll talk to my agents, get them on this,” he said, holding up the book. “And talk to Nighy about releasing images of the lid, maybe even some of the other tattoos—”
    “One more thing,” I said. It had been bugging me the whole time, but still I hesitated a moment; this would reopen that can of worms. But that held me back only a moment.
    I reached out and took his glasses off carefully. He twitched, just a little, and I guessed it was more from our eight-inch height difference than the invasion of his space. I waggled the glasses. “I could see the smile in your eyes even through these. You have wonderful eyes.” I slid the glasses into his pocket. “You shouldn’t hide them, Special Agent Davidson.”
    He smiled at me, the same warm, quirky smile he’d given me back at Homicide, given me a few minutes ago, now enhanced by warm, blue-grey eyes.
    “It’s Philip, Miss Frost.”
    “Dakota,” I said, turning and walking away.
    I’d just met one of the fabled “black-helicopter men,” of conspiracy theories and New World Order fame, and he was darned cute.
    Talk about having men falling out of the sky.

9. ELEGANT GOTHIC LONTA
    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