‘Okay, but—’
The phone went dead.
I scowled at it, wondering if it was worth calling him back, then shook my head. He knew where I was, and for all his distraction he was an invested in the outcome of the tarot reading as I was. More so, really. So I should probably let him get on with his hacking.
I double-checked the new screenshot of the Emperor’s website against the previous one. Apart from the ‘Forum Mirabilis’ bit, there was nothing new. But the tarot cards said the Emperor’s werewolves were coming for me, and never mind the ‘heads up’ theory I’d given Tavish, I’d be stupid not to prepare for the worst. No way did I want to end up howling at the moon. Only I didn’t know much more about werewolves than Tavish and Katie had told me.
Time for some research.
I grabbed a blood donation bag, hooked myself up and pushed through the Ward on the front door and out onto the landing (where thankfully, the Wards hadn’t managed to nix the electricity). Checking the Buffer spell on my laptop was clear (with all the extra security around, a thief would have a hard time getting into the building, never mind stealing the laptop. Not to mention, computers were even more susceptible than mobiles when it came to getting fried by magic; Buffer spells only give so much protection), I pulled up the online witch archives. The information on werewolves was in the public section.
I clicked on ‘Therianthropic Metamorphosis’ and started reading.
Therianthropes are ‘Bitten’, ‘Changed by Ritual’, or ‘Born’.
If Bitten, the bite should be done the first day of a new moon for optimum success and can only be performed by an alpha in their beast (half and half) form. The hopeful victim gets their throat ripped out (called, appropriately enough a Death Bite) and it usually takes them until the full moon to recover. If they do. Only one in ten males, and one in a hundred females, survive, apparently. Though a quick side search via Google got me enough happy pictures of New Werewolf Celebrations to think the survival rates must be better than stated.
The only place the bite’s legal is Russia, for obvious reasons; the Russian secret service aren’t nicknamed the Silent Wolves for nothing. Bitten werewolves, both male and female, are infertile (a note said to see ‘Changed by Ritual’ for more on werewolf fertility levels). Werewolves prefer to live in dense forested areas. Aren’t sensitive to silver, as a lot of fiction states, but are allergic to wolfsbane, mistletoe and ergot, particularly when presented in tincture. They generally live a slightly longer than normal human lifespan, have high resistance to most diseases, but are as vulnerable to death or injury as any other in their human or animal forms. In their beast form (half and half) they can only be killed by removal of head or heart.
‘Good to know,’ I murmured, hoping if I did come across the Emperor’s wolves they wouldn’t be in their beast form, and made a note to get Tavish’s werewolf repellent out of the fridge.
I clicked on ‘Changed by Ritual’. It took me to the secure section of the archives; if I wanted to read it I needed a password. Clicking on the ‘Born’ link took me to the same protected page.
Curious, I texted Tavish and Katie on the off chance that one of them might reply, despite the late hour. Unsurprisingly, given Tavish’s earlier abrupt end to our phone call, it was Katie; only her password didn’t work. Instead, I got a security warning. I scowled at it, sent another text to Tavish, then after wasting fifteen minutes on Facebook’s Magikville, during which I managed to lose half my spellcaster points and ended up trading a golden goose for a dud magic frog. I gave up on my werewolf research, sealed my full blood bag and headed for the fridge.
As I reached for the door, my phone rang. The number on the screen was Sanguine Lifestyles; the vamp’s 24/7 ‘do anything’ service.
My heart thudded against my ribs.
‘Ms Taylor,’ a woman’s efficient-sounding voice said, ‘I have a message for you from Mr Malik al-Khan. He would like you to meet him at the Blue Heart, at midnight tomorrow. Can I tell him the time and date will be suitable for you?’
Tavish wanted me to stay away from Malik.
Part of me thought Tavish was right and really, with him on the Emperor’s case, I didn’t need to ‘date’ Malik for any more info. Only as I’d decided before, that wasn’t the only reason I needed to see him . . .
But the fae’s fertility had to be sorted; it had to take priority.
‘Ms Taylor?’ the woman’s voice prompted.
I should say no. I opened my mouth, but instead the words that came out were, ‘Thank you. That time and date will be suitable.’
She rang off and guilt twisted inside me as I opened the fridge. ‘The “date” with Malik isn’t till midnight tomorrow,’ I told the two dead mackerel, sliding the bag of blood in to join the one already there on the shelf below. ‘That gives me plenty of time to see what Tavish might or might not find out, so if need be, I can always call it off. All it would take is a phone call.’ The two mackerel eyed me balefully.
I sighed and reached past the fish to pick up a small black tub: Tavish’s werewolf repellent.
I opened it, took a wary sniff— the stuff ripped up my nose like a six-week-old corpse, and as it hit the back of my throat a coughing fit seized me. A couple of minutes later I managed to slam the lid back on, and swipe the tears from my eyes. Tavish wasn’t kidding when he said it didn’t smell so good. ‘I’d rather wear you two as earrings,’ I muttered, plonking the tub back next to the dead fish and closing the fridge with a shudder.
Crap. Katie was going to hate it, if the smell didn’t kill her first.
And there was no way I could wear it and work. Only I’d be stupid not to.
Damn it. If only I knew for sure she’d seen a werewolf on Primrose Hill. But to do that I’d need to look into Katie’s memory, which was a vamp power I didn’t have. And no way was I going to let any vamp near Katie, not after last time. But maybe Malik could dredge something up from my memory. I had seen that shadow after all—
An idea hit me. There was a way I could interrogate my own memory, and not only about the shadow, but about the peeping tom I’d seen looking in the nasty gnome’s window shortly before.
Sylvia had done a deal with a local witch company for groceries, and the fridge was set up to magically replenish itself as needed. It only allowed individual things through the Ward at any one time (which was how Tavish had sent me the icky werewolf-repellent), so was safe. But the witch company didn’t just deliver groceries; they did spells too. And they worked round the clock.
I texted a request for what I wanted, and got an almost instant, positive reply: ‘In stock and sent.’ Gotta love an efficient company.
I checked the fridge. On the top shelf, next to the black tub with its repellent, was a small box. The box had a cartoon picture of a smiling, sleeping woman with her head on a pillow of clouds. Printed on the box were the words: ‘Morpheus Memory Aid’. It was an off-the-shelf hypnopædia spell beloved by panicked students everywhere. I double-checked the blurb on the back of the box:
Named for Morpheus, the Greek God of Dreams, the Morpheus Memory Aid sleep-teaching spell is a worldwide favourite of students, lecturers, actors, singers, travellers, public speakers and politicians. Retain relevant facts with overnight ease. Learn a new language while you sleep. Mesmerise—
Hm, not quite what I remembered (no pun intended). I opened the box to find a tiny blue glass bottle, a matching blue sleep mask, and the instructions:
Drink before sleep while concentrating on the information you need to recall. The potion’s patented magics will work alongside your dreaming subconscious to completely focus on the required subject matter, then consolidate and commit every detail (including those normally discarded by our conscious self) in the hippocampus – the part of the brain concerned with memory.
Warning: Contains alcohol. Do not drive or use machinery immediately after use. Please drink responsibly. No liability will be admitted for failure of dreamer to achieve expected grade in
any test or examination. Do not use if aware of any previous adverse reactions to any of the ingredients (listed below), to previous use of Morpheus Memory Aid or any similar magics (nightmares, night terrors, loss of short-term memory), or if suffering from any of the ailments (listed below) which are known to be contraindicated. Disclaimer: Evidence recalled under the influence of Morpheus Memory Aid is not admissible in a human court of law.
‘Ah hah!’ I told the glazed-eyed fish as I read the last sentence. ‘That’s what I thought it said. Now let’s see if it works.’
Which, since it was aimed at humans and I’m sidhe, was debatable. Still, only one way to find out, and hopefully without suffering any of its ‘adverse reactions’. I had more than enough bad dream material with Emperors, werewolves, monstrous crawling-out-of-the abyss cats, stinging Jellyfish spells or my usual nightmare whenever I thought about the Autarch too much – that my psychotic, sadistic betrothed was about to turn up to claim me for his long-lost bride.
I glugged the potion, which tasted like chemical strawberries with a kick, pulled on the sleep mask and flopped into bed.
My dreaming self stood in the gnome’s creepsville room with its high ceiling, fungi-covered furniture and shelved walls stacked with plastic boxes and glass tanks full of more staring eyes and various body parts, some hideously mutilated, than I recalled from my actual visit. Instead of the room being dimly lit, now it was as if a half-a-dozen floodlights illuminated it. My dream vision was sharp enough to see every individual hair on the ginger tom cat crouching on the desk, and I realised that its fur wasn’t just shades of orange, but held whites and cream too.
I followed the cat’s gaze in slow motion towards the sash window to see the dark-haired male peering round its edge. The shadows were gone from his face and the details of his features embedded themselves razor-sharp into my mind. Black-brown hair, long enough to show a slight wave, pale skin with a smattering of freckles on the bridge of his straight nose, hazel-coloured eyes tinged with green and edged with thick black lashes, generous mouth parted in dismay to give a glimpse of straight white teeth, and even a thin line of stubble along his left jaw where he must have been hasty in shaving.
I’d be able to pick him out in a crowd of similar-looking men a hundred years from now.
I wasn’t going to need to. I knew who he was.
Marc. Katie’s boyfriend.
But even as I questioned what the hell Katie’s boyfriend was doing casing the gnome’s joint, or spying on me, and what I was going to do about it, the dream moved on.
I found myself outside the gnome’s house with Katie, her grey eyes rounding with alarm as she pointed at the park, her mouth forming the words. ‘In those bushes!’
Then I was racing towards the bushes, the sword Ascalon in my hand, clearly seeing the way the leaves trembled, despite the summer-still air, as if someone had held them back and just released them—
Another shout from Katie and I was staring towards the trees.
Only now my sharpened dream vision showed me an amorphous grey shape, low to the ground, crouched on all fours, its eyes reflecting eerily in the darkness like a cat’s, and large enough to be a werewolf in its wolf form. But I was too far away, and the shadows too dense, to be sure that it was a wolf and not some other animal, like a large dog or even a small bear.
The animal slowly backed up and disappeared.
Frustration sifted through me. I wanted to race down there, grab it by the throat, pull it out into the light and see exactly what it was, but the hovering conscious part of my brain knew the Morpheus Memory Aid potion didn’t work that way. It worked to enhance whatever you wanted to remember.
The view of the park disappeared beneath a blinding snow storm. The reek of fresh-spilled blood choked my throat.
And a familiar voice with its not-quite-English accent sounded in my mind.
Genevieve.
Genevieve. You should not be here.
Malik’s voice came again, the urgency in it tugging me out of the dream. For a moment I drifted, then horror slipped inside me as the dream pulled me under again, back to a wide, moon-bright plateau. The plateau stretched out to both sides of me, one edge hugging the steep mountain face, the other falling into the clouds roiling below. The ground was covered with an ankle-deep blanket of snow and wolves were howling all around me, their keening riding the wind that dragged anxious fingers through my hair and sent icy snowflakes to sting my face. I knelt in the snow, blood staining it in a ragged circle, like crimson petals scattered from a rose, as I denied my terror, my revulsion, and schooled my face. I was listening, as I had long ago, to the figure before me talking about . . . something . . . that filled me with desolation, even as it lifted my soul with fledgling hope. Only the words didn’t make any sense—
Genevieve.
Malik’s harsh whisper jerked me awake and the dream shredded like fog chased away by a resolute wind. Adrenalin sped my pulse, my left wrist banded with pain, and I jerked up, ripping off the sleep mask and searching my bedroom for him.
Dawn light streamed through the open window, washing over the sloping white-painted walls, the copper paint on my iron bedstead, and throwing shadows behind the rail holding my clothes. But as I peered at the dark corner, trying to see if he stood there, shaded from the sun, my inner radar kicked in and told me the room was empty.
Disappointment rolled over me. I rubbed my wrist, trying to soothe the stinging soreness there and wondering if I had really gatecrashed Malik’s dream, which was how it had felt, or was the nightmare down to the Morpheus Memory Aid backfiring? After all, it wouldn’t be the first time magic had gone haywire on me—
My bed was covered in rose petals. Those were definitely nothing to do with the Morpheus spell. The dark crimson petals were scattered over the white sheets like fresh blood on snow. Even with the obvious references to Malik’s and my time together in the hotel function room, and the dream I’d just woken from, and knowing I was alone, part of me hoped the velvety petals filling the room with a familiar dark spice scent were a clichéd romantic gesture on Malik’s part. Only, I didn’t need the unease in my gut to tell me they were nothing to do with romance.
I scooped up a petal praying it was an illusion that would dissipate with touch.
It didn’t.
My unease grew. Where had they come from? What were they to do with the dream? What did the dream have to do with Malik? How had I heard his voice if he wasn’t here? And more worryingly, if the petals were as real as they felt, how the hell had someone – Malik? – got them past the Wards?
I looked at the open window. In my sight, it disappeared behind a magical steel shutter. The magical steel shone deep purple and the combination of blood and power fuelling the Ward made it hum like a megawatt transformer. My flat was the safest place in England right now. Or at least it was meant to be. Nothing could, or should, get past the Ward, not even a five-hundred-plus-year-old vamp who normally had an open invitation over any threshold I was behind, thanks to my being stupid enough to give him my blood freely.
Agitated, I swung out of bed, grabbed my robe and hurried into the living room. The Wards covering the flat’s front door and the window were, like the one in the bedroom, intact, and a quick scan of the room told me everything appeared undisturbed. I pulled the sheet off the wardrobe leading into Sylvia’s Between.
The wardrobe, too, appeared undisturbed.
But appearances could be deceiving. Warily, I waved my hand over the wardrobe’s handles – intricately carved oak leaves that were recent replacements for the original brass ones – careful not to actually touch them. Robur, the ancient dryad now resident in the wardrobe’s wood (and the reason why the wardrobe was no longer in my bedroom), wasn’t the cheeriest of folk, and since I’d sprayed him with lemon polish not long after he’d moved in, he’d taken a distinct dislike to me. The wardrobe made an irritated creaking noise and the whorls in the wooden door shifted into an approximation of a face. Hooded brown eye
s drilled me with a malevolent glare.
‘Everything okay in there?’ I asked.
‘Why, what have you done now?’
At Robur’s accusing tone, I clamped down on my defensive ‘nothing’, and instead said calmly, ‘I’m concerned someone may have bypassed the Wards.’
‘Impossible! I would know.’
Arrogant much? ‘Are you sure?’
The hooded eyes narrowed to disdainful cracks. ‘There are three pigeons sitting on the apex of the roof. The witch who lives the floor below is meditating, unfortunately not skyclad as she should be and she has neglected to light her elemental candles. The witch on the second floor is snoring, despite her extremely shrill alarm attempting to wake her three times. The goblin cleaner is polishing the woodwork on the stairs, correctly, I might add, using a lint-free cloth, unperfumed beeswax and working along the grain—’
‘Fine,’ I interrupted, before I ended up with another lecture, ‘you’re sure. I get it. But someone still left rose petals on my bed during the night.’
‘Your vampire paramour, I suspect.’
I huffed under my breath, ignoring the insult. ‘So he was here then?’
‘No.’
‘Then how can you suspect?’
His face rippled with distaste. ‘You were conversing with another in your dreams. I have heard that ability is one it is possible for vampires to effect.’
Astonishment flooded me. I’d been talking out loud in the dream? Why hadn’t Robur woken me? Though hard on that thought came the answer; this was the first time he’d done more than creaked at me since the polish incident. Eager to find out, I asked, ‘What did I talk about?’
‘Ghosts and blood.’
I frowned. ‘Can you be more specific?’
Robur grunted. ‘No. The language is unknown to me; I only know because you repeated the words “sanguine lemures” over and over. I was irritated to the extent that I searched for a translation. It is Latin for “the blood of undead ghosts”, or some such nonsense.’
The Shifting Price of Prey [4] Page 15
