I nodded. ‘Yeah, but a portal to where?’
‘I don’t think it can be far; those types of spells take a lot of power,’ Mary mused. ‘It might even have gone to a nearby van. We had a shoplifting perp who was doing that with goods before we nicked him . . .’ Her face lit up. ‘We nicked him when he lifted something we’d planted and we were able to scry for it. So it doesn’t matter where the portal went, because we can find it. Or find Mad Max, anyway, using that gold coin he had in his mouth.’
I handed her the coin in its plastic bag. ‘I picked it up, remember, after Mad Max dropped it, is that going to be a problem?’
‘Not if we keep you with us, and the coin’s got lots of scratches on it, so his saliva should be all over it. The main scrying kit is still back at the zoo, but Dessa’s got a portable kit in the car.’ She jumped up, but I stopped her with a hand on her arm.
‘I know why the Emperor wants me – sort of, anyway,’ I said. ‘But why would his werewolves kidnap the ambassador’s wife, her kid, and the zoo employee?’
‘I don’t know, Genny. But right now, why doesn’t matter. Let’s see if we can find them first, then we can worry about that.’ She hurried over to Dessa, and I fished my phone out to check my messages. Nothing from Tavish, which was odd considering he’d said he’d got into the Emperor’s website, and I’d sent him the pictures of the gold coin. I left an update then checked the rest.
Most could be left till later, but Katie wanted me to call, urgently.
I phoned the Spellcrackers’ office private line. ‘Hey, hon,’ I said, ‘how’s things?’
‘Where are you, Gen?’ Finn said sharply. ‘We need to talk.’
Surprise at unexpectedly hearing Finn’s voice flipped straight into anger. He was supposed to be back in the Fair Lands. But since he was here, and wanted to talk, he could start with an explanation.
‘What the hell were you doing answering my personal texts, Finn?’
‘You know why, Gen,’ he said, exasperated. ‘You can’t go seeing the sucker out in public.’
‘That’s my decision, not yours.’
‘Yeah, it is,’ he agreed, stumping me. ‘And you’re right; I probably shouldn’t have sent that text. I know jealousy isn’t cool, but it’s more than that, if you want to keep Spellcrackers.’
And here it was: his usual emotional blackmail. Well, I’d made my decision and even if Malik was a cowardly text-dumping over-protective idiot vamp, and our relationship was more likely off than on, I was sticking to it. No way was I going to let Finn, the satyr herd, the witches or anyone else dictate my choices in life. Not to mention if Finn was back for good, then Spellcrackers wasn’t mine to keep anyway. I nudged my backpack nearer with my foot, resisting the urge to kick it, and dug out a Phone Privacy spell.
‘Threats are even less cool than jealousy, Finn,’ I snapped as the spell activated and the noise from Trafalgar Square muted. ‘Oh, and my keeping Spellcrackers is sort of a moot, as you’re back.’
‘I know, Gen,’ he said, his exasperation turning to apology. ‘I’ve been talking to Tavish, and like him I’ll back you all the way. Hell’s thorns, I think the herd owe Spellcrackers to you for all the hassle they’ve caused.’ He paused. ‘But things will be a lot easier if you stay away from the sucker. If you can, that is.’
Shock rocked through me. Part was his comment about ‘staying away from Malik, if I could’, though what Finn meant by that was a mystery. But mostly it was down to: ‘Did you say you’re willing to go against the rest of the satyr herd? To let me keep Spellcrackers? Don’t you want it?’
‘Gen, I enjoy the job, but a lot of that is working with you. I don’t feel any great need to be the boss and to be honest, with Nicky and the baby to look after, I could do without the added responsibility. So, yeah, I’ll back you.’
Sincerity rang in his voice, telling me he meant every word. A bubble of happy excitement expanded in me. Finn backing me, and backing down as boss, didn’t mean I’d win, but it meant I could fight with a clear conscience, knowing that I wasn’t taking anything from him. Only— ‘What about you? What will you do?’
‘Work for you, of course.’ He laughed like it was a joke, though his words held a serious note.
I blinked, astonished. ‘You’d want to work for me?’
‘Gods, Gen, I’d be happy to.’
I let that idea sink in. We were friends, we made a great team and we’d always had a lot of fun working together. Okay, so it would be different if I was the boss, not Finn. But there was no reason why it couldn’t work . . . my happy bubble deflated . . . except of course, there was. Malik for one. And Finn’s evil ex, the Witch-bitch Helen Crane. She might be stuck in the Fair Lands, but she hated me enough that I doubted I’d seen the last of her.
Finn seemed to read my mind. ‘Gen, I know you’re upset about Helen, but that’s over. And if you’re thinking the sucker’s going to be a problem, then he doesn’t have to be. I know about last night. But I want us to be together and I hope we can sort things out.’
I nearly dropped the phone in the fountain. He knew about me and Malik, and he still thought we could sort things out? Never mind how the hell did Finn know— Tavish! ‘Tavish had no right to tell you.’
‘He didn’t, Gen. Sylvia told me.’
‘Sylvia?’ I said, even more betrayed that she’d gossiped about me. We were supposed to be friends. ‘She had no right, either.’
‘Hell’s thorns, Gen.’ Finn’s exasperation boiled up again. ‘It’s not like it’s a secret; all the dryads are talking about what happened on the boating lake last night.’
Crap. I’d forgotten about the trees on the island. They’d have had a ringside seat, literally, and now it would be all over London. Even if Sylvia hadn’t told Finn, someone would’ve given him a blow-by-blow account soon enough. I wanted to crawl under a stone somewhere and hide. Not that I regretted what had happened with Malik, or wouldn’t do exactly the same again (though obviously somewhere way more private), but hell, why couldn’t the damn dryads gossip about anyone else for a change? Not to mention Finn was taking what happened with Malik awfully well, but then I had chucked Finn out for playing happy families with the Witch-bitch Helen, so maybe he knew he didn’t have a jealous leg to stand on. Not that I wanted him to be jealous. Still, I hated that he’d found out like that. And I needed to tell him that things between us couldn’t be sorted out. Not the way he wanted anyway. Only that wasn’t the sort of discussion for a phone call.
‘Finn, look, I think we should meet up later. Once I’ve finished here.’
‘Sylvia was worried about you,’ he replied, as if I hadn’t spoken. ‘The trees said it was pretty violent, and with Ricou not around she needed someone to reassure her that the sucker hadn’t hurt you.’ He stopped, then said hesitantly, ‘Did he hurt you, Gen?’
‘What? No, of course not.’
‘Sylvia said she wasn’t sure, she’d asked you, and you told her not to worry,’ he went on earnestly. ‘I know he can order you around, Gen. If you can’t tell me, there’s ways of getting round it. Just say something, like, oh, he’s a bad client. You don’t have to protect him.’
Damn it. This was why he was taking things so well; he’d cast Malik as the bad guy, me the damsel in distress and himself as the white knight riding to my rescue. Typical. ‘Finn,’ I said, trying to keep the irritation out of my voice. ‘I’m not protecting Malik. He didn’t force me to do’ – the magic pricked at me, stopping me from lying – ‘what you think.’
Silence. Then, almost as if to himself, he said, ‘Sylvia told me the trees said there was some accident and the sucker forced you to drink his blood. But that was all.’ A pause as he obviously worked things out. ‘Did something more happen, Gen? Something that he didn’t force you to do?’
Yes, a lot more. But I thought you knew that. My chest constricted at the pain in his voice. Shit. I bent over, hugging myself. Way to put your foot in it, Gen! And what the hell was I supposed to say n
ow?
I took a fortifying breath. ‘I’m sorry, Finn,’ I said quietly, ‘it was . . . he was . . . I didn’t mean for you to find out like that. I was going to tell you when you got back.’
Another, longer silence. Finally: ‘You’re working with the police on something to do with those kidnappings, aren’t you?’ He’d changed the subject. I didn’t know whether to be relieved, or cry. I scrubbed my face. ‘Yeah.’
‘Right. I’ll hold the fort here until you’re done.’ His brisk businesslike tone came out harsher than usual. ‘We can talk about this then.’
Crap. Not a subject change, just a postponement. Only I’d made my choice, and never mind Malik was an idiot, I wasn’t going to change my mind. Finn needed to know that. ‘No—’
The phone cut out.
I stared at it, warring between heartsick I’d hurt him and annoyed, both at him and myself.
A hand waved in front of my face. ‘Earth to Genny!’
I looked up to find Mary smiling quizzically at me. ‘What?’
‘We’re going scrying, remember? For your Cousin Maxim? You get to come along for the ride.’
‘Oh, yeah. Sorry.’
‘C’mon, then,’ she said, and as I followed her to Dessa and her police car, she told me the plan. It sounded like we were going to be driving in ever-expanding circles around Trafalgar Square until they got a hit. All I had to do was sit back and enjoy the ride.
I slide into the back of the car – which was like an oven after being parked in the blazing summer sun – and, as Dessa pulled out into the slow-moving traffic, stifled a yawn. Damn, looked like my restless night, thanks to the Morpheus Memory Aided nightmares, was starting to catch up with me. A nap would be good. Only I had a lot to try to make sense of. I leaned my head back on the seat, thoughts of Mad Max, werewolves, kidnap victims, gossiping dryads, Finn and Malik spinning like dervishes in my mind . . .
Malik/I strode through the twists and turns of wide shaded corridors, his/my hand on the sabre’s hilt, pantaloons ballooning about our legs, the tall headdress on our head an odd but familiar weight. Our slippered feet marched purposely past the ornately arched and curtained doorways, behind which flowed the constant murmur of female voices. The guards – plump, ebony-skinned eunuchs – bowed their heads, murmuring soft-voiced greetings.
‘Abd al-Malik’ – Servant of the King – ‘welcome.’
I slipped further into Malik’s dream/memory, acknowledging them, accepting their respect, but not stopping as the dream/memory drew me along its path.
Soon I halted at the entrance to a small courtyard garden. Gleaming mosaics patterned the courtyard’s walls in a geometric design that spoke of the Middle East, fan-shaped palms cast welcome shade, a breeze carried exotic floral scents and the quiet splash of the corner fountain was a soft relaxing music. Above, the sky stretched an endless blue, a blazing sun throwing down a fierce midday heat.
In the centre of the courtyard sat a woman in her mid-twenties swathed in layers of jewel-encrusted fabric, topped with a short embroidered waistcoat. Her glossy brunette hair cascaded in was to her hips from beneath a fez-style hat atop a headscarf, also encrusted with its own fortune in gems, as she tended to the black-haired baby girl lying on the colourful rug in front of her. The baby was in the middle of being changed, arms waving, legs kicking free, giggling as her mother tickled gentle fingers over her tummy. Sitting on the rug close to them was another child: a solemn-looking girl of about six, her hair the same glossy black as the baby’s, dressed in a miniature version of the mother’s bright, jewel-covered outfit. The girl cradled a doll in her arms, rocking it back and forth, her mouth murmuring a quiet lullaby.
The memory stilled as if I’d pressed pause.
I, not Malik, recognised the girl. It was Fur Jacket Girl, the werewolf I’d seen at the mosque, and then again in the memory I’d had at the zoo, where she’d been chained in the ash circle in the snow, her mate lying dead nearby. This was her as a child.
Malik had known her. She’d meant something to him. That’s why he’d been full of rage and had killed her mate.
Even as shock stuttered within me, the memory started up again.
Behind the woman and children stood a tall boy of around nine or ten, head down, arms crossed over his thin chest, bad-temper radiating from his stance. He was dressed in a miniature version of Malik’s/my clothes: a tall headdress atop his turban, pantaloons, and a floor-length crimson coat that brushed the gem-sewn slippers on his feet. And secured through the embroidered belt around his waist was a curved sabre, similar to the one I carried, a man’s blade and not a child’s toy.
I stepped into the courtyard and the woman looked up, giving me a smile full of welcome and love.
‘Malik, canımın içi’ – light of my soul – she called. ‘You are home. Safe. I trust the campaign goes well?’
The memory sharpened and I drank in the woman’s beauty; her huge, thickly lashed, dark eyes, porcelain-pale skin touched with the sun’s blush, the perfect lines of her cheek and jaw, the tiny black crescent inked at the corner of her lush mouth.
The moment broke as child-Fur Jacket Girl jumped up and flung herself at me. I caught her, lifting her high in the air to a delighted squeal, then kissed her cheek as I carried her back to her mother. I set her on the rug as her mother offered me the baby. As she did, her sleeves fell back to reveal intricate tattoos like black vines twisting up her arms. Dropping an affectionate kiss on the woman’s forehead I took the chubby baby into my arms and tickled her tummy as her mother had done. She smelled of sweet herbs and aloes. I laughed as she giggled with innocent happiness.
A sharp cough vied for my attention and I saw a shadow flit through the woman’s eyes. I handed the baby back and turned to the boy. He was still staring at his slippered feet, his bad temper more pronounced.
‘Emir,’ I said, sketching a bow.
‘Çorbaci’ – Commander – ‘Abd al-Malik. Welcome.’ He returned my bow. Then he raised his eyes to mine, his mouth splitting wide in a knowing grin.
The memory froze again.
I, not Malik, knew that grin, even with its slightly crooked, still human teeth.
Last time I’d seen the boy I’d been fourteen and it was our wedding night. He hadn’t been a child then but a six-foot-tall gangly fifteen-year-old. Or at least, that was the age he’d looked; as a vamp he was however many centuries old. But it didn’t matter how childish he appeared in this dream/memory, no way could I ever forget the spiteful way his lips curved. Or the lust for others’ pain that shone in his large, doe-like brown eyes.
He was the Autarch – Bastien – my psychotic murdering betrothed.
‘Hello, my sidhe princess,’ the boy-Bastien said, as if we’d last met days ago instead of eleven years.
Terror-induced adrenalin flooded my veins. I forced myself to take a calming breath, and then another. This was Malik’s memory, twisted into nightmare. A side-effect of the Morpheus Memory Aid interacting with his blood. Just like at the zoo. Nothing more. Bastien wasn’t real, which meant he couldn’t hurt me. But despite my mental bolstering, I still flinched as his hand clasped the scimitar and he rolled his shoulders back in the same way that had been a prelude to him wielding another sword on my faeling friend that betrothal night. Finally killing her after days of torture. And I couldn’t stop myself instinctively shuffling backwards to put more space between us until I bumped into the courtyard wall.
‘You’re not real,’ I whispered.
He laughed, darting to me and pinching my arm. It hurt, and I froze, shaking with panic. ‘Real is a mutable term, princess,’ he admonished. ‘Particularly when you are trespassing in someone else’s memories.’
I swallowed. ‘Yours?’
‘Come now, sidhe. Let’s not spoil our reunion with stupidity.’ He threw his arms wide to encompass the woman, the girl and the baby. ‘This vision of domestic sentimentality is certainly not something I would desire to relive.’ He leaned towards me and I pre
ssed myself harder into the wall as he sniffed. ‘And then there is the nasty little irritation that you stink of Abd al-Malik’s blood.’
This is a nightmare. Nothing more.
Only even as I told myself to wake up, I knew I wouldn’t. Somehow I’d blundered – or been pulled? – into the Dreamscape; where dreams and reality mix.
And now I was trapped there with the one person who churned my guts liquid with horror.
The boy-Bastien’s nostrils flared again. ‘Not only his blood, but sex too. My, my, what have you and my ever-faithful commander been up to, my lovely bride, that you smell so deliciously tasty?’
No way was he biting me. Or fucking me. Or using his sword on me. I’d die first. Or, said the scared child-voice in my mind, more likely after . . .
‘But sadly, I am not allowed to play with you, my princess.’ He stepped back and I sagged against the wall in relief. ‘Not yet, anyway, not until my pact with my commander is done. But them I can play with’ – he indicated the woman and children on the rug, then lifted one elegant brow – ‘so which one shall I pick, my bride?’ He pointed a contemptuous finger at the woman. ‘Shall it be the beautiful Shpresa, my father’s favoured Ikbal, despite her opening her legs for any who choose to defile her? Or her youngest, Aisha, the little parcel of precious humanity that squeals like a stuck pig at her knees and takes all her attention?’ He moved to stand behind the child-Fur Jacket Girl cradling her doll, and reached out to stroke her hair, jealousy twisting his mouth. ‘Or perhaps her other daughter, the delectable Dilek.’ Child-Fur Jacket Girl frowned, feeling his touch if not hearing his voice, and hunched away from him. ‘Such young flesh Dilek has, so very pure and innocent.’
Nausea roiled in my stomach at the thought of what he might do. At what he might make me watch. Again.
The dream/memory started up again; this time it scrolled in front of me like a film I was watching.
Boy-Bastien bent to Dilek’s ear, saying something in a language I didn’t understand. A look of fear, quickly masked, crossed her face, and she turned to yell defiantly at him. He laughed nastily, pinching her cheek and, as she batted him away, grabbed her doll, holding it tauntingly aloft. She shouted, desperately jumping up to rescue the doll from him.
The Shifting Price of Prey [4] Page 29
