Wicked Magic (7 Wicked Tales Featuring Witches, Demons, Vampires, Fae, and More)

by Deanna Chase

  ‘Do you want these too?’ She holds out several more cards. ‘They’re from the police.’

  ‘No, I…’ I stutter and end up just shaking my head.

  ‘I saw what happened at Dire Straits, Bo. What the hell is going on?’

  ‘I’m damned if I know.’

  ‘You know if there’s anything I can do…’

  I know,’ I say softly. ‘You’ve already done enough, Becks. I’ll stay away for the near future. Don’t worry about me. I’ve got a plan.’

  She looks at me sceptically. She knows me too well. I wish I really did have a plan though.

  Chapter Nine: Doctors and Nurses

  By the time I leave The Steam Team and start driving towards Brighton Hospital, the London traffic is in full swing and it’s not long before I hit full gridlock. I feel the frustration building up inside me. The driver in front seems more concerned with checking her make-up in the mirror than paying attention to the lights, whilst on my right there’s a kid who not only looks too young to be driving, but also has some kind of godawful rap music blaring out at maximum volume.

  Telling myself there’s nothing I can possibly do to make the traffic move any faster, I grab the burner phone. I’ll have to discard it after these calls; it’s probably almost out of credit anyway. Ignoring all the laws about mobile phone use while driving – not that you could call moving at two miles an hour driving – I ring the ridiculously exclusive spa where the Bancroft Family Head spent her day. My call is answered within three rings.

  ‘Good morning, Spa de Loti, Angelique speaking,’ the receptionist trills. ‘How may I help you?’

  I adapt my accent to the way I speak when I want to needle my grandfather. ‘Good morning, Angelique. This is Midnight calling from the Bancroft estate.’ I know Midnight is a silly name, but I also know a human will accept it at a vampire nom de plume more readily than, say, Trudy or Jane.

  There’s the slightest intake of breath, then Angelique speaks again. ‘I’ll transfer you to our Spa Director.’

  ‘Oh, goodness, Angelique, there’s no need for that.’ Repeatedly using someone’s name helps them to connect to you; the more often I say ‘Angelique’, the more likely she is to trust me. ‘It’s not a serious matter. It’s simply that La Bancroft enjoyed her day so much yesterday, I’ve been requested to make a note of her treatments so she can repeat the experience.’

  ‘Oh, yes, okay, I’ll get that information for you. It’s the same treatment she has every Wednesday though. I don’t think there was anything different this week. Shall I email it all across anyway?’

  ‘There’s no need for that,’ I respond smoothly. ‘It’ll be more helpful if you could just tell me now.’ I hope that the Spa De Loti receptionist is unnerved enough to be speaking to a vampire to not question my request.

  ‘Uh, certainly, yes. Please hold the line.’

  New Age muzak fills my ear. I hold the phone away for a moment, but that just makes the rap music from the next car seem louder. I have visions of Angelique wearing a white mock doctor’s outfit, double checking with the Bancroft Family on another line and then telling me in a suddenly rediscovered Cockney accent to piss off. She’s not that suspicious, however.

  ‘Ms Midnight? The treatments were our acid burn exfoliate body scrub, smouldering hot stone massage and sensory deprivation tub.’

  ‘I see. Angelique, can you confirm for me when the deprivation tub began and ended? I’ve heard it’s so amazing that it feels like five minutes when it’s actually an hour. I’d like to have the definitive answer for Ms Bancroft.’

  ‘It started at two o’clock and finished at four. It’s rather a long period of time but I guess you guys are used to be in small enclosed spaces like coffins.’

  Oops, Angelique, I think to myself, you forgot yourself for a second there. ‘We don’t sleep in coffins,’ I say, in my chilliest tones.

  ‘Oh, goodness, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you! I’m sorry, I didn’t…’

  ‘That will be all.’ I hang up on the poor girl who is still apologising.

  The lights turn green and a slow trickle of cars seeps through. I drive forward, making it to the front of the queue just as they flick red again. Tapping my fingers impatiently on the steering wheel, I consider the information I’ve been given. Aside from the fact that Spa De Loti has some seriously disturbing sounding treatments – acid burn exfoliate, anyone? – I feel like I can cross Bancroft off my list for the incident at Tam’s office.

  The Families all have immunity from human prosecution. They don’t stop randomly killing people because they’re worried they’ll end up in prison: they stop themselves because it’s bad PR. I can’t believe that the Head responsible for the worst bloodguzzler attack in years would be out of contact while it was going down. Then I think of the fact that every single Family dropped in to see Rebecca. Perhaps they’ve banded together, put aside their usual animosity and are all in it together.

  No. They may have an uneasy truce but they’ve been at each other’s throats for the last three hundred years. A stupid enhancement spell from a dodgy daemon isn’t going to change that. I move the Bancroft Family to the bottom of my list of suspects. I have to trust my gut on this.

  Once I’m past Marble Arch, the traffic eases and I put my foot down. I swing into the Brighton Hospital car park a little after ten o’clock. I balk at the displayed parking charges – how can a hospital expect people to pay that much? I’m down to my last few coins and they won’t even cover half an hour. I’m tempted to drive around and find somewhere cheaper but the traffic has annoyed me and I’m going to have to return this car sooner or later. Where would be safer to leave it than here? I feel a little guilty about racking up hefty charges for the owner. I promise myself that I’ll pay it back as soon as I can access my bank account safely again.

  I stroll nonchalantly into the hospital’s main entrance, going by the maxim that if you look as if you know where you’re going, no one will stop you. It works. The ICU ward is on the third floor so I stick on a bright, confident smile and murmur good morning to several startled people. There’s not a flicker of recognition on anyone’s face, so the silly hat must be doing its job. I go into the lift and press the button for the fourth floor – paediatrics.

  When the lift opens I ignore the main desk and turn right, hoping I’ll find the doctor’s lounge. I’m in luck. There’s a nurse inside sipping a cup of coffee. She barely glances at me so I mutter a brief greeting and make a hasty exit. I walk to the end of the corridor, glancing into the rooms until I find what I’m looking for.

  By the fifth room, where the occupant is hooked up to a beeping machine, I’ve got what I need. I look around then duck inside.

  The person in the bed is a young boy, about eight years old. His face is pale and his eyes are closed. I smooth back a lock of hair from his forehead and check the chart at the foot of his bed. Cycling accident with internal haemorrhaging. Poor kid.

  The beeping is from his heart monitor. It’s not connected to anything other than the boy himself so removing it will do no damage. I fiddle with the back of it until I find the cable then I yank it out. It continues to beep for a few moments before falling silent. I check the boy is okay, while the alarm at the main desk begins to sound, then I dash out of the room and nip into the next one to avoid being spotted.

  A small girl is sitting up in bed and clutching a teddy bear. She gives me a solemn look. ‘You’re not a doctor.’

  I smile at her. ‘I’m a special doctor.’

  She juts her bottom lip out in an expression that’s remarkably similar to O’Shea’s. ‘No, you’re not.’

  ‘I am. I’m a secret doctor. I only help people in dire straits.’

  She frowns. ‘What’s dire straits?’

  ‘When you’re in lots of trouble.’

  She tightens her grip on the teddy. ‘I’m not in dire straits. I’m in remish.’ She screws up her face to concentrate on getting the word out, ‘Remission�
��.

  ‘Oh! Then I’m in entirely the wrong room. Don’t tell anyone I was here. They’ll think I made a mistake.’

  ‘But you did make a mistake.’

  She has me there. ‘Yes, you’re right. I did. But I’ll get into trouble if anyone finds out.’

  ‘’Kay then.’ She looks at me shyly. ‘I like your hat.’

  Bugger. ‘Then it’s yours!’ I pull it off my head and carefully place it on hers.

  A huge smile spreads across face, making its loss suddenly worthwhile. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’ I place my finger to my lips and leave.

  I only have a few seconds. I head back to the lounge and find a discarded white coat on the back of the door. I pull it on, glad it’s large enough to fit over my jacket, then pull out several disposable surgical masks from a box on the coffee table and stuff them into the pocket. I duck out, just as the coffee-drinking nurse returns. I keep my head down, tie on one of the masks and take the lift back down to the third floor.

  There’s a different atmosphere here. Everyone speaks in hushed tones, as if by talking normally they might disturb the unconscious patients. I pray that Arzo isn’t one of the unconscious ones.

  The ward is bisected by a long corridor. I’ll give myself away if I have to check every single room. Fortunately I spot a group of doctors clustered by the nurses’ station. Students. Perfect.

  I join them, hanging around at the back. A few turn round and give me odd looks but no one says anything. I nod at them as if I’m equally engaged in the serious business of learning medicine. I hope they’re about to start their rounds and not just finishing them.

  I’m in luck. An older looking woman approaches holding a clipboard. ‘Come on then,’ she says briskly and turns on her heel.

  As one, we trot after her. She steers us into the first room, halting by a patient who is using breathing apparatus and is surrounded by an array of machines.

  ‘Admitted three days ago after collapsing from chest pains,’ she states, ‘later diagnosed as a myocardial infarction. Subsequent exploratory surgery revealed the disruption of an atherosclerotic plaque in an epicardial coronary artery. The biotelemetry indicates returning function, however he still has ventricular tachycardia.’

  It’s just as well I’m wearing the surgical mask because my jaw drops. I’ve not been this baffled by the English language since the last time I ventured into Starbucks.

  ‘You.’

  I realise with horror that she’s pointing at me. ‘What next steps should the trauma team take to ensure recovery?’

  Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. My mind races, alighting on a re-run of ER which I saw recently. ‘Er, pulmonary embolism.’

  ‘What about it?’ Her eyes bore into me.

  ‘We should be careful of it,’ I say, feeling and sounding like a total idiot. Going by the expression on her face, she feels exactly the same. I’m dismissed with a disgusted wave of her hand and she directs her question to someone else. I stick my head down and look at my feet. There must be an easier way to sneak into a hospital room.

  At least I was so rubbish at answering her first question that she doesn’t ask me anything else. We shuffle from bed to bed and room to room, discussing a range of patients who all seem to be at death’s door. Between the clinical hospital smell, the endless trail of misery and the emotionless Q&A, I feel like my soul is being sucked away. I had been nervous about seeing Arzo again but, by the time our little group comes across him, I’m so relieved I have to stop myself from leaping on him to give him a great big kiss.

  Despite the fact there are eleven of us in the group, his eyes immediately fall on me. His expression doesn’t change but I get the feeling he’s been waiting for me to arrive. I praise the gods that he’s conscious and alert. He doesn’t actually seem that sick.

  ‘Um, doctor?’ One of the students puts up a nervous hand. ‘Why is this patient in ICU?’

  She chuckles. I’m surprised by the sudden show of humour. ‘He presented yesterday with severe trauma after an attack. As you can see he is recovering swiftly, however, and is about to transferred to another ward.’

  The students are murmuring to each other. If he were a triber, he wouldn’t be in this ward; he wouldn’t even be in this wing. But his bright-eyed awareness and rapid recovery time are causing a bit of anxiety. I’m feeling somewhat anxious myself. I’m convinced there’s something odd going on here. After all, I could have sworn he was bloody well dead yesterday.

  I hover behind when the group leaves, hoping they won’t notice my absence. I close the door quietly and turn to face him.

  ‘Hey darlin’.’

  I give him a half smile. ‘Hey Arzo.’ I don’t have time to beat around the bush. ‘Did Tam try to have me framed for murder?’

  ‘What? No grapes or flowers?’

  I pull off the mask and glare at him. ‘Answer the sodding question.’

  There’s a spark of answering anger in his face. ‘Tam’s dead.’

  ‘I know. I was there.’

  ‘Hiding in the ceiling like a goddamn rat.’

  I guess we’re past the ‘hey darling’ stage now. ‘I had good reason.’ I lean forward. ‘Whether Tam’s dead or not doesn’t answer my question.’

  ‘You’ve worked at Dire Straits for two years, Bo. Why would he do something like that?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘Tam wouldn’t do that.’

  ‘Then how do you explain the fact that the target I was supposed to serve with a summons yesterday was about to bleed out? And about thirty seconds after I was supposed to enter the property the freaking police showed up? And not just the normal police either – these guys had guns! Since when do armed police make house calls at a place like Wiltshore Avenue?’ My voice is getting higher and I can feel myself shaking. But I don’t care. I need some answers.

  ‘If Tam was trying to set you up, why was he attacked a couple of hours later?’

  ‘How in the hell do I know? Maybe they were pissed off that it didn’t work so they came after him instead.’

  ‘What do you mean “it didn’t work”? All I know is you had a summons for the Agathos court against some half-breed called O’Shee.’

  ‘O’Shea,’ I correct, suspicious of his pleas of ignorance.

  ‘I don’t know what happened to you yesterday, Bo. Talk me through it.’

  I circle his bed like a caged cat. ‘Put your hands where I can see them first.’

  He looks at me, exasperated, but does as I ask, placing them on top of the sheet. ‘I’m in ICU, Bo. I’m hardly in a position to attack you.’

  ‘You look pretty damn healthy to me.’

  ‘Check my chart,’ he says quietly.

  I retrieve his chart and scan it. My face pales.

  ‘That vampire severed my spinal cord.’

  I stare at him.

  ‘I’m never going to walk again.’

  I swallow hard. ‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper. ‘But that doesn’t mean you didn’t betray me.’

  ‘There was no betrayal, Bo. Not from me and not from Tam.’

  I sit on a chair by the bed. ‘So talk to me, Arzo. Tell me what happened and how it went down.’

  A muscle jerks in his cheek. ‘All I know is that we received a request from a barrister over at the Agathos court. It was nothing out of the ordinary. They just needed someone to deliver a summons to a daemon dealing in under-the-counter magic. We’ve had hundreds of cases like it. You know that.’

  ‘What’s the lawyer’s name?’

  ‘Something French. D’Argneau, perhaps.’

  ‘Has he used us before?’

  ‘Once or twice.’

  I’m not going to give him an inch. ‘Was it once or was it twice?’

  He gives an odd, humourless laugh. ‘You know, when Tam hired you I had a lot of misgivings. Now I’m starting to understand what he saw in you.’

  I don’t blink. Arzo sighs. ‘It was twice. Both were summons. I think Boris
took them.’

  ‘Why didn’t Boris take this one?’

  He shrugs. ‘He was on another case.’

  My body tenses in anticipation of my next question. ‘I need to know this, Arzo. Did this lawyer ask specifically for me?’

  ‘No.’ His gaze is frank and honest.

  ‘Why did Tam assign me?’

  ‘Because your name was at the top of the fucking list, that’s all. You were the next person due out.’

  I absorb this information. As far as I can tell, he’s speaking the truth.

  ‘So why was Dire Straits attacked?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he says helplessly. ‘I have no goddamn idea.’

  ‘It has to be connected to O’Shea. It’s too much of a coincidence not to be. Which Family was the vampire from? From where I was hiding, I could only see his head.’

  ‘There was nothing. No colours or badges that I saw.’

  I give him a hard look. ‘Are you sure?’

  He nods.

  ‘It’s possible that all the Families are involved.’ I tell him about the different cards that have been left with Rebecca. Oddly, he doesn’t seem too surprised. In fact, he shifts somewhat uncomfortably.

  ‘Ah,’ he says, ‘yes, they’re all taking an interest.’

  I’m immediately on my guard. After all, he’s been in hospital for the better part of the last day. ‘How do you know?’

  A shadow falls across the bed and a deep voice interrupts us. ‘Because I told him.’

  I look up and immediately recognise the Montserrat Family Head.

  Chapter Ten: The Offer

  It takes me less than three seconds to leap to my feet, pick up the chair and lift it in the air. I fling it with all my might at the vampire but he neatly sidesteps, moving faster than I’d have thought possible, and the chair splinters against the opposite wall.

  ‘You work with some interesting people, Arzo,’ the vampire comments in oddly accented English.

  I growl and back away. There’s a window to my left but we’re on the third floor. Even if I could open it and jump out, it’s unlikely that I’d escape without breaking several limbs. The vampire is blocking the only other exit. Flight is out; I’m going to have to fight.