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

by Deanna Chase

  ‘Thanks.’

  He watches me with hooded eyes. ‘I stayed up all night,’ he says, suddenly.

  I’m confused. ‘What…?’

  ‘The night before I turned. I stayed up all night.’

  ‘I’m afraid,’ I whisper.

  ‘I know.’

  I’m grateful he doesn’t waste time offering platitudes. It’s enough to know that he understands how I feel. I drain the mug.

  ‘Go to sleep,’ he says softly.

  ‘I’ll try.’ I head back to my side of the bed and lie down. Moments later I’m fast asleep.

  ***

  It’s early when I wake up. The sunlight streaming in from the open curtains has a bright new quality – the sort you only get shortly after dawn. I turn over but Montserrat’s not there, although there’s a dent in the pillow where his head was. Butterflies dance in my stomach. I have no idea what the day will bring but I know that it will change my life irrevocably. I stay where I am for a moment, thinking about Charity Weathers and Tam and Tansy and everyone else from Dire Straits. I think about how different things might be if O’Shea had died in that grubby room. And then I get out of bed, splash water on my face and get dressed before carefully making the bed and erasing any evidence of my presence. Bring. It. On.

  Unfortunately, when I go to the living room, my determination is already starting to desert me. I find O’Shea sprawled across the sofa, his arms stretched behind his head. He springs up. ‘Hey!’ His voice is far too bright and breezy. ‘How are you feeling? Ready to join the triber clans?’

  I give him a dirty look but he just shrugs amiably. ‘At least you’ll be busy. I have to stay holed up here.’

  I’m tempted to tell him he’s damn lucky to be alive but I manage to bite my tongue. ‘Where’s Montserrat?’

  ‘Michael? He’s gone already. Said to tell you not to worry about breakfast, it’ll be provided later. There’ll be a car to pick you up in about a couple of hours and take you to the headquarters.’

  ‘Okay.’ I sit down heavily down on the sofa. O’Shea sits next to me.

  I need something to take my mind off my impending doom. ‘Do you have records I can look at for the vampires who came to get the spell?’ I ask.

  ‘Are you nuts? Keeping records is a sure fire way to get caught.’

  ‘Well, how many clients were there?’

  ‘At least sixty.’

  Christ. ‘Do you know any of their names?’

  O’Shea shakes his head.

  ‘Distinguishing features? Especially for the Montserrat ones?’

  ‘Mate, all vampires look the same to me.’

  I struggle to see how this is true. I try a different tack. ‘Why do you think they tried to kill you? I mean, if sixty of them used the spell, why not keep going? Or why not kill you after they took it the first time?’

  ‘Copyright.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘I copyrighted it. I don’t want some other dealer stealing my shit and making money from it that should be mine, so I placed a copyright on it.’

  I frown. ‘What does that mean exactly?’

  ‘That each spell only has a one-time use. You can’t buy it, then pass it round all your friends for free. If they want it, they have to purchase their own. I’m a businessman.’ He rubs his fingers together. ‘It’s all about profit.’

  ‘Look where that profit got you,’ I mutter. ‘What changed?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You said they leached the spell from you before trying to kill you. If it’s copyrighted, as you say, then how could they use it?’

  ‘They must have found a way around it.’ He doesn’t appear particularly upset. ‘People usually do eventually.’

  It sounds remarkably similar to what Rogu3 does. He told me once that companies keep putting in place bigger and better firewalls and security systems to beat the hackers, but they are only temporary measures because sooner or later the hackers always find a way round them. I wonder if there’s an endpoint – a time when people will stop this cycle of security and slash. Probably not.

  ***

  Two hours later, I’m still feeling anxious and wondering whether I’m doing the right thing when my musings are interrupted by the doorbell. The butterflies in my stomach go into overdrive.

  ‘That’ll be your chauffeur,’ O’Shea says cheerily.

  I stand up but my legs shake, so I sit back down abruptly. The daemon pulls me upright and grabs the lapels of my jacket. ‘You’ll be fine. You’ll find the killers, solve the mystery and get to the end of the full moon cycle as a newly fledged and wholly powerful Sanguine. Go you!’

  I don’t want to be a wholly powerful Sanguine though. I’m perfectly happy being a weakass human in a leather jacket.

  O’Shea gives me a push towards the door. ‘Off you go.’

  For a moment, I dig my heels into Montserrat’s perfectly varnished floor. I have to force myself to walk forward. I now realise where the phrase ‘rooted to the spot in terror’ comes from. I swallow hard. This is the fate I’ve chosen. I need to deal with it.

  ***

  Less than twenty minutes later, I’m deposited by the taciturn driver at the front of the imposing Montserrat headquarters. If you were to look up ‘vampire lair’ in a visual dictionary, the building in front of me would probably be what you’d see. It may be situated on the edge of a busy thoroughfare and right next to the bustle of Hyde Park, but there’s an odd atmosphere of silence around it, as if it’s in a bubble. The masonry is old; I have no idea how long the Montserrat Family have been holed up here although I’ve heard tales about how they still hold a grudge against the human royal family for opening up the park to the public. Considering that happened back in 1637, I guess they’ve been there for a bloody long time. Chillingly, if you turn and look back at the park, the old site of the Tyburn gallows is perfectly visible. The last person to have been executed there might have been way back in the eighteenth century but it still gives me the willies.

  I stare up at the grey stone walls and the turrets and gargoyles. I’ve passed this building many times before and never given it more than a cursory glance. Now, as I’m about to enter, I find myself looking at it with entirely new eyes.

  Unusually for this time of year in London, there’s not a single cloud in the sky. The sun beams down at me mockingly. I have to admit that as I step over the threshold, I’m kind of hoping some burly bloodguzzler will clamp their hand on my shoulder and throw me out because there’s been a mistake and I’m not supposed to be here after all. My luck, such as it has been over the last few days, doesn’t change.

  The interior is bright and airy, quite the opposite of what I expected. Standing to my left is a fully tuxedoed butler, holding out a silver tray with glasses of brown liquid. I take one and sniff it suspiciously but it seems to be nothing more than sherry. As tempted as I am to partake of a little Dutch courage, I don’t drink it. I want to keep my senses fully alert. Besides, who knows what the vampires have dropped in to the alcohol?

  A trim female vampire holding a clipboard glances at me from the crowd in the centre of the hall. The people surrounding her all appear to be human. I’m surprised at how many of the new recruits have brought family members to see them off, as if they were going on a European cruise rather than giving up their lives to the vampires. A couple of the family members are upset: there is one older woman in particular whose muffled sobs provide an uncomfortable backdrop to the smiling faces of the majority. I’m with the sobber. The logical part of me recognises that the vampires offer security and inhuman longevity and health. It’s the inhuman part that bothers me. I don’t have anything against tribers – far from it. I’m just happy with who I am now. I wonder if my feelings will be different this time tomorrow. I sincerely hope not.

  Still holding the sherry glass, I push my way carefully through to Clipboard Lady and give her my name. She smiles at me, but it’s far more functional and perfunctory than welcoming or reassurin
g. I sense a coldness in her that seems to be directed entirely at me.

  ‘Ms Blackman,’ she says. ‘Welcome to Family Montserrat.’

  For some reason I think of the soundtrack to The Sound of Music. I can’t quite imagine Michael Montserrat in lederhosen, though.

  ‘Thank you,’ I murmur, hoping I have quelled the fear in my voice enough to avoid raising suspicion.

  ‘You may say your last goodbyes now. The opening ceremony will begin in about fifteen minutes.’

  I have no one to say goodbye to. I spare my mother a brief thought but I know that, unlike my grandfather, she feels her job as a parent was done and dusted the day I reached eighteen. There are no bad feelings between us and she wasn’t a bad mother. Merely … busy with other things, I suppose. It would be different if my father were still alive. I hope he’d have understood what I am doing.

  I make my way through a set of mahogany doors and into what looks like a hotel conference room. Apart from the vials of glistening red blood sitting on the silver platter at the front, that is. There’s only one other person in here – a silver-haired man who is sitting near the vials and staring at them. I can’t work out whether the expression on his face is resignation or anticipation.

  I’d like to head for the safety of the back row but I’m here for one specific reason. The other recruits will probably be too new to be involved in what is really going on but that doesn’t mean they won’t be targeted at some point. I need to get each one to take me into their confidence. The last thing I want is to have a dozen new BFFs – actually, no, scratch that: the last thing I want is to be turned into a vampire. But if I’m going down this route, I’m going to make it worth everyone’s while. I draw back my shoulders, take a deep breath and smile. Not too broadly – any recruit would feel a bit scared and nervous – but hopefully enough to put the man at his ease.

  I sit next to him. He twitches slightly as if he’s trying to pull away.

  ‘This is surreal, isn’t it?’ I offer as an opening gambit.

  His head jerks but he stays quiet. I stick my hand out. ‘Bo Blackman,’ I say. ‘By the look on your face, I think we’re both feeling the same right about now.’

  For a moment, I think he’s going to ignore me but eventually he grasps my hand and shakes it. His palm is dry and his grip is strong, contradicting what I assumed was terror on his part.

  ‘Peter,’ he answers. ‘Peter Allen.’ He raises his eyes to mine. ‘And how are you feeling then?’

  ‘Excited. Nervous.’ I swallow. ‘Scared.’ At least I don’t need to fake those last two emotions.

  He looks down at his lap. I realise with a jolt that he’s holding a crucifix, twisting it over and over in his fingers. It seems baffling that a devout Christian would want to give themselves over to the vampires. Back in the sixties, there was a long drawn-out publicity campaign to persuade the public at large that vampires did indeed have souls and that they were not an affront to God, no matter which version of God you believed in. I remember watching one of those nostalgic television programmes a year or so ago – you know, the type that’s dirt cheap to make, pulls in an audience by the million and includes Z-list celebrity pundits commenting on a countdown of the best moments of … whatever. One of the clips which made it into the top ten was of a bloodguzzler being doused in a vat of holy water, grinning and smiling into the camera the entire time. As I recall, this particular clip wasn’t included as proof that vampires aren’t harmed by religion (and therefore are not considered evil in the eyes of God) but more because at the same moment the vampire volunteer’s head went under, a seagull decided to dive bomb the outdoor bath constructed specially for the event.

  Despite the success of the campaign across middle England, many humans still rail against the vampires’ existence. They point to sections of the Bible like that one from Leviticus: ‘If any one of the house of Israel or of the strangers who sojourn among them eats any blood, I will set my face against that person who eats blood and will cut him off from among his people.’ They conveniently choose to forget other parts which don’t fit with current beliefs. Pointing out that the Bible also says stubborn children should be stoned doesn’t lessen their antipathy to the bloodguzzlers. It’s easy to pick and choose quotes to suit your purpose. Regardless, the majority of churchgoers avoid the vampires whenever they can.

  Peter notices my reaction to his cross. He tries to laugh, although the result is more of a choke than a guffaw. ‘Silly, isn’t it?’ he says. ‘I guess I am feeling scared and nervous, just like you. I need something to cling to.’

  I’m curious. ‘Is it helping?’

  ‘The cross?’

  I nod.

  ‘No, I think it’s actually making me feel worse. What if…?’ his voice trails off.

  Impulsively I reach over and squeeze his hand. ‘You’re no longer considered clean in God’s eyes? We’re probably all thinking that, even those of us who aren’t sure if we have faith in a higher power.’

  ‘Why are you here?’ he asks.

  I’m prepared for this. O’Shea and I spent time discussing various scenarios to explain why I’ve decided to join the vampires and then choosing the most plausible – and the one likely to garner me the most ‘friends’ as a result. For this plan to work, I need the traitors to believe I’m prepared to turn on the Family and help destroy it from the inside. I also need the other new recruits to trust me in case they are approached themselves. I’m not in a position to lie too blatantly either – I’ve been in the news too much lately to pretend to be someone I’m not.

  I give a heavy sigh. For a moment I think I’ve been too melodramatic but Peter squeezes my hand as if to reassure me. ‘Joining any of the Families wasn’t something I considered until a few days ago,’ I admit. Lies are always more believable when they’re woven with half-truths. ‘I had a good life. I mean, I was lonely, but I had a good life.’

  ‘Lonely?’

  ‘My father passed away several years ago and my mother is always away. I have a grandfather who I see from time to time but he’s,’ I pause, as if searching for the right word, ‘difficult.’ I let Peter read into that what he will. ‘And I have no significant other to speak of. I always wanted children,’ I add sadly.

  ‘But you’re young! There’s plenty of time to meet someone.’

  I nod. ‘Well, I had met someone. I was in love with my boss.’ Sorry, Tam, I tell him silently. It’s for a good cause.

  A knowing look flashes across Peter’s face. ‘Is he married?’ he asks gently.

  ‘Divorced. I thought there was a chance that one day…’ I sigh again. ‘Except now he’s dead. A vampire killed him and all my colleagues.’

  He looks shocked. I hope I’ve hit the right balance between bitterness and pain.

  ‘Why would you join a Family when a Family killed the man you loved?’

  ‘I need to understand why. Maybe by becoming a recruit, I’ll discover how he incurred their wrath. And…’ I look down and awkwardly tug at my hair.

  ‘Yes?’ prompts Peter.

  ‘I’ve heard that vampires don’t experience emotions the same way that we do.’ According to my grandfather this theory is rubbish but it serves my purpose, so I continue. ‘This could be a good way to shut off the pain. It also means the police won’t come after me any more.’ I glance up at him. ‘They think I’m responsible for killing Tam. My boss.’

  ‘You?’

  I try not to be irritated by Peter’s incredulity. ‘I know! It’s ridiculous to think that I could do such a thing!’

  He moves his hand up my arm and gently turns me towards him. ‘That’s terrible. Simply terrible.’

  I sniff and sneak a look at his eyes from under my lashes. Peter Allen does indeed appear to be swallowing my story whole.

  ‘If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em,’ he murmurs.

  I try not to smile. Score one for the daemon, then. I’d suggested to O’Shea that I say that myself. He told me the words would be too pat but
it was a good strategy to imply them. I have to give him credit for being more cunning than I’d thought. No wonder he got away with his dodgy dealings until now.

  ‘How about you?’ I ask, deciding the time is right to encourage my fellow recruit to take part in everyone’s favourite pastime – talking about themselves. Now that I’ve delivered my own story, I can focus on everyone else. With any luck, Peter will turn out to be a bit of a gossip and I won’t need to repeat my tale to every new recruit.

  He withdraws, however, and his face clouds over. ‘I’d rather not talk about it.’

  I wait a few beats. It’s amazing how often people will say they’d ‘rather not talk about it’ and then open up. Apparently, Peter is the exception to the rule. He stays mum.

  ‘I understand,’ I murmur, cursing inwardly. ‘We all have our secrets.’

  He smiles gratefully. I wonder if his reticence has anything to do with the crucifix that he is still clutching tightly. Before I can say anything else, however, the relative silence of the small auditorium is interrupted.

  ‘OM smegging G!’

  I wince. The ‘I’m too lazy to use actual words’ voice belongs to a bouffant bottle-blonde. She’s done up to the nines: high heels, tight black dress, sparkling jewels and long scarlet fingernails. So much for it being difficult to gain admission into the Families. Maybe Michael Montserrat is wanting a little relief from his darker Family members.

  The blonde is followed by several others. Peter goes back to staring at the floor but I reckon a little curiosity about the other recruits won’t be out of place so I stare openly at them all. By the time everyone is inside, I’ve counted an unlucky baker’s dozen. I’m not particularly superstitious, but I can’t help thinking it isn’t a coincidence that our little band numbers thirteen.

  There is a young girl in a wheelchair; no prizes for guessing her motives for being here. I spot a couple of older men including, I note, a retired politician who has often been on the front pages for all the wrong reasons. I seem to remember there were allegations of fraud. It surprises me that he’s here; I guess he was innocent after all. The others are a mish-mash of the nondescript and the showy: bespectacled nerds, beefed-up athletes and straitlaced suits.