by Alexis Hall
“I liked it too, but it was followed by the point where an immortal Viking, a killer school mistress, Fabio, and my ex-boyfriend walked in on me naked.”
“Geat,” said Julian.
“Geat to you, too.”
“No, he’s a Geat, sweeting. Not a Viking.”
I’d achieved about thirty percent dressed, though most of my clothes weren’t in great shape. I sat back on the edge of the bed and began pulling on my socks. “Are you making this up?”
“Believe me, I could not have made Aeglica Thrice-Risen up. He was a hero, then an outcast, then a monster, then a vampire.”
“Fun times. Anyway, he’s kind of right. You hired me to investigate a murder, not to fuck you, and I should get on with it before anything else happens.”
She slithered up behind me and put her arms round my waist. “I’m not going to be attacked again today, and the corpse isn’t going anywhere.”
“You said that about the last corpse.”
“Well, fine. I could just fire you.”
“Then I’d definitely be too pissed off to fuck you.”
Julian gave a woeful little shrug. “Then do what you have to do.”
I left the gorgeous, nearly naked vampire prince and went to hunt down the rest of my clothes and sort through monster innards. Professional pride is so overrated.
Mr. Squidgy was where we’d left him—pretty much everywhere. I took some photos and scraped some of him into a ziplock bag. This was getting to be a theme. Still, a personal attack on Julian pretty much squashed the werewolf hypothesis. So I put my game face on and went back to her. She was still lounging around in bed, and she’d ditched the robe. I was starting to see why the Prince of Swords had made a personal visit.
“Forget something?” she asked, raising her brows hopefully.
“We need to work out who wants you dead.”
“I’ve been around for eight hundred years. Nearly everyone wants me dead.”
I sat down on the edge of the bed, trying to ignore all the nakedness and lounging. “Then let’s narrow it down. Whoever it is, they’re summoning monsters, and they know where you live. Or, at least, how to track you.”
Julian yawned. “Well, that limits it to mages, anyone who can hire a mage, or anyone who can dig up a second-hand grimoire.”
Be firm, Kate. Don’t look at her. Don’t think about her skin or her eyes or—shit. “We’ll start with mages.”
“What, do you want a list of every mage I’ve pissed off in eight centuries?”
“Actually. Yes. Start with the ones that you know are definitely still alive.”
“That could take a while.” She sighed. “I’ll email you.”
“Mages aside, how bad could this be?”
She was so quiet, I turned around. For a brief, uncharacteristic moment, she looked serious. Naked and gorgeous and fuckable, but serious. “Absolute worst-case scenario,” she said slowly, “it’s Anacletus.”
“Is that likely?”
“No idea. He’s been gone for centuries.”
“Well . . . what’s the second worst-case scenario?”
“Not sure. It could be one of the other princes making a power grab.”
To be honest, at this stage, it could have been anyone. The politics of the undead were absurdly complicated. For that matter, it could have been Julian, playing some kind of completely batshit shell game. She didn’t really seem the master manipulator sort, but then, if you really were a master manipulator, you wouldn’t.
“It’s too indirect for Aeglica,” she went on. “If he wants you dead, you know it. Briefly. I suppose it could Mercy or Caradoc, but I don’t know what they’d get out of it. On the other hand, it’s too blatant for Sebastian.”
Sebastian Douglas was the Prince of Wands—the guy Patrick worked for. That was basically all I knew about him. He lived in Oxford, which meant I’d never really had any run-ins with him.
“So that just leaves Mr. Pryce, the puritan bean counter.”
“Is it his style?”
“He has no style. He’s an accountant.”
“Can you please be serious for five seconds?”
Julian pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms round them. “If anyone was going to hire a wizard to mess up my business, it would be him. He’s a greedy little rodent, and he’s tried to buy me out before.”
“I’ll look into it,” I said. “But I don’t think this was business, I think it was personal. It was showy and aimed right at you, but it was also sloppy. Would another prince really send something you could tear apart in six seconds?”
“Maybe he was just trying to ruin my reputation and devalue my properties. Someone called the health inspectors on one of my restaurants a while ago.”
“The summoning still probably means mages. And there aren’t many stupid enough to work for vampires. No offence.”
“Hey, we can be very charming. Well. I can.”
“Whatever happened, somebody sent that thing after you. We might as well start with mages who hate you. Send me that list.”
She grinned at me over her interlaced fingers. “Do I get a reward?”
“Yes. You get to catch the bad guy.”
“Cute. I usually am the bad guy.”
I went home to shower again and swap my monster-gack jeans for a nice generic suit. And then to the office to dig out Archer’s whiteboard, because my drinks cabinet wasn’t going to cut it anymore, and deal with the mounds of paperwork I’d been resolutely ignoring. I checked the post box for the first time in a fortnight, and it vomited a heap of envelopes onto my shoes. On the top was a tastefully expensive square of cream-coloured card with a gold crest and a black border. It invited me to join the family in commemorating the passing of Andrew Vane-Tempest this coming Sunday.
I’d never been invited to a werewolf funeral before.
I couldn’t tell if it was an insult, a trap, or a come-on. From what little I knew of Tara, it was probably all three. Given the way things had gone at Safernoc, maybe they figured I’d crash it anyway. I’d more or less ruled out the werewolf connection, but it would be a useful opportunity to double-check. Besides, I kind of felt it was the least I could do for the poor fucker.
Of course it also meant I had to RSVP to the email address on the back. This took me the best part of an hour, because it’s hard to phrase that kind of thing. It’s not like you can say you’d be delighted. In the end I settled for: “I am writing to confirm my attendance.”
By the time I’d dealt with that, Julian’s email had come through. It was a list of about fifty names in no particular order, with scrappy notes indicating the time and nature of the disagreement. Most of them didn’t seem like reasonable suspects. They were either too long ago or too far away or, in one extreme case, a head in a box. Google and I were nearly at the end of the list when a name and a note jumped out at me: “Blood-witch called Maeve, short disastrous relationship, don’t ask.”
Well, that was motive and means, and being able to summon greebly shit meant opportunity was a given. And even though Julian was an immortal bloodsucking fiend at the heart of an ancient and terrifying supernatural conspiracy, when you got right down it, most crimes were committed by people close to the victim. Until Mr. Squidgy, Andrew was the only victim I had, but the direct attack on the flat confirmed that Julian had been the target all along. Maybe I was jumping to conclusions, but Maeve was the most solid lead I’d found, and truthfully, pissed-off ex was a far more likely scenario than obscure vampire politics.
Still, I had to play it carefully. If I was wrong and I went to Julian, I’d get an innocent woman killed by an angry vampire. And if I was right and I went to Julian, I’d probably start a war.
So I went to Nim.
The court wouldn’t have moved since yesterday, so I jumped on the Tube back to Tottenham. Right in the middle of the rush hour. I pegged it to the community centre and burst into the middle of a karate club for ten- to sixteen-year-olds. They we
re all lined up in a row, punching and shouting.
I made a sheepish retreat.
Nim was in the back room folding newsletters for distribution. Occasionally she would stop and make a small discreet mark on one of the corners. She was wearing faded jeans and a grey hoodie. She’d grown out her hair so it fell past her shoulders in loose, dark coils.
“Hi, Kate.” She looked up with a smile. “Come to volunteer?”
Nim had been helping out at places like this for as long as I’d known her. I’m wary of reading too much into the actions of people with unimaginable power, and I know this stuff is partly a cover for magic shit I don’t understand, but I think Nim might be a genuinely nice person. That’s what made this so difficult. “I need to see Maeve.”
There was a pause.
“I’ll need more than that,” she said softly.
“There was another attack last night, this time on Julian personally. Somebody’s summoning these things. It’s got to be someone local, and it’s got to be someone connected to Julian. It might be nothing, but Maeve fits the bill.”
“What’s the connection?”
I let silence do the talking.
“Oh, she didn’t? Not with the Prince of Cups.”
Nimue stood up. The light bulbs flickered and the newsletters swirled upwards and scattered.
“Nim,” I blurted out, “I haven’t said anything yet. To Julian, I mean.”
“It’s too late, Kate. Maeve was part of the warding ritual. If Julian drank from her, then she has power over her, and we’ve as good as invited the Prince of Cups into our sanctuary. Until we get the wards back up, we’re completely defenceless. I need to summon the others, and I need to do it now.”
She slipped past me, out of the community centre and into the street. I trailed after her. It was a still suburban evening, the sun hanging low in a clear blue-grey sky. Where Nimue walked, the streetlights crackled, lighting up one by one like beads on a necklace. Sparrows and pigeons lined the gutters, fences and rooftops, as if waiting for orders.
“Call the court,” she whispered.
The lights snapped out. And the birds lifted into the air in a whirling of wings.
I’d seen Nimue send up the bat signal before. In an hour or so, Tottenham would be swarming with wizards.
She turned to me. “Thank you. For coming to me first.”
I’m not very good with gratitude, so I ignored it. “If we act quickly, we can fix this. If Maeve’s guilty, and we bring her in, Julian will have no reason to come after you.”
Her eyes held mine, dark and steady. “You said yourself, vampires don’t fight fair. And I won’t hand one of my people over to one of them.”
“One of your people might have tried to kill the Prince of Cups.”
“But she might not.”
I stuffed my hands in my pockets. “And either way, I’ll know for certain when I find her.”
“I won’t let you hurt her, Kate.” A wind picked up from nowhere, stirring spirals of litter and old leaves.
“I’m an investigator,” I said, “not an enforcer. I’m just paid to find things out.”
“And you aren’t responsible for what happens next?”
I had no answer, so I glared at her. “I think we’re getting away from the fact that one of your wizards probably summoned a tentacle monster, and it tried to eat my face.”
Her expression didn’t change. She didn’t seem angry, but I felt weirdly like I’d let her down. “Then you should be more careful where you put your face.”
I had no answer for that either, so I glared again. There was a long silence.
Nim tucked her hands into her sleeves. The streetlights were crackling again. “This could end badly for a lot of people.”
“It’ll definitely end badly if one of your people attacked a vampire and you don’t do anything about it.” I sighed. “Julian’s not stupid. If I can figure it out, she will too.”
“I’ll do something about it.” The glow of streetlamps crowned Nim’s hair in gold. “If Maeve attacked a member of the Council, she broke our codes, and she’ll be punished. Will the Prince of Cups be satisfied with that?”
“It’s going to be a tough sell.”
“So sell it.”
“I’ve got to find Maeve first.”
“I know. And I won’t try to stop you. But if you won’t walk away from this, bring her to me. If you deliver her to Julian, I’ll have to act.” There was a pause. “Kate, don’t mess this up.”
“There goes Plan A.”
“Really. We can’t protect ourselves from this. If the Prince of Cups moves against us . . .”
“I’m on it, Nim.” I would have promised not to let her down, but I have a bad track record. “You know, this whole thing would be resolved slightly faster if you just told me where she was.”
She shrugged. “I don’t know where she is.”
“She’s a member of your court. You could find her for me in a second.”
“You know that isn’t going to happen.” She looked genuinely sad, and I felt like a total shit. “While you’re working for Julian Saint-Germain, I can’t interfere, but I won’t help you either.”
“Can’t blame a girl for trying.”
Nim went back into the community centre, leaving me totally screwed on a street in Tottenham. It took a lot of time and patience to track someone down, particularly if they could do magic, but I was low on time and I’ve never been big on patience. Unless I could find Maeve, and find her quickly, everything was going to Hell. I’ve been a couple of times. It’s not great.
I went over the facts. I basically had none. About the only thing I knew for certain about Maeve was that we had similar taste in women.
My vocational qualification hadn’t covered this.
Which left me only one option.
I went into the centre’s kitchen and closed my eyes, trying to block out the karate class, and conjure an image of Maeve as best I could remember. This would have been way easier if I’d known her real name or paid any attention to her at all. If I had to, I could track anything as long as I had a reasonably clear idea of what it was. Of all my unwanted gifts, this was the one I tried hardest not to use. It made me lose myself, which wouldn’t be a problem on its own, but it turned me into something I liked even less.
It always starts with scent. The smell of weak lemon Fairy liquid and dusty custard creams. And underneath, traces of damp earth, fresh blood, and cold starlit nights. This was who I was. A hunter. I unleashed my mother’s power. And, somewhere in the Deepwild, she watched. I felt the cool leaves beneath her bare feet and the skin-smooth stone of the knife she held in her hand.
Back in the kitchen, an image came together. A fire-and-ice redhead, cold eyes, tumbling tresses, and curves just where I like them. How could I have missed that? It must have been Nim. She tends to make me forget the rest of the world.
I had her. Scent and memory and instinct.
My head snapped up.
The world was grey. The trail was bright.
I followed.
Through a tangled spool of suburban streets. Past square-block houses and cars hunched like metal toads. Past iron trees and chain-link briars. Past the markers of a world that was fast losing its meaning. To the stone stream with its swift steel currents. I did not stop or slow, and warhorns echoed in my wake.
I followed.
More winding paths. Brick-lined. Glass-lined. And then a place of grass in an iron prison.
I followed.
A bridge where the stream joined the river in a rush of bright light and a roar of strange waters.
I jumped.
Landed on metal, which buckled beneath me. The river swept me to its banks and threw me to the grass.
I ran. North.
The world fell to my footsteps.
In darkness, I came to the end of the trail. My quarry had fled behind blue walls to a warren of windows and doors. A voice tried to stop me. But I did not stop. A
lock tried to stop me. But I did not stop.
Inside, she waited, back to the wall, knife in hand. I sprang forwards. She put the blade to her leg and slashed. My flesh tore open, the air sweetening with the scent of blood. But I was on her now. I wrenched the knife from her grip. Pinned her down. Heart fast-beating under mine. Her pulse beneath my fingertips. Ragged breath against my cheek. I bared her throat for the blade. In the Deepwild, my mother watched and smiled.
I paused. There was something else.
This . . .
This wasn’t what I’d come for.
I struggled to think. I tried to remember.
Every time it was harder to come back. The blood will claim me if I let it. I fought for myself, fought for control. And slowly, the world came back. The room. Maeve. The knife in my hand. I threw it away. My body was shaking. There was dull, deep fire in my leg.
“What the feck are you?” gasped Maeve.
I let her go and fell back. I’d been so close to killing her. It would have been so easy. The most natural thing in the world. A thin red line.
Maeve pulled herself into a sitting position. Her breathing was quick and shallow, her face waxen, her eyes shadowed.
There was blood soaking through my trouser leg and I had no idea where I was.
Well, fuck.
I applied pressure to the wound—I’d worry about it later—and limped over to the bed, sitting on the edge of it like I hadn’t just been about to rip someone’s throat out. Maeve was in no state to make a run for it, which was good because I was in no state to follow. She had long, straight cuts running along the top and bottom of both forearms. I’d known a few blood mages in my time, and I recognised summoning marks when I saw them. She’d called something down from the sky, and she’d done it in the last couple of days.
“You tried to kill the Prince of Cups.”
“And so now you’ve come to kill me.” It wasn’t a question.
I shook my head. “I’m just an investigator.”
Maeve gave a funny sort of laugh. The sort of laugh that says I’m not amused and I’m not convinced.
“Who are you working for?” I asked. I had no evidence she was working for anybody, but you get better answers if it seems like you know more than you do.
