by Laura Powell
But Glory had had enough of being the poor relation. Last All Hallows’ she’d stayed in Cooper Street, playing drinking games with Nate’s crowd. She’d gone to bed before midnight, sodden with self-pity. And dreamed of the Burning Court again . . .
Since she’d come into her fae, everything had changed. She wasn’t a little girl to be petted and patronised and then forgotten again. Nor was she going to be bossed about like a coven drudge.
What did Charlie want? Did he know her secret? Even if Trish Warren had blabbed about the migraine, it was just a vague suspicion. And it was notoriously hard to prove someone was witchkind – even the Inquisition struggled. The first thing a witch learned was how to shrink the Devil’s Kiss to the tiniest of dots, and witch-ducking only produced results on someone who’d used their fae within the hour or so. If they had, prolonged and violent ducking in cold water would result in a telltale stain around the eyes and nose and mouth, as if the Devil’s Kiss was seeping out from under the skin. Auntie Angel and Kezia Morgan had both been witch-ducked by the Inquisition, emerging unstained and triumphant to tell the tale. Granny Cora, though, had not been so fortunate. She was one of those who drowned.
Thinking of the witch-prickers’ needles, and the long plunge under icy water, Glory shivered. These days, the Inquisition’s methods were supposedly constrained by law. Coven techniques were not.
Stop it, she told herself as the bus wheezed along the final stretch of road. You’re being paranoid. Even if – and it was only if – Charlie had his suspicions, he wouldn’t try anything at this point. He’d watch and wait, send out his spies. Meanwhile, Auntie Angel had a plan. She’d told Glory to trust her and not to worry. All she had to do this evening was act the innocent, and buy them some time.
Cardinal Avenue was home to a Premiership footballer, a couple of film stars and a Russian oil tycoon. Behind spiked electronic gates, a carriage drive swept up to the Morgans’ Palladian-style modern mansion, its columned portico glaring white against the bright red brick.
A maid let Glory into the marble-floored foyer. It was two storeys tall, the walls hung with mirrors, and lit by a star-burst chandelier. A wide staircase dominated the far end, with glass double doors on either side. The entrance was the only part of the interior that hadn’t changed dramatically since Glory was a kid, when the decor had had quite a lot in common with her Barbie Dream Castle. Since then, the pink satin drapes and gold statuary had been replaced by a minimalist vision of brushed steel, black leather and blond wood.
The maid informed her that Mrs Morgan had had to take a telephone call and would be with her shortly. In the meantime, Miss Skye was in the family room, and would she like to go through?
Glory passed through the doors to the left of the stairs, and into the least formal of the three living rooms. Like Cooper Street, the lounge was dominated by a black leather couch and widescreen TV, but there the similarity ended. This couch was soft as butter, and as big as a limousine. The white carpet looked as if it had never been stepped on. A pair of sliding doors at the end of the room led to a glistening indoor pool. Someone was doing laps; the echoing slops of water were muffled behind the glass.
Skye was painting her nails in front of the TV. She glanced up at Glory’s entrance and narrowed her eyes. ‘What’re you doing here?’
‘Your dad invited me.’
‘Oh. Well, I’ll be going out.’
So much for a family supper. Skye’s older sister Candice wouldn’t be here either; she would be locked up in her American ‘health retreat’ for the next two months.
‘Shame.’
‘Mm-hmm.’ Skye yawned. ‘It’s been an age since I saw you. Up to much?’
‘Not really. The usual.’
Her cousin looked both pleased and pitying. Aged nineteen, she had finished her expensive education without much in the way of qualifications, but plenty of contacts, and described herself as ‘in the fashion/film/music industry’ depending on who she was dating (model/actor/DJ).
Small talk over, Skye went back to her nails. They were sparkly-gold to match her pout. Her bronzed skin was one shade lighter than her hair and nearly as glossy. She was wearing a tangerine mini-dress, cut low to display her bulbous plastic breasts.
Glory had also dressed with care. Warpaint, she’d thought, making her eyelashes bristly black, her lips brave red. Next to Skye, however, she felt underdone. Drab. She had worn a polo-neck as a safeguard; already on edge, she could feel the Devil’s Kiss begin to expand under the clingy purple fabric.
I’ve got what you haven’t, she told Skye in her head, and it’s all I’ll ever need. This thought would have been more satisfying if she could believe that Skye actually cared about the fae. Why would a girl like her ever want to be witchkind? It would only cramp her style. No wonder her sister had ended up in rehab.
There was a sloshing noise as the swimmer pulled himself out of the pool. Glory realised it was Troy. He opened the sliding doors and stood dripping in the entrance of the room. The water behind him rocked gently in its shining basin, impossibly blue.
‘Hey, cuz. Long time no see. You’re looking good.’
To Glory’s fury, she felt a flush starting. She was remembering Auntie Angel’s words about breeding witch-babies.
When they were younger, Troy had been kinder than his sisters. There’d been a time she wished he’d been her big brother too. It was difficult to imagine now. His angular features, large frame and dark russet colouring weren’t unattractive, but both his face and manner had hardened. Other coven men liked to swagger; Troy was reserved. Edgy, and watchful. He seemed older than his years – and twenty-one, Glory thought, was already quite elderly enough.
‘Can’t you go and drip somewhere else?’ his sister huffed. ‘There is a changing room, you know.’
‘Yeah, and it’s full of your crap.’
Troy knotted a towel around his waist, then sauntered slowly across the room, leaving a trail of damp footprints. As he reached the door, his mother and father came in; at the same moment, Skye’s phone rang with the news her taxi had arrived. Everyone was caught up in a flurry of arrivals and departures and explanations. In the midst of it, Glory felt the weight of Uncle Charlie’s arm around her shoulder. Before she knew it, she was being ushered towards his office. ‘A little pre-dinner chat,’ he said cheerily.
‘We’ll eat in fifteen minutes,’ his wife called after them. Wiry and hard-bitten, Kezia could be formidable when she wanted to be. She was of Romany blood, and it was common knowledge that gypsies had above-average rates of fae. Tonight, although her tone was light, her expression was calculating. Glory looked back across the foyer to see Troy and his mother standing together, watching her.
Charlie Morgan’s office was majestically oppressive with its heavy dark wood and velvet furnishings. Family photos crowded the walls, including several of his yacht – the Queen Kezia – and his villa in Spain. There was even a rare picture of his father Fred, a minor hit-man who had spent the last ten years of his life in prison, for the most part forgotten by both Lily and her children.
Charlie opened a drinks cabinet. ‘What’s your poison?’
‘Nothing for me, ta.’
Glory sat down on one of the overstuffed chairs. She was careful not to fidget, to appear agreeable and unsuspecting. As a distraction, she fixed her eyes on a nineteenth-century painting of a water nymph that hung above the desk. The girl was bathing in a pool, her pearly nakedness offset by the dark bloom of the Devil’s Kiss over her left breast. It was a sentimental picture but, as with pornography, artistic depictions of the fae were banned from public display. Even private collectors risked censorship by the Inquisition’s Council for Cultural Integrity.
Meanwhile, Charlie poured himself a whisky and raised his glass to her in salute. ‘Nice to have you in our clutches again.’ The teeth displayed by his smile were as brilliantly white as the columns on the portico. His thinning hair was reddish, his eyes chilly blue. Glory looked straight into the
m and gave her best smile back.
A man like Charlie Morgan didn’t need the fae. His Seventh Sense was one that honed in on other people’s fears, their greed and hopes and desires . . . all the things that made them vulnerable, and which he could exploit. That was the true source of his power. Now, of course, he had wealth and influence to back it up. Charm too, though his face had grown mottled and fleshy from good living, and his once muscular frame was softening to flab.
‘So . . . tell me the latest,’ he invited. ‘Boys, school, family – what’s new?’
‘Not much. Same old, same old.’
‘Stuck in a rut, eh? Well, things’ll change sooner or later. Any day now you could turn witchkind.’
‘Yeah, and I’m getting sick of the wait.’ Glory tried to turn her nerves to her advantage, putting on an anxious, unhappy expression. ‘Sometimes I worry . . . as time goes on . . . it’s not definite the fae’ll come to me, is it? Not for sure.’
‘Don’t you fret. Even if I haven’t been blessed with the fae myself, I reckon I can sniff it out as well as any pricker in the Inquisition.’ His eyes met hers, and held them. ‘I got all my instincts telling me you’ll turn out witchkind to the bone.’
She swallowed. ‘Fingers crossed.’
Uncle Charlie settled back into his chair. ‘You’re a clever girl, Glory. Gutsy too, just like your mother. And you know how fond my ma was of yours. Like her own daughter, Edie was.’
Yeah, thought Glory. And when your mum died, you kicked mine out of the coven. But all she said was, ‘Families should stick together.’
‘Exactly! Family is all. That’s why me and Kez were so proud when our Candice came into her fae, and so devastated for her when she fell ill. There’s a chance her disabilities will stop her from ever putting her gifts to use.’
Disability, thought Glory. So that’s what they’re calling it.
‘Lightning does sometimes strike twice. Or three times even – in the case of the Starling girls. But I’ve gotta face facts. Skye and Troy could still get the fae, but more than likely, they won’t.’
Glory had a nasty feeling she knew where this was leading.
‘Troy’s got enough on his plate anyhow. He’s shaping up to be a fine coven boss. Which is just as well, since neither of my two princesses have much of a head for business.’ He shook his own head indulgently. ‘I’ve spoiled them rotten and that’s a fact . . . How about you? Do you get involved much in Cooper Street operations?’
His casual tone hadn’t changed but Glory’s nerves were on high alert. ‘I like to know what’s going on,’ she said carefully. ‘Auntie Angel includes me in as much as she can.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. It’s a crying shame Angeline’s witchworking days are nearly done. It’ll be the end of an era when she goes.’ A regretful sigh. ‘But I got a feeling you’re destined for bigger things than Cooper Street – whether you’re witchkind or no.’ He leaned forward. ‘That’s why I’m asking for your help.’
So they were coming to the point at last.
‘How d’you mean?’
‘Takings are down at your coven, and I want to know why.’
The Wednesday Coven took a percentage of Cooper Street profits in return for a share of contacts and territory, and the prestige of their alliance. It was an unequal partnership in every way. The Wednesdays made millions from money laundering, racketeering, drugs trafficking, extortion and heists. Cooper Street, meanwhile, scraped a living through the likes of pirated DVDs, email scams and identity theft.
Glory managed a shrug. ‘Our head-witch is an OAP, our boss is a drunk and his son’s a waster. Business ain’t what it used to be.’
‘Hmm. What about the Bishops Green depot raid, then? And those designer watch knock-offs that did such great business round Christmas? They should’ve been prize jobs for your piggy bank. But the numbers don’t show.’
At the mention of numbers, Glory felt a new fear. ‘My – my dad does our accounts. And he’s not crooked.’ Her face grew hot. ‘I’ll burn before I believe it.’
Uncle Charlie held up his hands in a placating manner. ‘Your dad’s straight as they make ’em. But Patrick only makes a record of what cash and so on comes his way. If a slice of the pie is missing, he’s not going to know about it.’
‘You’re sure someone’s skimming the profits?’
‘Frank is. He’s the one who showed me the books. I haven’t mentioned it to Vince, mind. Not yet.’
Frank and Vince were Charlie’s brothers. Frank took care of the coven’s financial affairs. Vince was the one who threatened and maimed and killed to order, the one even the coven toughs talked about in whispers. He was also the only Morgan brother to have done time. Glory hadn’t seen him for a long while.
She understood the threat his name implied. Nobody wanted Vince Morgan looking into their business. She also understood that the issue wasn’t really about money. Whatever cut of Cooper Street’s earnings the Wednesdays took, it was small change to a man like Charlie Morgan. It was his reputation that was at stake. To cheat him was to disrespect him, and respect meant everything in the coven world.
‘I’m a busy man,’ Charlie continued. ‘The Inquisition’s over us like a sack of fleas, I got Bradley Goodwin’s trial to contend with, and ten other types of grief beside. That don’t mean I’m going soft. Far from it. So if there’s something rotten in Cooper Street, I want you to be the one to sniff it out.’
‘You want me to be a snitch.’
Uncle Charlie looked pained. ‘I wouldn’t put it like that. This is a very special relationship we’ve got here. Our covens are bound by blood-ties as much as business and, like you said, families stick together. Right?’
‘Right.’
‘That’s my girl. I’ve got faith in you, Glory. Plans too – big plans. Now’s the time to show me what you’re capable of.’
His teeth flashed brilliantly.
Since it was an informal supper, they ate in the kitchen, a sterile expanse of black marble-topped counters and cabinets of frosted glass. When Glory arrived, Kezia and Troy were standing by the stove. He’d said something to cheek her, and she’d dabbed sauce on his nose. It was a small mother-son moment that gave Glory a stab of envy. She turned away, and concentrated on resenting the state of the art kitchen gadgets instead.
Although Kezia’s position as head-witch was a full-time job, and she had an army of domestic staff at her disposal, it was part of her cover to play the part of a traditional housewife. The four of them sat down to roast pork with all the trimmings followed by home-made trifle. Charlie was on fine form: booming out crude jokes and coven gossip, topping up everyone’s glass.
It was impossible for Glory to relax. The conversation in the office had been such a slippery mix of flattery and veiled threats she hardly knew what to think. As for the task Charlie’d set her . . . Maybe someone at Cooper Street really was dumb enough to try to rip him off. Or maybe he’d made the whole thing up, to stir trouble.
Every rich, heavy mouthful lodged indigestibly in her stomach. She didn’t like wine and this one tasted sour, even though the bottle probably cost as much as what most people spent on a crate. She was too hot and her head was aching.
At last it was over. When she stood up to say her thanks and goodbyes, Troy got up too. ‘I’ll give you a lift home. I’m going your way anyhow.’
Glory found this hard to believe. It meant she wasn’t escaping just yet.
The mansion’s garage housed a vintage Bentley and several sports cars that looked like fighter jets. Troy’s Mercedes was relatively low-key in comparison.
They spent the first few minutes of the drive in silence. She had been aware of Troy’s scrutiny during dinner, and when they waited at the traffic lights by the Blythe Hill roadworks, she realised he was looking at her again.
‘What? Is there snot on my face or something?’
‘Prickly kid, aren’t you? Maybe I’m just enjoying the view.’
Glory didn’t kno
w what to resent more – being called a kid, or the remark that followed it. But he’d said it so drily she decided to let it pass.
‘How’s it going at uni?’ she asked, partly to change the subject, and partly because she was genuinely curious as to how Troy combined life as a final-year Economics student with that of coven boss-in-waiting.
‘All right. It’s stuff at home that’s the hassle. Mum’s tearing her hair out over Candice. Dad reckons this latest detox will straighten her out but . . .’ He shrugged. ‘He’s in denial. When Candy got the fae, she went on a bender that lasted three weeks. It wasn’t as if she was celebrating either. She’s never wanted to be a witch. Too much like hard work. Anyway, Dad won’t even admit she’s got a problem, and that makes Mum mad.’
Interesting. Auntie Angel said Kezia’s abilities were only average, but that she was a clever manager. She needed to be, for a head-witch directed all fae-based operations in a coven, from hexing banes and crafting talismans to more complex works such as glamours, which disguised a person’s appearance, and fascinations, which were used for smuggling and forgery. The big restriction on coven witches was that they didn’t use their fae for violence. An ordinary criminal convicted of murder would go to prison. A witch would get the Burning Court.
It was probably more of an arranged marriage than a love match. Kezia had done well for herself; a head-witch was a powerful figure in the coven, and in many outfits was equal to the boss. But coven wives always deferred to their husbands. When she wasn’t witchworking, Kezia was at home being the loyal wife and mother. Meanwhile, Charlie gave the orders, met the contacts, made the deals . . . and played away with his string of girlfriends. Was Mrs Morgan content with the bargain she’d made?
