They’d left my arms free. My left shoulder was a mass of hurt—the numbness from the iron had worn off—but my right arm still worked okay. I punched Pizza Face in the mouth and his head jerked back, his fangs scraping my knuckles. Yanking my head from Fatboy’s grip, I reared back and jammed my skull into his groin and he squealed, short and high. Pain shot through my shoulder, but I blocked it. Pizza Face swayed unnaturally upright and I brought my knees up tight to my chest as he lunged over me, sniggering. I screamed and kicked out, stamping both metal-heeled shoes into his stomach and shoving him up and away. He was still sniggering as he thudded to the ground, one shoe still impaled in the soft flesh just under his ribs.
Rolling over, I got my legs under me, pushed up onto my feet. The gardens blurred as a moment of dizziness made me sway.
Fatboy was clutching himself, mouth gaping, tears streaming from his wide-open eyes.
I stepped towards him and kicked out, aiming at his temple. With a soft thud, he crumpled to the ground.
I turned back to Pizza Face. He was lying on his back, pink spittle foaming out of his mouth as he gasped for air. There was a dark, wet stain on his T-shirt where blood bubbled out around my shoe. It looked like I’d stomped on him—oh wait, I had! But had I hit his heart or just his lungs? As I watched him, Pizza Face frowned down at my shoe, then wrapped his fingers round it and pulled. It came out with a wet popping sound.
He gave another sniggering laugh and threw it at me.
I ducked, and it sailed over my head.
He sat up, grinning like a maniac and pulled up his T-shirt to show me his fast-healing wound.
I took half-a-dozen steps back. Another moment of vertigo made me stumble and agonising pain shot through my injured shoulder. The dizzy thing had to be blood loss, or concussion, or maybe even both. I swallowed, anxiety speeding my pulse. No way did I want to pass out, not while Pizza Face was still alive and kicking.
‘C’mon, faerie pussy pussy.’ Pizza Face staggered to his feet and grabbed his crotch. ‘It’s my turn to stick something in you.’
I kicked off my remaining shoe—it wasn’t going to help me now—and took another step back. My foot came down on something hard: Fatboy’s iron railing. I crouched and picked it up, wedging it between my waist and my good arm like a jousting lance and hoping like crazy I’d get a chance to use it before the spreading numbness from the iron made me drop the damn thing.
Pizza Face giggled as he lurched towards me.
I ran at him yelling at the top of my voice. Pizza Face lurched faster, gaining speed, and the pole dipped, starting to slip. My gut clenched with fear. Three feet, then two, then one, and I shoved the pole at him. The metal arrow-head glanced off his ribs and pierced his side, and I followed through with my good shoulder, knocking him down. The pole jammed into the dry earth, staking him to the ground.
‘Fuckin’ faerie bitch,’ he gasped, struggling to pull it out.
It wasn’t going to take him long to free himself. The garden blurred again, this time because of tears. Angry with myself, I swiped them away. Free. That’s it: I had to get free and get help. I had to crack the spell on the railings. I started towards the gate and tripped over something. I looked down: the goblin’s bat. I shook my arm to relieve some of the numbness and snatched it up. Weapons were always handy things to have around.
A shuffling noise behind me raised the hairs on my body, and I swung round.
Ten feet away, Fatboy shambled over the grass, slack-faced, his glasses reflecting red. His mouth gaped open over his fangs. It was like a B-movie, the kind of horror flick where the monster just keeps getting right back up. Hysterical laughter threatened to choke my throat.
I tensed and, arm shaking, raised the bat.
Fatboy jerked to a stop. His head snapped to the side and a strange sucking noise, like a turkey leg being wrenched off, splintered the air. Fatboy’s body thudded to the ground.
Malik stood above him like some dark avenging angel, flames consuming his eyes. He held Fatboy’s dripping head between his hands. The round glasses dangled off one ear. The head’s eyes fluttered open, squinted at the ground.
I didn’t lower the bat.
‘Where is the other one?’ Malik’s voice sounded rusty, as though he hadn’t spoken for a long time.
I jerked my head behind me, then wished I hadn’t as the world went painfully out of focus.
‘Dead?’ he asked.
‘No.’ My own voice sounded just as rusty.
‘I will take care of it.’ He turned toward where I knew the river to be and threw Fatboy’s head up into the night sky. It flew high through the trees and over the road, disappearing into the darkness. For a second there was nothing, then, in the distance there was a faint splash as it hit the water.
I let the bat fall to the ground as exhaustion washed over me.
Malik took a step back, unsteady, and as the light caught his head, I saw why. Blood seeped down his neck in rivulets from a matted wound at the base of his scalp.
I blinked.
Something, or someone, had caved in most of his skull.
Another wave of dizziness washed over me and once again the night rolled away into darkness.
Chapter Thirty-One
Somewhere it was raining. The drumming noise intruded on my sleep. I snuggled my cheek into the soft throw, the comforting scent of honeysuckle telling me I was home, and safe. Jabbing pain shot through my shoulder as I lifted my arm to pull the cover over my head, and I stifled a scream as the memories rushed back. I squinted through my lashes past the bronze and gold of my rug, searching for signs of Malik, but the room was empty. Slowly I moved, wincing as my shoulder complained again, and stared up at the vaulted ceiling lit by its waterfall pendant of amber and copper glass beads.
The rain cut out.
Carefully I sat up. Nausea roiled in my stomach and I rolled onto my knees, retching. Cool hands held my head and stroked the back of my neck and the pain dulled. I heaved again and tasted the sourness of bile as I took shallow breaths and willed myself not to add to the mess I’d made on my varnished floorboards. Shit. At least I’d managed to miss the rug—and Malik’s bare knees. The palm of his hand was like ice against my forehead. It reminded me of when he had held me frozen. My heart thudded faster and I shoved him away, ignoring the sharp agony in my shoulder at the movement.
‘Get the fuck off me,’ I croaked.
‘You are hurt, Genevieve.’ He bent over me, a coaxing tone in his voice. ‘I can help.’
‘No way. Keep your hands to yourself.’ I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, grabbed the throw and scooted backwards until I was sitting with my back to the wall. Damn, why had he brought me home?
‘As you wish.’ Malik sat back on his heels, neatly adjusted the towel that wrapped around his narrow hips. He studied me with a calm look on his face, as if it was nothing out of the ordinary for someone to vomit at his knees. Maybe it wasn’t. His black hair was wet, and I could smell the faint honeyed fragrance of my soap—he’d obviously used my shower—and his pale skin gleamed, his muscles lean and defined, his body even better than my errant mind had imagined. The silken triangle of dark hair on his chest narrowed down—
Annoyed at myself, I dragged my eyes up and glared at him. ‘How did you get in?’
‘Through the window in your bedroom.’ He shrugged, and a droplet of water rolled down over his collar-bone. ‘It was unlocked.’
‘I meant,’ I huffed, ‘how did you get in: I didn’t invite you over my threshold.’
‘Last night, outside Old Scotland Yard, you freely offered your blood to me.’ An odd sadness filled his black eyes. ‘I no longer need an invitation.’
Of course! I dropped my forehead to my knees, wondering how much more stupid I could get. Still, one bright point, if whoever wanted me dead did manage to succeed, offering open house to a vampire wasn’t going to matter much in the great scheme of things. And that brought the next question to mind. They’d had their t
eeth in me. 3V might be the ultimate zapper for any human infection, but they hadn’t been human, had they?
I lifted my head. ‘What were those things?’
‘Revenants.’
‘Explain revenants,’ I demanded.
He rose in one easy motion, his bare feet silent on the wooden floor as he walked the few steps towards the kitchen counter. ‘It is an ancient ritual, forbidden now.’ He stood at the sink, his back to me. ‘A human can be Gifted in a matter of minutes, without need of the cautious nurturing that we are used to indulging in.’
They’d been a type of vampire. I tipped my head back against the wall, relieved. Vampire bites couldn’t hurt me any more than they had already.
‘Their prime function was for defence, to delay or divert the hunter.’ Water splashed. ‘In current terminology, they would be called cannon fodder, although there were no cannons in the beginning. Through the ritual humans gain the strength, the abilities, the features of the vampire.’ Glass chinked. ‘They have no care for themselves. They will fight until their bodies are no longer able. When they fall, they do not die. Their bodies remake themselves after every injury.’ The water cut off. ‘The revenant will follow the instructions given by their Maker until they taste their first blood.’
I stared at his back, or rather, at the back of his head. His mention of injuries brought back the memory of his caved-in skull. I frowned. It was completely healed now.
‘They will rise night after night, with no other need than to quench the Bloodthirst.’ His voice was expressionless. ‘Man, woman or child, even beasts: it matters not to a revenant.’
‘Just like your average sucker,’ I muttered, pulling at the fringe on the throw. ‘So far I’m not seeing the difference.’
The towel shifted against his legs as he walked back to me, brushing the fine dark hairs on his calves. Irritated that I’d noticed, I made myself look at the floor instead. ‘Even lost in the Bloodthirst,’ he continued, ‘it is rare for a vampire to actually kill. Once the initial need is satisfied—’ He paused, then continued, ‘Well, you do not kill the chicken that lays the eggs.’ His tone was slightly mocking. ‘It is much more effective to practice good husbandry.’
‘Oh yeah,’ I sighed as his feet came into view. They were as elegant as I remembered. Mentally I gave in. He was eye-candy, no point in denying it, or trying to stop looking, so long as that was all I did—and that I didn’t forget what he truly was. I looked up at him, and said, ‘A blood-slave is so much better than a dead chicken.’
‘You are correct.’ He held the glass out to me.
I wrinkled my nose, thought about asking for some vodka, then decided I didn’t want him rooting in my fridge. I took a gulp, swilled the water around my mouth and swallowed.
‘Revenants are where the legends were forged,’ Malik carried on, ‘shambling corpses crawling from their graves, knowing nothing, caring for nothing, consumed only by their need for blood, until they die again with the sun. They are the true undead.’
I took another sip, and peered at him from under my lashes. More dark hair arrowed up his flat stomach to where a pink starburst of a scar nestled under his left rib. My lips parted in surprise: that was where I’d stabbed him the night before, when he’d mistaken my Alter Vamp for his Rosa. If his head had healed completely, why hadn’t that wound?
‘Revenants will kill every time they feed.’ He met my eyes, and something dark and bleak swam in the black depths of his, then he looked away and stared out of the window. ‘They will take three, four, sometimes as many as six or seven humans a night, every night, for as long as the blood-lust grips them.’ He headed back into the kitchen. ‘It can take months before the lust is fully sated, if ever.’
As what he’d said sank in, I shivered. ‘Shit—so those two goons would’ve gone on a killing spree every time the sun went down?’
‘That is why the ritual is forbidden.’ He looked back at me, his black eyes now flat and hard. ‘Even the most reactionary vampire does not wish to encourage humans to become vigilantes. ’
Snippets of the old myths hijacked my mind and dread cramped my stomach. If the old legends about vampires as ravenous monsters were true, what if one bite really was all it took to become one of them? Pizza Face and Fatboy had bitten me more than once ... my hand shook and sloshed my water over the floor—maybe I did have something to panic about after all.
Malik stood over me, an odd closed expression on his face. He held a bowl in his hands.
‘They both bit me.’ I dropped the glass and grabbed his ankle. ‘What’s that going to do to me?’
His expression didn’t change and I held my breath. Was that why he was here? To stop me changing? To rip my head off like he had Fatboy’s?
‘Nothing,’ he said at last. ‘Their bite is to feed only.’
Sucker bites. I blew out a shaky sigh and let him go. The bites were only sucker bites.
Crouching, he placed the bowl down beside me. ‘It appears you have become more of a threat than an opportunity.’
I scowled at him. ‘Yeah, I sort of got that, seeing as someone sent revenants to kill me.’
He gave me a considering look. He really was beautiful, all lean muscle and pale skin and dark hair, his features just the right side of almost too pretty. And as he mopped up the spilled water and wrung out the cloth into the bowl, twisting it tight between his fingers, even that simple movement seemed more than it was. My pulse hitched and he stilled, tension shimmering through him, then the moment was gone and he wiped the floor again.
Questions started to edge out infatuation in my mind. Who knew I was meeting Alan Hinkley? Everyone, apparently—but who knew the actual details apart from Alan and me? My head was beginning to ache, and not just because of my injuries. I pinched the bridge of my nose, trying to banish it. So it had to be someone Alan had told after he’d texted me. And my phone was lost somewhere at the Blue Heart—anyone could’ve checked out my messages. As I slumped against the wall, pain jabbed my shoulder again.
I clutched at the throw and held myself still, willing it away. ‘So who can do the ritual?’
A wing of damp hair fell over Malik’s forehead. ‘Here in London? At least eight, maybe nine.’ He brushed the hair away, held my look. ‘Including myself.’
I licked my lips. He hadn’t even had to think about the question. What was he doing here when he was obviously capable of figuring this out all on his own?
I narrowed my eyes. ‘Are you always this domesticated?’
He looked at me, black eyes intent.
Heat bloomed inside me, sending nervous spirals twisting through my belly. ‘Because it doesn’t strike me as being a normal vampire trait,’ I said. ‘So just exactly why are you here, Malik? What do you want from me?’
He took the bowl back to the sink and washed his hands, then came and stood looking down at me. ‘Why did you take me to the Embankment Gardens and not to Old Scotland Yard?’
I frowned, confused. ‘Because that’s where Alan Hinkley wanted to meet me. I told you that.’
‘And yet Alan Hinkley was not there.’ His voice was soft. ‘Instead, it was an ambush, one that was very nearly successful. ’
‘Obviously someone used either Hinkley or the information to set me up.’
‘No.’ He sank gracefully back into a crouch, his forearms resting on his thighs. ‘I do not think the attack was aimed at you.’
I snorted. ‘You could’ve fooled me.’
He leaned forward, and my heart thudded with fear. I wanted to shrink from him, but my back was already against the wall and I had nowhere to go to.
‘Or did you deceive me, Genevieve?’
‘What?’ I stared at him in surprise.
His hand flashed out and he gripped my chin. ‘The spell that stopped me from entering the gardens stunned me, but it did not stop you.’
I jerked out of his hold. ‘Something triggered the spell after I’d gone through the gate and it stopped me getting out.’
‘Did it?’
‘You know it did,’ I spat.
‘The spell was powerful enough to knock me unconscious for a few minutes.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘And that was long enough for someone to take a kerbstone to my head.’
So that explained the caved-in skull, but not what else he was getting at.
‘Whoever hit me was fae,’ he added, his tone accusing.
Okaaay, so that’s what—
‘Well, don’t look at me,’ I snapped, ‘I had my own problems, if you remember.’
‘Had your scent not engulfed me, I would have known they were there.’ He ran a fingertip over my injured shoulder. ‘Was I supposed to come into the park with you?’ His touch skimmed down my damaged arm. ‘Would you have stood back while they attacked me? Would you have watched, and applauded? Was that why they had to improvise?’
‘Ri-ight, just because a fae tries to reshape your thick head, you think I’ve set you up!’ I snorted. ‘Well, if we’re talking stupid ideas, what about the revenants? You just said they could only be made by a vampire, so maybe you made them. ’Cause there’s no way I’ve got anything to do with any vampire.’
‘But you do have something to do with a vampire, do you not, Genevieve?’ His hand circled my left wrist, turned my palm up.
Pain raced up my arm like wildfire and I screamed before I could stop myself. He touched a finger to my palm and the agony was gone, snuffed out like a light.
‘See how your body responds to me.’ His voice held sorrow.
Another touch, and the pain burnt through my shoulder again—only I couldn’t scream; he wouldn’t let me. All I could do was stare at him wide-eyed, my heart pounding under my ribs.
Then the pain was gone again and I sagged in relief.
‘You will not struggle.’ The words were an order. ‘Else I will be forced to return the pain. Do you understand?’
‘I get that you’re into torture,’ I ground out.
‘No, I am not.’ He gave a resigned sigh. ‘But I am also not squeamish.’
‘Fuck you.’
‘Maybe later.’ Mocking amusement lit his face. ‘But first, we will settle this matter between us?’ He made it a question.
The Sweet Scent of Blood s-1 Page 24
