His own outfit was familiar enough too: a plain black T-shirt and black jeans. The casual clothes showed the lean, hard muscles honed to peak perfection before he had taken the Gift. Of course, physical strength wasn’t an issue for him now, not with his vamp powers, and he wasn’t going to grow old or lose any of that muscle tone, whatever he did or didn’t do – the reason why so many vamp wannabes hit the gym. But all that lean, hard strength made me curious about his past. Having been on the receiving end of his compulsive neat-freak skills a couple of times, I was almost ready to bet he’d been some sort of soldier. I looked down. His feet were bare too.
‘What’s with the no shoes thing?’ I said.
His enigmatic expression didn’t change. ‘I decided it was easier than choosing an unacceptable option from your own footwear collection.’
Footwear collection? I had about two dozen pairs of shoes, and half again as many boots and trainers; that was a long way off Imelda Marcos territory. And he’d said it with a straight face, so I couldn’t tell if his tongue was in his cheek or not, nor did it explain why he wasn’t wearing any. And when the hell had he checked out my footwear anyway?
‘I take it that “familiarity” also explains why we’re here enjoying the view then?’ I indicated the walkway, and the bird’s-eye panorama it gave over London. The wind-rippled waters of the Thames reflected the blazing clouds, giving the river a metallic sheen, and in the distance the Ferris-wheel silhouette of the London Eye was a dark, nobbly circle against the bright sky. Nearer was the Tower of London, its two outer stone walls guarding the massive castle compound with the mediaeval White Tower dominating the centre. Dusk seemed to swathe the Tower’s regimented battlements and the lead-capped turrets in ever-shifting shadows. As I looked the shadows coalesced into a huge amorphous shape that rose high into the heavens, the sound of wings buffeted my ears, and the bridge beneath me turned insubstantial and swayed. Vertigo hit. I shot my arms out for balance—
‘Genevieve! Look at me!’
I blinked at the sharp order, and fixed my gaze back on Malik. The bridge solidified. I blew out a relieved breath and lowered my arms.
‘The more recognisable the landscape is to you,’ he said, ‘the less likelihood there is of your subconscious invading the dream. It allows for a continuing illusion of reality.’
Right. No more staring at the view. Unless . . . ‘So, there’s no other reason for being here other than it’s somewhere I know?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘The faeling who died this morning was found in Dead Man’s Hole.’ I waved in the direction of the Tower, careful not to look. ‘She had corvid blood, possibly raven.’
‘Ah. I did not know the faeling’s heritage. No, I am sorry, Genevieve. I chose here because it is one of two public places that you frequent on a regular basis, and where you wear your eye-catching outfit.’
I plucked at the T-shirt. ‘Trafalgar Square being the other?’
‘Yes, but it is normally too populated a place to use as a dreamscape. The lack of people would make your subconscious uneasy, and it would try to compensate. I have no desire for our conversation to be held while you attempt to corral pixies, entertaining as that might be.’
Entertaining for him and everyone else, maybe. And he was right, I chased enough of the mischievous little fiends in my real life job without adding them to my dreams. I sighed and gave Malik a resigned look. ‘I suppose I shouldn’t really be surprised you’ve been spying on me.’ After all, everyone else was. Maybe I could charge a fee?
‘Then you will be surprised.’ Amusement glinted in his eyes. ‘There were thirty-four videos of your energetic interactions with the pixies on YouTube, last I looked. There are fewer of you dealing with the problems here, but the bridge management are particularly vigilant at updating their blog when it comes to any interruption in service.’ He smiled fully, and I caught a glimpse of fang. ‘I have no need to spy on you when the general public are happy to do the task for me.’
I was surprised – not by the YouTube vids; that was old news – but by Malik being web-savvy. For some reason his enthusiastic acceptance of modern technology hit me as out of character. Then I remembered he and Tavish were friends and co-conspirators. And Tavish is a top geek for hire; rumour has it he even contracts for the Ministry of Defence. Maybe Tavish’s geekery was catching, along with his magical expertise.
‘And of course, there’s this other little surprise.’ I held my left arm up again, rattling the charms on my newest accessory. ‘I can guess what four of the spells are for; care to enlighten me about the sword, the cross and the egg? Oh, and the beads?’
He inclined his head, an elegant acknowledgement. ‘The beads are time, they span a month each. The egg is to contain the sorcerer’s soul. The cross is protection from the demon.’
I frowned: twelve beads meant twelve months, which made sense, what with Clíona’s year-and-a-day time limit and the fact that five of the beads were clear of magic. The egg had to be why the sorcerer’s soul hadn’t caused me any problems so far – and now Angel/The Mother had removed the soul, it no longer would, thank the goddess. And that explained why the egg was crackled, like old china. A cross as a shield symbol was pretty standard, although it would have to have been infused with the faith of someone who believed for it to work. Not that that was too difficult, as most churches would provide one, for a suitable donation.
‘And the sword is to sever your tie with Rosa,’ Malik continued, all trace of amusement gone now, ‘should she attempt to reactivate the spell you share.’
Shit. I rocked back on my heels at this mini-bombshell. Rosa was a vampire, and the spell we shared linked us together magically. It had allowed me to unwittingly borrow her body whenever I’d used it – unwittingly, because I’d thought the spell was a bespoke Glamour spell, one I’d used as a disguise on my ‘faeling rescue missions’. It had turned out to be much more. Vamps’ souls are magically bound to their bodies as part of the Gift – hence their near-immortality – and it usually takes the removal of the heart or head, or total destruction of the body (usually by fire or daylight, or a combination, depending on how old the vamp is) to kill them and release the soul (which then goes straight to Hell, or its equivalent, according to most human religions; personally, I wouldn’t want to guess). But the spell had trapped Rosa’s soul, leaving her body functioning but vacant. When I’d found out the truth, I’d resolved never to use the spell again. And then Rosa had been lost in the Thames at Hallowe’en, and the spell tattoo on my body had gradually faded until it was now almost gone. I’d assumed she was too.
Worry tied a knot in my gut. ‘Are you saying she could come back?’
‘No, not after this length of time,’ he said. ‘The sword is a precaution only, in case she was found and her soul somehow restored.’ He studied the water a hundred and forty-odd feet below us, and a tendril of his grief, twisted with guilt and anger, soured my own euphoric relief. The emotions felt like mesma, but he didn’t seem to be projecting them intentionally; it was more as if I was picking up an echo. It wasn’t something I’d experienced before. I shivered and hugged myself, uneasy. Was it part of the whole conscious dream thing? But I didn’t ask, not wanting to intrude.
Finally, the emotional echo died and I moved to him and touched his arm gently. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. And I was, for him, not for her. He’d loved Rosa; he’d been the one to give her the Gift. But Rosa was better off gone. I’d inadvertently lived some of her thoughts, her memories and desires, both as a human and a vamp – it wasn’t an experience I ever wanted to repeat.
He turned and looked at my hand, staring at it, apparently uncomprehendingly, for a moment, then raised his eyes to meet mine. They were opaque and unreadable. ‘Rosa truly died a long time ago,’ he said with no inflection in his voice. ‘Now her soul will be at peace.’
‘Losing someone you love is—’ My throat closed. I lifted my hand to Grace’s pentacle, but in a movement almost too fast to
see, he caught my hand and held it. ‘Thank you . . .’ He paused, then continued, ‘Thank you for your sympathy, Genevieve.’
I nodded. ‘You’re welcome.’
He raised my hand and pressed a kiss to my fingers. A spark of magic ignited, like a golden ember from a smouldering fire, as his lips graced my skin. My pulse leapt and my grief disappeared as my body flooded with anticipation and desire. I swallowed, tasting the sweetness of Turkish Delight, and heat curled inside me. His pale fingers gripped mine, the crushing pain muting to pleasure as his eyes darkened and filled with predatory speculation, and something else I couldn’t name. My clothes felt too hot and too tight, my breasts heavy, my nipples aching as they pushed against the thin T-shirt. An insistent need throbbed between my legs, and at the curve of my neck where he’d once bitten me.
He lifted his head, scenting me, his pupils incandescent with fiery hunger, and fear slid adrenalin into my veins, hyping the lust already lacing my blood. I froze, willing my errant pulse to slow, and concentrated on not wresting my hand from his hold. It might be a dream, but it felt real enough, and he was still a vamp. You don’t struggle with vamps, it gets them too excited. And right now I was excited enough for both of us.
We stood like statues on the high walkway, the rays of the dying sun turning us golden, and the silence and tension coiled between us until I wanted to scream, to lash out at him—To offer him my body and my throat.
Instead I fell back on my childhood training and counted: one elephant, two elephants—
His lips drew back and I stared, transfixed, at his sharp canine fangs. His two needle-like venom incisors were still retracted, which was good, wasn’t it? Donating blood was one thing, getting a venom hit at the same time? Well, if that happened I’d be falling a long, long, lo-ooong way off the wagon. And the last thing I’d want to do was struggle.
Five elephants . . .
Sweat trickled down my spine.
Seven ele . . .
I wanted desperately to drag my eyes from his fangs, to stop imagining the bliss as they pierced my flesh, the delicate pull of his mouth at my throat spiralling pure, dazzling ecstasy into my body . . .
Ten . . .
A tremor shuddered through him. He leaned closer, his dark spice scent eddying round me, his silky hair brushing my cheek. I angled my head, yielding. His lips pressed against the vulnerable spot under my jaw and my pulse jumped eagerly.
Thirteen . . .
He sighed and the tension slipped away like fast-melting ice, leaving me somehow desolate and bereft. His thumb brushed over his ring on my finger. ‘Why did you use this, Genevieve?’ The words were a bare whisper against my skin.
Really, really not for the reason you’re thinking. I shrugged, an infinitesimal movement of my shoulders. ‘I was getting bored with the entertainment provided by the police.’
Seventeen . . .
‘You were concerned that your phone call to Sanguine Lifestyles had not reached me?’ he asked softly, an odd, indecipherable note in his voice.
‘Yeah, that too.’
He pulled back, black eyes opaque as he studied me for a long moment. ‘No other reason?’
Like maybe I wanted to lose myself in your power? Feel your body join with mine? Not then. ‘No.’
He released my hand.
Chapter Ten
I waited until I was sure my knees were going to hold me, then tucked my hands into my jeans pockets, out of temptation’s way. His or mine, I wasn’t sure. Talking with him was one thing; touching him looked like it blew my self-imposed ‘hands off’ policy into orbit. And what the hell had caused me to react like that to a simple kiss? It certainly hadn’t been anything he’d done – at least, I didn’t think so. I moved to lean against the criss-crossed steel-beam wall of the walkway, putting more space between us.
A deep frown lined his brow and he turned to stare out at the Thames. The sun had disappeared below the horizon and a parade of bright lights had sprung up along the river’s banks, reflecting oranges, reds and blues down into the water. I knew the walkway had its own lights, but here in Malik’s dreamscape it remained dark, shadows obscuring both its ends.
‘You have no need to worry, Genevieve,’ he said finally, speaking calmly, as if nothing had happened. ‘Your solicitor is at this moment speaking to a judge to facilitate your release.’
Back to business. I relaxed and took a breath. ‘Thank you,’ I said.
‘Details of your arrest have not been notified to the press,’ he continued. ‘You are apparently helping the police as an outside consultant with the investigation into the faeling found dead this morning.’
Interesting. ‘If they’re covering up the arrest, then why’s it taking so long to spring me?’
‘Detective Inspector Helen Crane is insisting that you know more than you are revealing to her. It has caused complications.’
‘Figured she’d use that against me,’ I muttered.
‘Do you know more, Genevieve?’
‘Yep, and I’d be overjoyed to tell her everything – except I can’t.’
‘Can’t, or won’t?’ he asked. Finn wasn’t the only one who caught on quickly.
‘Can’t,’ I said. ‘The info came with a gag clause – a magical one.’
‘I see.’ He turned to me, his usual impassive expression back in place. ‘Perhaps you should tell me all you are able.’
I started talking, beginning with Hugh’s early morning phone call, the dead faeling wearing a Glamour spell, the argument with Witch-bitch Helen, right up to the silver-in-the-circle débâcle. He stopped me now and again to ask a quiet clarifying question, then resumed pacing – well, not exactly pacing, but his movements were enough to make me think ‘agitated’. But as he kept shooting glances into the shadows gathering around the far-away doorway, I didn’t think it was my story making him edgy.
‘Now this is where it gets tricky,’ I said, shifting in my perch in the V of one of the diamond-shaped windows to a more comfortable position. I started to tell him about my visit to Disney Heaven, expecting the goddess’ strangling hands to cut me off any second. To my surprise the gag clause turned positively garrulous, and the words came streaming out in one long, breath-stealing rush: ‘—and the goddess wants me to answer someone’s prayers and stop whoever is killing the faelings because of the curse and ultimately break the damn thing.’
I stopped suddenly, as if released from whatever magical compulsion had kept me talking, and sank to my knees on the rough carpet, gulping for air. I stayed there, relearning how to breathe, awash with relief that I’d finally managed to tell someone about my heavenly trip.
Malik crouched in front of me, his elegant fingers clasped together. ‘And you have not been able to speak about this to anyone but me?’
‘Not so far.’
‘Which would suggest that those you have not been able to talk to are connected to these deaths in some way?’
He’d reached the same conclusion I had about the Goddess’ horned god photofit.
‘No,’ I said firmly, ‘Finn’s got nothing to do with this.’
‘Genevieve.’ Malik tipped my chin up, his expression gentle. ‘We all have the capacity to justify unimaginable actions when desperation and a belief in a greater good persuades us that they are the lesser evil.’
I ducked my head and contemplated his bare feet; they were long and elegant too. ‘Unimaginable actions’ added up to when he’d attacked and left me for dead when I was fourteen. And then there was the other time – or times? Did the last one count, seeing as I was already dead? – that he’d killed me. He’d had good reasons, and I’d forgiven him. Hell, I’d asked him to kill me that last time, though to judge by the sorrow haunting his words, he hadn’t forgiven himself.
I reached out, touched his clasped hands briefly. ‘This isn’t you we’re talking about,’ I said quietly.
Regret flickered in his eyes. ‘The satyr is no different to any other, Genevieve. And he has shown he has both the
will and capability to kill.’
‘Finn hasn’t killed anyone . . .’ but even as I said it I remembered he had once set a trap to kill Malik, and he’d staked a vamp on his horns (the vamp had later vanished, so I didn’t think Finn had actually killed him). Both incidents had been to defend me. ‘Finn wouldn’t kill an innocent, whatever the end result.’
‘But you admit the satyr could kill if he thought the death deserved,’ Malik said.
There was no hint of accusation in his mild tone, but I didn’t like where he was going. I narrowed my eyes. ‘Why are you so hot to blame Finn?’
‘I am trying to divine the goddess’ intentions, this is all. Do you believe She means that you should bear a child to break the curse?’
‘Fine, side-step the issue then,’ I muttered, not caring if I sounded like a sulky child. Whatever I’d expected him to do after I’d told him about my heavenly trip, this wasn’t it.
‘Genevieve, it is not I who is side-stepping the issue.’
No, it was me. Not that I knew what I’d expected him to do or say differently. I picked at a snag in the blue carpet as I tried to work out what I wanted.
‘Genevieve?’
‘Yes!’ I ground out, yanking out the thread. ‘I think that’s what She means.’
‘And what would happen if you told the fae about your goddess’ command?’
I threw my hands up. ‘They’d do what they’ve been doing all along, of course: try and convince me to have a child.’
He cast a quick look past my shoulder, making my back crawl, then focused back on me. ‘Until now you have refused to bear a child because the outcome – breaking the curse – was not a certainty,’ he said. ‘But if the goddess has provided that certainty, then there is no reason for you to refuse any longer.’
I scowled. ‘Got it in one.’
‘So why do you not have a child as the fae wish, then this will all be over?’ he asked in a perfectly rational and totally aggravating tone.
I jerked my head up. ‘And what if I’ve misread the goddess’ commands because I’m so fixated on what the fae want?’ Yep, there it was: I wanted him to come up with a different explanation for what She’d told me, one that didn’t involve me getting pregnant. ‘Or what if the reason I can’t tell anyone else is because they’d all jump right into the curse-breaking side of things and no one would look for whoever is murdering the faelings?’ There, side-step that! ‘And even if I did have a kid and break the curse, who’s to say the killer wouldn’t kill again?’
Bitter Seed of Magic (9781101553695) Page 7
