Bitter Seed of Magic (9781101553695)

by Mcleod, Suzanne

  I turned to find her sitting straight-backed, a slight flush to her cheeks, as calmly as if nothing untoward had happened. Of course, in her mind it hadn’t.

  ‘You know,’ I said slowly, ‘I think you might have a point about my 3V infection. I truly hadn’t thought about it in those terms before. Maybe I should speak to your daughter-in-law.’

  She gave a pleased smile. ‘We can visit Ana now if you like.’ She gestured out the limo’s window. ‘She lives in Trafalgar Square with her grandfather, the fossegrim.’

  Ana’s grandfather was the fossegrim? Shit – the old water fae was supposed to be totally and utterly insane. I’d been warned to stay away from him when I’d taken my first pixie eviction job for Spellcrackers. He’d come over from Norway with the very first Christmas tree after the Second World War: he’d been in love with the tree’s dryad and she’d died fighting in the Resistance. He’d been half-mad with grief, until he met a new lady love – but then he’d lost her too, to the curse. He’d gone on a killing spree in revenge, then holed up in the square’s fountains, where he’d been ever since. Ousting a blood-sucking fanged cuckoo out of their family nest was one thing, but no way did I want to run into the fossegrim, not without some sort of magical protection.

  I gave Victoria Harrier a wary smile. ‘Okay,’ I agreed, backpeddling fast, ‘but I think we’d better leave the socialising until after we’ve seen the ravens.’ And after I’ve had chance to check things out and come up with . . . some sort of plan.

  ‘Perfect,’ Victoria Harrier said, with a satisfied expression. ‘I’ll arrange it for tomorrow. Now how about we get you home, Ms Taylor.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘Hang on,’ I muttered as my phone vibrated. I bumped the door to my flat closed with my hip, careful not to spill the cup of blood I’d just picked up from the Rosy Lea Café. With an annoyed sigh, I reactivated the protection Ward by banging my forehead against the painted wood; the Ward shimmered into life, a faint purple tinge on the white door. I dropped the ten-kilogram bag of salt – also from the Rosy Lea – next to the bucket beside the door and flexed my fingers, working out the cramps from carrying the salt up five flights of stairs. Life would be so much easier if I didn’t live in a converted Edwardian attic.

  ‘And life would be much easier if I didn’t have jealous witches, scheming fae, Machiavellian vamps, and The Mother of all goddesses to deal with on top of the fertility curse,’ I told the door, giving it a frustrated kick. I took a calming breath and muttered, ‘Stick to dealing with one problem at a time,’ and pulled my phone out.

  I had a text from Finn:I’m sorry. We need to talk. But not 2nite. I’ll CU 2morrow.

  Short and not so sweet. I stared at the text, puzzled. It wasn’t like Finn and his inner white knight to leave me to my own devices, particularly when he knew my plans involved the vamps. Irrational disappointment flashed in me that he wasn’t beating my door down, as I’d half-expected him to be, along with morbid curiosity about what he was doing . . . and whether it had something to do with Helen.

  Damn. I snapped my phone shut, put the cup down, hung my jacket up, tucked the police file Victoria Harrier had given me next to the bucket of salt, and mentally shelved Finn and the rest of the day’s dilemmas until later. I glanced at the clock: a little over four hours until sunset, so time enough for that long shower, a bite to eat and a bit of research before I headed off to Sucker Town and the vamp side of my problems.

  But first things first. I might be home, but that didn’t mean I was safe.

  I grabbed my drink and a handful of the salt already in the bucket and turned to look – and look – at my living room-cum-kitchen.

  And at the books.

  They were piled in knee-high stacks on my living room floor like a miniature village of tottering skyscrapers made of . . . well, stacks of books. Not being able to afford any furniture other than floor cushions was a definite advantage when it came to accommodating the fae’s curse-cracking research library, or at least the latest batch from the thousands of tomes they’d collected over the last sixty-odd years. The books had been arriving and disappearing on rotation ever since Tavish had told me about them and I’d insisted on checking them out for myself. Except I hadn’t been the one insisting, had I? It was him, or rather him and Malik, the other half of that annoying, over-protective little double act. Between the Sleeping Beauty spell and Malik’s mind-mojo, I was surprised they’d stopped at imposing the curse-cracking reading on me, and hadn’t just wrapped me up in the proverbial cotton wool and kept me under magical house arrest.

  It hit me that I didn’t need the books any more: the Librarian could have them all back.

  I gave a loud whoop and, grinning happily, started to weave my way through the books to the kitchen, glancing through the open bedroom door as I did so. Spring sunshine was cutting bright rectangles on the wooden floor, which was thankfully clear; at least the books hadn’t migrated in there again. A lot of them were disturbing, eye-opening and literally nausea-inducing, so definitely not required bedtime reading. In the current piles were everything from an eleventh-century grimoire bound in sorcerer’s skin (a major eew! to read, even wearing three pairs of salted surgical gloves); a papal leaflet titled Inquisitional Techniques and Demonic Exorcisms, printed in 1573; a first edition of Frankenstein – author anonymous, of course; a pile of Walt Disney picture books; Grimm’s Fairy Tales in five different languages; half a dozen new paperback releases with nothing in common other than ‘Curse’ in the title; and—

  A virulent green cover on one of the many unread piles caught my eye: The Esoteric Practice of Malediction Prophecies by Michael Nix. I reached out to pick it up—Then snatched my hand away as a flash of magic revealed that the snot seeping out from its spine was real.

  ‘Sneaky,’ I muttered. After the first ‘WTF?’ spell I’d unwittingly triggered – the one that transported me straight to Finn; luckily he’d been working the late shift at Spellcrackers, but even so, naked is so not the way to appear anywhere unannounced – I’d taken precautions. I looked up at my chandelier hanging from the vaulted roof and counted another row of blackened beads marring the long strings of amber – and copper-coloured glass drops. The Seek and Reveal spells embedded in the beads had cost me the equivalent of three months’ wages, even using my own crystals, but since it had exposed everything they’d sent – so far, at least – it was worth the expense. I narrowed my eyes at the snot-dripping book and scattered the handful of salt over it; it belched musty orange dust and I grabbed a tissue from my jacket pocket as I sneezed.

  ‘I can see you’re havin’ a fun day, doll.’ The amused burr came from the bedroom door behind me.

  Startled, I turned too fast, and several book stacks ava-lanched like mismatched dominoes into a cluttered heap around me.

  ‘Tavish!’ I said, and my heart gave a happy little leap at seeing him. The feeling that all would be right now he was here brought a wide beam to my face. ‘When did you get back?’

  He shot me an answering grin, his sharp-pointed teeth gleaming white against the deep green-black of his skin. As his eyes crinkled, the rim of white surrounding the beautiful, brilliant silver of his pupil-less eyes vanished. The grin softened the angular planes of his long face: Tavish isn’t so much handsome – with his Roman nose and pointed chin, his face is a less delicate version of my own, showing the sidhe part of his make-up – but like the kelpie-horse that is his other shape, he is compelling, alluring—

  I started to step towards him, then sneezed again, and as I blew my nose, I realised I’d been staring at Tavish like a Charm-struck human. I wiped the silly grin off my face and gave him an irritated glare. ‘You’re doing it deliberately, aren’t you?’

  His own grin faded as he placed his hand on his chest. ‘Ach, doll, but it sorrows my heart tae lose your smile.’

  I stifled the urge to go to him and throw my arms round him. Damn, I’d had enough of this magical attraction stuff with Finn; I didn’t need it
with Tavish too. Suddenly wary, I clutched at the cup with one hand and balled the tissue in my other, needing something real to hold on to. ‘I’ll lose more than my smile if I let myself fall for your charms, kelpie,’ I said flatly.

  He threw his head back with a snorting laugh and I glimpsed the delicate black-lace gills flaring either side of his throat. ‘Aye, doll, perhaps – but I wait for the day when you nae longer wish tae resist me, when we shall ride intae the depths together.’ He sobered as the turquoise swirling in the depths of his silver eyes lit an answering curl of desire inside me. ‘And ’twill be a glorious pleasure for us both, my lady.’

  I looked down and nudged a couple of books with the toe of my trainer, willing the desire away. Tavish was wylde fae, a kelpie, a soul-taster, and capricious, like the magic – not to mention dangerous, if he was talking about riding into the depths. But he was also my friend. So was it a warning? Trouble was, asking outright wouldn’t get me the answer, just like it was pointless confronting him about the bracelet, or anything else. He could talk round corners for England if he chose to: at my best guess, he’d been doing it for more than a millennium.

  ‘If wishes were horses, we could all ride away on them,’ I murmured, recalling one of my father’s sayings.

  ‘If wishes were fishes, we’d all cast nets,’ he replied cheerfully.

  And the fishes would be caught. Hmm.

  ‘You’re looking guid, doll,’ he said, still showing his teeth.

  I shot him a sceptical look. I’d spent the night in a police cell; there was no way I looked ‘guid’. Then I realised he wasn’t looking at me, or rather my body’s shell, but at my soul. And it probably did look all shiny and bright to him now the black tint of the sorcerer’s soul was gone. So why wasn’t he asking how I’d got rid of it? Unless, of course, I wasn’t the only one chatting to Malik in his dreamscapes – was that why Tavish was here now? Had the two of them been plotting again? Not that any of that explained his outfit, which was unusual, even for him.

  He was dressed Elizabethan-style, his starched white neck-ruff a stark contrast to his green-black skin. His dreadlocks were piled into a spiky topknot, and the beads intertwined with the dreads were a brilliant aquamarine, matching the silk lining of his pantaloons.

  ‘Nice outfit.’ I raised my brows. ‘Did you escape from a fancy dress party or something?’

  He twirled his hand in a flourish of lace as he bowed from the waist, keeping his eyes on mine, and I had the strangest feeling he was wary of me. ‘The queen had hersel’ a hankering tae return tae earlier times, and her court has dutifully obliged her.’

  ‘Are you telling me that Queen Clíona can turn back time?’ I asked, astonished. ‘By several hundred years?’

  He straightened and gave me a thoughtful look. ‘Am I telling you that? I dinna ken, doll – ’tis always possible, for time is nae fixed in the Fair Lands as ’tis here in the humans’ world.’ He looked back over his shoulder and I thought I saw the flicker of candlelight instead of sunshine behind him . . . then it was gone. ‘I returned here tae you at this time as I desired tae do, but who kens where or when in the humans’ world I would be if I hadnae made my choice?’

  ‘That doesn’t really answer the question, Tavish.’

  ‘Maebe there’s nae answer to be had.’

  An idea started to form in my mind. Was he just being tricky, or was he telling me something I needed to know that he couldn’t divulge? I left the idea to find its own shape and said, ‘So, what’s Clíona been saying?’

  ‘Her offer of sanctuary is as before, doll, and she’s nae telt me of any change.’

  She hadn’t told him of any change, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t ready to tell someone – me – otherwise. Was that why he was here? To arrange for me to see her? Maybe after my trip to Disney Heaven—

  ‘I want to speak to her, Tavish. I want to ask her if there’s anything she can tell me, however insignificant it might be to her.’

  ‘She willnae allow you tae visit, doll. Once you join her court, you cannae return.’

  ‘Will she come here to speak with me, then?’

  ‘The Ladies Isabella and Meriel willnae open the gates to allow her entrance—’

  ‘Bullshit! You’re standing here talking to me, so why can’t she do the same?’

  ‘She’s a queen, doll. Queens dinna loiter in doorways chatting.’

  Damn. If he wasn’t here on Clíona’s behalf, why was he here? I stared down at the cup, looking for an answer . . . and the earlier idea bloomed in my mind. ‘Tavish, you said you chose to come back to me now, but the queen’s taken the court back to the past. . .’ I tilted my head. ‘Does that mean you can choose a particular time to come back to, as it were?’

  He dipped his chin, looking curiously at me. ‘’Tis nae something I’ve tried before, doll.’

  ‘What if you could go back to when the queen spoke the curse, and persuade her not to?’

  He shook his head. ‘’Twould nae be possible, you cannae undo the time that is already passed betwixt two bodies; the queen’s path and mine together are already walked.’

  ‘Okay, so what about me? I’ve never met the queen, I could go back—’

  ‘It doesnae work that way, doll. The curse doesnae stem from when the queen uttered it and gave it substance, much as a stream doesnae spring from where it gushes out of the earth. It comes into being long before that; even should you happen on its source and change the path it takes, the stream will still exist—’

  He broke off suddenly as a thin green arm snaked around his waist; a fine gold chain hung with chinking small keys trailed from the arm’s wrinkled but obviously feminine wrist. The distant lilt of music – a harpsichord? – sounded, and as Tavish turned his head, his image in the doorway faded as if a sheet of opaque glass had dropped between us.

  The glass cleared. ‘She wants you to see what is to come,’ he whispered, his head bowing in acquiescence, his beads turning as dark as his green-black hair. Beyond him I glimpsed a dark, wood-panelled room, candles burning in wall-sconces, a four-poster bed hung with thick tapestry curtains tied at the corners, the mound of covers turned back. A tall, locust-like creature crouched near the bed, carefully and methodically smoothing the pale sheets with a long-handled brass warming pan.

  In the middle of the room stood the green-skinned female. She was as skinny as her arm had suggested, and mostly human-shaped, except for the high, hairless dome of her skull, and the flat holes where her nose should be. She was naked, her skin sagging in wrinkled creases and her breasts hanging like empty, pendulous sacks. Her only adornment was the thin gold chain with the tinkling keys trailing from her wrist. Now, I noticed that the other end of the chain was linked around Tavish’s left ankle; rust-coloured stains marred the otherwise pristine whiteness of his hose. She smiled in anticipation – one long tooth protruded from her upper gum – as she lifted the chain and lazily pulled. She might look old, but she was strong, for Tavish jerked and gave a grunt of discomfort, his leg muscles bunching with effort as he fought to hold his position.

  Was this Clíona? I tried to ask the question, but found I couldn’t speak, couldn’t move; I was suddenly trapped in that frozen, frightening place like a child in a nightmare.

  The green-skinned female slid in next to Tavish, filling the gap he’d left in my bedroom doorway. She smiled, and a long forked tongue flicked out from between her lips and licked across his eyes. He flinched back, knocking his head against the door jamb, as she turned to face me. She slowly slid her hands down her wrinkled body, the air around her shivering with magic, and I watched, transfixed, as her body changed with time-lapse speed: her wrinkles smoothed out, her waist thickened, her abdomen stretched and swelled, her hanging breasts perked up, growing fuller and heavier, their pale nipples jutting out into large turgid peaks, until she stood panting and sweating, her hands cupping her now-massive pregnant belly. After a few seconds, her gasps subsided and she stroked her palms up over her extended sto
mach and then grasped her breasts, squeezing and pulling the engorged teats, even as she whimpered in pain, until blood seeped out and fell like dark rubies onto the warm honey colour of her enlarged belly. She cried out, the sound eerily familiar, and I looked up to meet her eyes—

  —but instead met my own amber-coloured eyes, saw my own shocked face staring back at me, my sweat-drenched hair flat against my scalp, as if I were looking in a mirror. Blood-tinged tears snaked down my face, dripped off my chin and splattered on my pregnant stomach. My double reached out, the chain chinking on her wrist, and grasped Tavish’s hand, pressing it to her blood-smeared belly.

  And I felt his touch on my own body. I looked down in stunned disbelief to find myself as naked as my double, my own abdomen swollen in pregnancy, my bladder painful with the pressure between my legs, my breasts aching and lactating blood. Something moved inside me and I stared in mute horror as the skin of my stomach bulged: a hoofed foot kicked low on the left side; a two-fingered clawed hand pushed out high on the right; the point of a sharp horn poked out above my belly button.

  ‘Little sidhe.’ The husky voice calling my name jerked my attention back to my pseudo-reflection, who stood with her legs spread wide and her arms outstretched, fingers gripping either side of the doorway, her head thrown back as she grimaced in pain. Tavish’s hand was splayed low, dark against the paler colour of her swollen belly, as if he could help support the heavy burden. I stared as smoke spiralled out from between his fingers and the oversweet smell of cinnamon clogged the air. My double writhed and screamed, her mouth opening wide to reveal four needle-sharp vampire fangs. Blood gushed from between her legs and pain, sudden and jagged, sliced inside me. I huddled over, clutching my own stomach and cold, viscous liquid slid down my own legs.

  Then Tavish was there, the weight of his hand on my own stomach burning into my skin as I struggled, panting with terror and shock, feeling it starting to push out between my legs. I doubled over in agony, scratching at his hand, desperate to get him away from me, desperate to escape—