Not a suitor, then: a messenger, as I’d previously thought.
I handed him the vodka bottle from the bedside table. It was still a third full. ‘Who hasn’t told me what?’ I offered him a glass.
He did a little dancing jiggle with the vodka and the pillow, managed to get the top off without losing his modesty, then, ignoring the glass, he tipped the bottle up, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he drank, and he continued drinking until the bottle was empty.
‘Good stuff, this’ – he checked the label – ‘Cristall. I’ll have to get some. Thanks, my lady.’
‘No problem,’ I said, giving him an expectant look. ‘Okay, Dutch courage time over, Jack, back to the question: who hasn’t told—?’
A loud knock on my bedroom door and a voice interrupted us. ‘Genny?’ Sylvia called. ‘Are you all right in there? I can hear talking—’
Damn. I’d forgotten about her. Again. ‘I’m fine, Sylvia—’
The door opened.
‘Ah, look, I’ve really got to go.’ Jack shoved the pillow and empty bottle at me, catching me by surprise and knocking me back onto the bed. I rolled onto my side out of his way as he launched himself at the window. His body concertinaed, folding back in on itself as he sprouted glossy black feathers and shifted into the huge raven. The bird flapped his wings once, the backdraught blowing my hair back from my face, then he flew straight through the glass as if it wasn’t there and soared away into the sky.
‘Gosh! Nice arse!’ Sylvia exclaimed from the doorway. She smiled at me. ‘Whoever was that?’
‘That was Jack, apparently.’ I pressed my lips together, frustrated he’d got away before he’d given me an answer to my question. Who was she – the Morrígan? – and what hadn’t she told me?
Chapter Thirty
‘So where did Jack fly in from then?’ Sylvia gave me a teasing grin, then peered round me at the leather-coat-covered Malik lying on the bed. ‘Gosh, you look like you’ve had an interesting night.’
‘Something like that,’ I said wryly. ‘Sorry, but I’m not really in the mood to talk about it, though.’
‘Okay,’ she agreed cheerfully, ‘if you change your mind, I’m here.’
I blinked at her easy acceptance, then feeling a prick of guilt, I also apologised for siccing her with the Security Stingers and running out on her offer of dinner.
But she surprised me again, accepting my apology with another smile, just as easily as she’d taken Malik’s presence in my bed. I guessed her night spent sucking up the blood from my floorboards hadn’t only repaired her Glamour – her white fifties-style dress and silver sandals were positively glowing – but left her as happy as—well, as a dryad who’d spent the night sucking up blood.
‘Don’t supposed you’ve heard of, or met Jack the raven before now, have you?’ I asked. ‘When he first appeared his eyes were like mine.’ I waved a hand at my face. ‘Except his were this indigo colour.’
‘He was one of the sidhe?’ She clapped her hands and did a little twirl. ‘How exciting!’
‘So you don’t know him, then?’ I asked again, hoping that since Jack could change his eyes, there was always the possibility she’d know him as something different from a sidhe.
‘Umm . . .’ She tapped her cycle helmet, her nails making a little drumming tune as she stared into space. ‘No, sorry, Jack the raven doesn’t ring any bells.’ She gave me a wide smile, then said, ‘Now, I bet you’re hungry, Genny. How about breakfast? I’ll just borrow your mirror first – a girl’s got to look after herself, hasn’t she?’
‘Works for me,’ I said, hiding my disappointment that she didn’t know Jack and stepping out of the way so she could use the long mirror on my wardrobe.
She whistled and rustled as she pruned her scalp, vanished her excess twigs, called a fluffy pink mohair cardigan and repaired the broken strap on her pink cycle helmet. Then she cleaned up her snowfall of petals, repaired the holes in my floorboards by blowing them a kiss, and declared herself ready for breakfast. After a quick look at the contents of my fridge – two bottles of Cristall and nothing else – she cheerfully agreed to go to the Rosy Lea Café to get it. Even more amazingly, she equally cheerfully helped me move my heavy wardrobe in front of my bedroom window, a feat I’d never have managed on my own. I might be stronger than a normal human, but Sylvia had the edge on me. The wardrobe was oak, and as soon as she grasped one side and flattened her ‘Hello, boys!’ cleavage against it, the wardrobe almost moved itself.
I didn’t ask.
I just thanked her gratefully, and told her breakfast was my treat.
After Sylvia had gone, I looked thoughtfully down at Malik where he lay on the bed, his black eyes staring sightlessly upwards. In spite of my temporary shielding measures, the narrow beam of sun had caught Malik’s right foot and a diagonal wound now striped his flesh. The wound wasn’t bleeding; it looked more like someone had branded him with a red-hot poker, burning down to the bone, leaving the sides charred and crispy.
Maybe I’d missed an opportunity there.
Throwing the coats over him had been one of those instinctive things: vampire plus sun equals needs protection. But protecting him wasn’t going to stop him running my life. Maybe what I should’ve done, instead of covering him up, was had Sylvia help me throw him out onto the flat roof outside the window and left him to fry for the day. And I could’ve chopped his head from his body while I was at it, chopping him irrevocably out of my life.
Damn tyrannical vamp.
But however dictatorial, annoying – and let’s not forget secretive – Malik was, I couldn’t do it, my conscience and my heart wouldn’t let me. Not only that, it wasn’t the practical option: without him as Oligarch there’d be no one to protect London’s fae and faelings from the rest of the vamps. We’d end up with Open-Fang Night on anyone fae, and the results wouldn’t be pretty.
‘So, I need to find a way to neutralise you, without actually dragging your oh-so-gorgeous, damned arrogant arse out to be barbecued,’ I told him through gritted teeth. ‘But for now, I think you’d be better somewhere less flammable.’
I dragged in the thick silk rug that usually covered my living room floor, then leaning over him, I grasped his arm and pulled him towards me. He rolled easily and limply, and with a quick tug I had him off the bed. He landed with a heavy thud on the rug.
‘Sorry,’ I muttered unrepentantly as I straightened his arms and legs and tugged the rug over him. Grunting with exertion, I managed to roll him up, Cleopatra-style, then I sat on the floor, bracing myself against the wall, and shoved the rug with my feet until it was tucked under the bed.
I hauled myself up, wiped my sweaty forehead and grimaced. The rug was added insurance against the daylight. If he got a few bruises along the way, well, it was only what he deserved.
‘Right.’ I dusted off my hands. ‘Annoying vamp temporarily disposed off: check. Time for a shower and clothes before Sylvia gets back.’
I tugged off my vest top and sleep shorts and caught my reflection in the wardrobe mirror. Not a pretty sight. The mass of purple bruising centred on my midriff didn’t look – or feel – any better, nor did the rest of the multicoloured patches that decorated my arms and legs. But while I might be bruised and battered, I had things to do. I needed to buy a new Ward – Malik couldn’t be left unprotected, however much the angry part of me might want to – but I couldn’t afford a Ward and a Healing spell. I decided a couple of aspirins and a handful of blood-fruit to up my venom levels – I had a brief relieved thought that even after Darius’ attack last night, when he’d venom-stuck me, I didn’t seem to be suffering any ill-effects – and I’d live for another day.
I looked, and ran my fingers over Tavish’s handprint spell where it sat low down on my stomach; it hadn’t changed. It was obviously to do with the fertility curse – but hey, right now everything and anything was to do with the fertility curse – but since it wasn’t active yet, that didn’t tell me what it was going to do. Maybe Fi
nn would know, once we got round to talking today. I wondered again what had been so important that he hadn’t wanted to chat last night, although with what had happened, Finn not being around had turned out for the best. If he’d been here when Malik had brought me home injured, he’d probably have tried to stake – or rather, stick his horns in – the arrogant vamp. But Tavish’s spell gave me a good enough excuse to phone Finn and hurry up our chat. Plus, there was my job, or lack of it, at Spellcrackers, and our relationship, whatever it was, to sort out. I fished my phone from my jacket, hesitated, and took the coward’s way out and texted him instead.
Can we meet soon, please?
I stared as the little envelope symbol winged off on its way, then stared some more as if that would get me an immediate reply, before telling myself to get on with more sensible things, like checking my emails . . . which consisted of a load of the usual ‘no, I really don’t want whatever it is you’re selling’ spam, and one from Hugh saying he was looking into my queries about the missing faelings, the Morrígan, Ana and the other stuff, and he’d get back to me.
‘At least someone’s trying to help me,’ I said loudly, nudging the carpeted Malik with my foot (not that I thought he could hear me, but it made me feel better). I picked up Grace’s pentacle from my bedside table, found another chain in one of the drawers to replace the broken one, and clasped it round my neck as I went over my day’s to-visit list.
There was the chat with Finn, hopefully. There was the visit Victoria Harrier, my lawyer, had arranged with the ravens at the Tower of London. And then there was the other visit Victoria had arranged, with her very pregnant daughter-in-law, Ana, to chat about babies and 3V and vamps and curses. I wasn’t looking forward to it, as even without Ana being a past, and possibly present and future, victim of the curse, the whole idea of talking to a faeling whose grandmother was a royal sidhe princess (which Angel was, however nutty she also was), and whose great-grandmother was a sidhe queen, filled my stomach with oddly nervous butterflies.
And that gave me another more immediate problem: what on earth was I supposed to wear that would be suitable for a meeting with the ravens, a faeling who had royal sidhe blood, and a serious chat with my ex-boss to sort out both the personal and working sides of our relationship, all the while trying to deal with matchmaking magic? In the end I decided on smart, but casual, with just a slight touch of sexy: a green top of silk and lace, black velvet jeans and killer-heel boots.
‘And then tonight,’ I said, bending down and giving the evil eye to Malik in the rolled-up carpet under my bed, ‘I’m going back to Sucker Town and find out what’s going on with Fyodor, Mad Max, Darius and my blood, and what they all have to do with the curse, and you are not going to stop me.’
Chapter Thirty-one
Sylvia turned up with breakfast. Only she wasn’t alone.
Johnny Depp was with her.
My mouth dropped open.
‘Ta da!’ She spread her arms wide. ‘Look who I found.’
Johnny Depp was with her! And he was dressed in his Captain Jack Sparrow pirate costume!
‘Hello, luv.’ He chucked me under the chin and made a high clicking noise. ‘How’s your ship sailing?’
I narrowed my eyes. That clicking was familiar. Damn, he wasn’t Johnny Depp but Fishface, a naiad – and the clicking was just him laughing.
‘Don’t tell me,’ I said, trying to remember his real name, ‘you’re here to court me.’
‘Got it in one, luv.’ He strolled in trailing the scent of ozone, and stood in the centre of my living room under my amber – and copper-beaded chandelier. He did a three-sixty as he admired the place – not that there was much to admire, but hey, he grinned and looked captivated enough that I almost wondered if he were thinking of moving in—
Half a dozen of the chandelier’s glass beads popped above him. His grinning mouth split into a yawn, his cheeks spread until thick fluted fins flared out to either side, his long pirate dreads morphed into a tall, spiny headcrest that tangled with the lower beads, and his costume disappeared, leaving him standing naked in all his scaly pale grey double glory.
I blinked. A six-foot-tall-in-his-webbed-clawed-feet naked naiad wasn’t the sort of sight you wanted to see before breakfast. Or brunch. Or anytime, really.
‘He really knows how to use both of them,’ Sylvia whispered in my ear. ‘He’s a virtual god once you get him between the sheets.’ She squeezed my arm. ‘Don’t mention I said so, though, his head’s big enough as it is.’ She patted my butt. ‘I love your outfit too, Genny. You look fabulous.’
‘Ri-ight,’ I said, wondering whether she’d just given me a personal recommendation, an invitation, or a ‘keep off my property’ warning.
A large folded towel appeared in Sylvia’s hand and she walked up to him and slapped it affectionately on his chest. ‘You still haven’t got the hang of Glamour yet, have you, Ricou?’ She gave me a look that said ‘he’s a lovable idiot really’, and sashayed into the kitchen area where she deposited a large takeaway bag and started unpacking it.
Ricou. Fishface’s real name was Ricou.
Ricou gave the towel a disgruntled look – it was bright pink and decorated with white cherry-tree blossoms – then wrapped it round his waist and secured it with the end of his whip-like tail. He stuck his webbed clawed hands on his hips and looked up at the beads. The membrane flickered over the black orbs of his eyes. ‘Nice Reveal spells, luv, you get them off old Gillie on the market?’
‘No,’ I said, pushing the door closed, ‘Bernie Mittle made them.’
‘Bernie does great work, but you might want to try old Gillie next time. She’s just as good, but she’s cheaper.’
‘You should listen to him, Genny.’ Sylvia gave a rustling laugh. ‘London’s expert on Which Witch for Which Spell, he is.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, then remembered about my cracked Ward and the rug-wrapped fanged occupant of my bedroom. ‘So who’s the best for good, cheap Wards?’
‘Fiddlesticks,’ Sylvia said, unpacking what looked like enough food to feed a whole forest of dryads, never mind the three of us. ‘I forgot about that. I meant to get you one when I was out. You could always use a blood-Ward for today and I’ll pick one up later. Ricky will tell you how, won’t you, babe?’
‘Sure thing, Blossom.’ He steepled his claws together and tapped his lipless mouth. ‘Blood-Wards are a tad primitive, but easy-peasy enough. Just draw a line in blood across all entrances and add your will to it. It’ll stop anyone crossing.’Course, the real disadvantage is you have to give them a top-up before they run out, which could be anywhere from a few hours to a couple of days, so you can’t just go off and forget about them. Then there’s the physical side – there’s only so much blood and magic a body can offer up before it starts to run on empty.’ He did a wide grin-yawn of a smile. ‘But they’re handy for a quick, free fix.’
It did sound easy. ‘Okay, a couple of questions: do I have to stay inside the blood-Ward for it to work, and what about anyone else inside it; can they leave if they want to?’
‘Hmm.’ His headcrest quivered. ‘You can set the blood-Ward up so you can walk through it without breaking it, but it’s a bit more complicated the other way. ’Course, if you do set it up so’s they can walk out, then it’ll break when they cross it.’
‘That’s great, thanks,’ I said. It would work. I could leave, Malik would be protected, and when he woke up at sunset, or whenever, he could walk out . . . or I could trap him—which had its own possibilities.
‘Told you he was the best, didn’t I?’ Sylvia beamed proudly.
I got the subtext as I looked from one to the other: Sylvia pretending to be Carefree Caterer and Ricou doing his impression of Professor of Spells. To be honest, it was hard to miss: they had a thing going on, and Sylvia had very definitely been warning me off. Which made me wonder what the hell the pair of them were doing here supposedly courting me?
‘Look,’ I said, ‘nice as this little br
eakfast club is, I’ve got places to go, people to meet’ – and no way do I want to play gooseberry – ‘so you’ll both have to amuse yourselves without me today.’
‘Gosh, don’t worry about us, Genny. We’re both happy to do whatever.’
‘Yeah, luv.’ Ricou thumped his clawed fist proudly on his chest. ‘Ricou here will be honoured to escort you two ladies on the town.’
‘Now then, breakfast is served,’ Sylvia said brightly. ‘We’ve got some more blood’ – she tapped a couple of the large cups – ‘and pancakes with extra maple syrup – they’re mine, but I’m happy to share; a couple of bacon butties, because the waitress said they were your favourite, and some sashimi tuna and whole sardines for the waterbaby there.’ She waved at the half-dozen other cups and containers. ‘We also have coffee, tea, orange juice, custard doughnuts and a selection of vegetable crudities.’
I eyed the carrot and celery sticks sitting neatly alongside the broccoli and cauliflower florets, all complete with a sprinkling of sesame seed. Eew! That was the sort of rabbit food only Finn ate. And thinking of him . . . why hadn’t he returned my text? I left the raw stuff and picked up one of the bacon butties.
‘You can drop the act,’ I said, waving it to indicate the two of them, ‘and you can tell me what you’re doing courting me.’ I took a bite.
Ricou’s membranes flickered over his eyes nervously. Sylvia’s dress quivered, and a lone white petal fell to land next to her silver-sandalled feet.
‘Well,’ I said, after I’d swallowed, ‘who wants to go first?’
‘Ricou here won you in a poker game.’ He flexed his headcrest to free it from the beads, making them jangle. ‘Told you that, the last time we met, luv.’ He wandered over to the kitchen, snagged a sardine and threw it in the air, snapping his jaws with a loud smacking noise as he caught it.
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