Burn Mark (12 page)

‘Drama queen,’ Lucas retorted. At that she gave her trademark head toss, and flounced up the stairs.

Marisa emerged soon after. If she was embarrassed to find her stepson there, she didn’t show it.

‘Well,’ she said to him calmly, ‘this is quite a pickle, isn’t it?’

He gave an awkward nod. ‘I’m . . . sorry.’

‘I’m sure you are.’ She gave a brief, tight smile, before continuing down the hall. ‘And
I’m
going to have a drink.’ Her voice was back to its brightly social best, as if they were at a cocktail party.

A drink sounded like a good idea. The traditional response to disaster – to get steaming, roaring, crashingly drunk. Maybe he should try it.

But Lucas didn’t even have the energy to move. The hall mirror showed him a stranger, with shadowed eyes, and a streak of old man’s silver in his hair.

Chapter 10

‘Just a family supper,’ Uncle Charlie had said in his phone call on Sunday, while Glory grasped the phone so tightly her knuckles turned white. ‘Kez has been nagging me to get you over. It’s been too long.’

Now it was Monday, and Glory was on the bus to Hampstead and the Morgan lair. This time, it was her handbag she held in a white-knuckled grip.

When she was little, visiting her Morgan relatives had been like going to Disneyland. Everything at their mansion was sparkly-new. The two girls had a room each just for clothes, and more toys than anyone could ever play with. There was a cinema and a swimming pool, and dinners that didn’t come from the microwave or tins. What did it matter that Candice used to pull her hair, or that Skye laughed at her hand-me-down clothes? Their brother Troy would give her piggyback rides round the garden, and Uncle Charlie would slip ten-pound notes and sweeties into her pocket when Auntie Angel wasn’t looking.

The best visits were the special occasion ones, like Christmas and Easter or Balefire Night, when the house was draped in black and they said prayers for Guy Fawkes and the other witch martyrs, while outside the coven world, people burned the martyrs’ images at garden parties and let off fireworks. Witchkind’s own celebration was All Hallows’ Eve. It was as secret as the Balefire Night gatherings but much more fun. There was a big dinner with coven witches and their families, followed by dancing and competitive fae-tricks.

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 them 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.’