The Bitter Seed of Magic (A Spellcrackers Novel) (11 page)

It seemed to me to be an utterly stupid move on Malik’s part.

But stupid was one thing he wasn’t.

So what the hell was the beautiful, Machiavellian vamp playing at?

I sat up, my white-paper jumpsuit rustling, and checked out my left wrist. The spell bracelet was still there, half-submerged back into my body. After another few hours it would be totally absorbed. But Malik’s ring-charm was gone.

Looked like I’d have to find out the non-magical way, and actually ask him in person. As soon as I got out of gaol.

‘H
ere you go, Genny,’ Hugh said, his ruddy face lined with concern, as he offered me the envelope containing my belongings. We were alone in the small cupboard-like custody room. It was a part of Old Scotland Yard I’d never seen before, or ever wanted to again.

‘Thanks,’ I said, taking the envelope and upending its contents carefully on the counter between us. My phone, Spellcrackers ID, wallet, watch and Grace’s gold pentacle all slid out. I picked the pentacle up – a restless, fretful feeling that I hadn’t been aware of suddenly calmed: I’d missed it – and fastened it round my neck. Oddly enough, I’d been wearing it in Malik’s dreamscape, even though I hadn’t been in the cell. I shrugged, but then dreams were like that. I tucked my ID and wallet into my jacket’s inner pocket, and stuffed my phone into my clean jeans. My bloodstained clothes from yesterday were being kept as evidence.

‘And thanks for getting me the clothes too,’ I smiled up at Hugh as I snagged my watch. What I needed now was a long, lo-oong shower, something I’d been fantasising about sitting in that itching, burning cell. I checked the time: it was gone two in the afternoon—

‘
She’s
had me locked up for nearly thirty hours!’ I snapped the watch on in frustrated annoyance. ‘And that’s
after
I admitted guilt, agreed to pay double what the spell’s worth, not to mention the extortionate fine. Dammit, Hugh, if it wasn’t for my solicitor’s connections’ –
thank you, Malik, for choosing a top-notch firm
(although I hadn’t expected anything less) – ‘she would’ve left me to rot.’

Hugh pushed a receipt form and one of his over-large troll pens towards me. ‘I don’t know why the inspector’s behaving like this, Genny,’ he rumbled worriedly. ‘There are rumours the top brass are making noises, and I’d hate to see her career ruined.’

‘I wouldn’t,’ I huffed, signing for my things. ‘And if the top brass have any sense, they’ll get rid of her and give you a shot at the job.’

‘No, she’s a good DI. And she’s worked hard; she’s had to because she’s a witch. Having her in the job helps all of us non-humans.’ He filed the form somewhere under the counter, then his expression shifted into his ‘what I’m going to say is important’ look. Inwardly, I sighed, guessing what was coming next.

‘I know how you feel about her, Genny’ – conciliatory dust puffed from his head ridge, the pink motes glinting in the harsh fluorescent lighting – ‘and she’s in the wrong, but something needs to be done, and not just for her sake, but for all of us. I’ve tried talking to her, but she won’t listen. Maybe if it came from someone outside the force, someone close to her like Finn, it would hit home more. Will you talk to him, see if there’s something he can do?’

I’d rather clean out a swamp-dragon’s lair, but this was Hugh. I sighed. ‘Okay. But I doubt it’ll help. Finn’s part of the whole problem; we both know that.’

‘Thanks, Genny.’ He rounded the counter, then carefully punched the security code into the exit door and held it open. ‘I’ll be in touch as soon as I can about the faeling’s death,’ he added in a barely heard murmur.

I walked out into the main Back Hall reception, hearing the door click shut behind me with deep relief as I scanned the long, high-ceilinged room with its drab, utilitarian green décor. Finn wasn’t waiting for me, and after that kiss I’d sort of expected he would be. Feeling peeved, and not a little disappointed, I turned my attention to the smart fiftyish woman who
was
waiting: Victoria Harrier, my solicitor, and apparently one of the top criminal defence lawyers in the UK.

She was pacing, her phone clamped to her ear. Everything about her was understated, from her bobbed grey hair, pale pink blouse and maroon suit down to her black leather court shoes, but it was expensive, classy understatement. I had a horrible suspicion that her normal hourly rate was more than my week’s pay. Paying her bill was probably going to be one of those never-ending debts.
Damn.
I didn’t regret siccing the Stun spell on Bandana and sending him down the river, but it was proving to be a high-priced option; next time I’d settle for buying a chainsaw.

I thumbed my own phone on and rang Sanguine Lifestyles to ask for a direct number for Malik. The response was efficient, polite and frustrating: they didn’t have one. Mr al-Khan contacted them at sunset. Partially reassured that he did actually speak to them daily, I left a message for him to call me urgently.

‘Ms Taylor.’ Victoria Harrier snapped her own phone shut as she saw me finish my call and came briskly towards me, her low-heeled court shoes almost sparking off the green linoleum floor. She halted in front of me, her eyes glinting with the same ruthless competence she’d shown in getting me out of gaol so much quicker than Witch-bitch Crane had wanted. ‘Now, just to reiterate the situation, Ms Taylor: you’ve already pleaded guilty, and paid both the reparation and the fine’ – Ms Harrier had actually paid them, and had added them to my no doubt already hefty bill – ‘but the judge insisted on both a Conditional Caution and a Restraining Order, and that means you must stay away from Detective Inspector Crane’s investigation. You do understand that, don’t you?’

‘Yes, I understand.’ Complying was a different matter entirely.

‘Perfect.’ A smile as bright as polished steel lit her face. ‘Now we still have certain matters to discuss, so I’d like to offer you a lift home, if you have no objection?’ Her smile didn’t change, but it wasn’t a request.

I gave her a considering look. No doubt she wanted to outline exactly what would happen if – or rather, when – I screwed up on the terms of the Caution. But while she’d got me out of clink, and quickly, she was a witch, and that had my suspicious antennae twitching like mad. Still, she had one thing in her favour: DI Crane appeared to hate her almost as much as me; a feeling Victoria Harrier reciprocated, if the nearly tangible animosity between the two of them was anything to go by. At one point I’d been expecting broomsticks at dawn, or whatever it was that witches did.

But I had another more curious and perturbing question: why was a witch working for a vampire? Something that just didn’t happen, not with the ancient live-and-let-live-but-ne’er-the-twain-shall-meet covenant the two species shared. I didn’t have an answer. Yet. But I was going to find out.

‘Sure,’ I told her. ‘A lift would be great, thanks.’

 

Finn was waiting outside, leaning against the black-painted railings, hands stuck in his pockets, the afternoon sunshine making sharp silhouettes of his horns as he contemplated the pavement. Surprise and pleasure that he
was
waiting flashed through me, then my heart took over, leaping in my chest as the memory of his magic and his kiss stunned me and left me staring at him like some Glamour-struck human.
Damn
, that was
so
not a good reaction. If it kept up, I was going to have problems talking to him without drooling. I forced myself to look past him to the black stretch limo waiting next to the kerb. A uniformed chauffeur was holding the door open – Victoria Harrier obviously travelled in style – and, feeling cowardly, I wondered if I could make a run for it.

A loud caw distracted me and I looked up at the arched stone entrance at the top of the short cul-de-sac. There was a large raven sitting atop it. The bird cawed again, bobbed its head in acknowledgement, as if it had been waiting for me to appear, then launched itself into the clear blue sky—

‘Gen.’ Finn’s voice snapped my attention back to him as he pushed away from the railings, his smile wide with obvious relief, and came towards me. I tensed as he wrapped his arms round me and pulled me into a hard hug instead of his more usual greeting, a brief touch on my arm. Then, as I breathed in his warm berry scent, the tension washed out of me, to be replaced by yearning and need. I forgot everything and hugged him back, succumbing to the heat of his body against mine, the quick thud of his heart, the sharp tug of his magic at my core . . .
wanting him
.

He buried his face in my hair. ‘Gods, Gen, I’m so sorry,’ he whispered, his warm breath feathering along my cheek and curling desire deep inside me. My own magic stirred, and the desire fanned hot, turning into lust, and I pressed myself against him, eager to get closer, not caring about anything other than being with him. His arms tightened. ‘I’m so sorry. I tried to explain about the dryad and the spell, but Helen—’

Reality crashed over me like a cold shower and I jerked out of his arms, blinking as I stepped back. I stared at the pavement, getting my heart and my libido under control. Shit, what the hell was wrong with me? It was only one kiss! But even as I asked myself, the answer came: it wasn’t just the kiss. There was Tavish’s Sleeping Beauty spell, and whatever spin he’d added to it.
Damn kelpie.
And who knew what other magics the goddess had sicced on me? Still, looked like Helen Crane was good for something: the mere mention of her name was a sure-fire passion-killer.

I fixed her beautiful patrician face in my mind and carefully lifted my eyes to Finn’s, relieved that the urge to throw myself into his arms was nothing more than a bad idea. What was it he’d been saying?

Oh yeah.
‘Finn, this isn’t about me stealing the spell,’ I said, ‘or about me using it. For whatever reason, Helen is out of control. And she’s abusing the powers of her job.’

‘Hell’s thorns, Gen’ – he ran an agitated hand through his hair – ‘don’t you think I know that?’

‘Hugh thinks you could maybe talk to her, make her see sense?’ I said tentatively, then promptly forgot everything else as I watched him rub his left horn. My own fingers itched with the need to join his, to see if his horns were as hot and responsive as I remembered . . .

‘Helen’s having a rough time just now,’ he sighed. ‘It’s complicated.’

Helen equals passion-killer: check.
‘Complicated!’ I pulled a ‘heard it all before’ face.

‘Yeah, I know. But this really is.’ He hesitated, looking at the police station behind me for a moment, then lowered his voice. ‘It’s about Helen’s son. He turned up a few months ago and it’s causing a lot of problems.’

‘Helen’s got a son?’ Confusion filled me. ‘When did that happen?’

Finn’s perplexed expression told me I should know what he was talking about. Part of me thought maybe I did, but the rest of me was more interested in his broad shoulders, and in him losing the suit jacket, oh, and the moss-green shirt that matched his eyes, and where that might lead . . .

. . . and my mind filled with images of a cute baby satyr with green eyes and tiny horns. Though, of course, the baby would only have horns if it was a boy. If we had a girl, she’d be sidhe, like me. Then again, I’d have to make a conscious decision to have a little girl, otherwise the magic would default to the father’s –
Finn’s
– genes for sex, species and magic. In fact, I’d have to make a conscious decision to become pregnant (unless there were some truly extraordinary circumstances and a fertility rite involved) . . . So, a baby boy with cute horns, tiny hooves and a fluffy tail, or a baby girl with my own amber-coloured cat-like eyes—

‘—and Helen gave him up to the sidhe when he was born, so he’s a changeling,’ Finn finished. He looked at me like he obviously expected me to comment. When I just stared at him, bemused, he added with a touch of exasperation, ‘Hell’s thorns, Gen, you want me to talk to Helen, and I’m trying to explain why there’s a problem. Helen’s having difficulty dealing with it. It’s a very emotional time for her, and I know that’s not an excuse . . .’ he added quickly, seeing my expression.

No, it’s not,
I thought, breaking eye contact with him before the broody baby nightmares started up again. I stared at the stone archway at the end of the road. It was safer. So Helen’s son was a changeling – not that I was entirely sure what being a changeling changed about a mortal, other than being brought up in the Fair Lands from birth. Briefly I wondered how old he was if he was back and causing problems? Mid to late teens, maybe? But regardless, why was I standing here listening to Finn go on about Helen, his ex,
while thinking about having his baby
? Either I’d turned into a total idiot without noticing –
or someone, like maybe, oh, a certain goddess, or the magic?
– was messing with me.

And why the hell was Finn so concerned about Helen’s kid, anyway? After all, he’d told me there was nothing between them any more –
maybe I really was an idiot to believe that?
– and that the baby wasn’t his the last time this had all come up . . . my gut knotted as I suddenly realised he hadn’t. He’d clammed up instead.

‘Witches always have daughters if the dad is sidhe, don’t they?’ I asked, interrupting his not-so-lyrical waxing about Helen.

‘What?’

I risked a quick look at him. He was frowning at me like I’d suddenly started spouting pixie.

‘That’s how you get more witches,’ I said, answering his question literally. ‘If the dad is human and the kid is a boy, then they’re a wizard: if it’s a girl, they’re a witch’s daughter. And if the dad is lesser fae, then they always have a boy: a faeling . . .’ I trailed off as his frown deepened into understanding.

‘Helen’s son isn’t mine, Gen,’ he said, a muscle jumping in his jaw and an odd, indecipherable look crossing his face. ‘His father was a human she met before I knew her. If you wanted to know if I had a child, all you had to do was ask.’