The Bitter Seed of Magic (A Spellcrackers Novel) (15 page)

‘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 stomach 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—

‘’Tis this that she wants tae show you, doll,’ he whispered, his breath scorching my ear. ‘’Tis
this
that could occur.’

My legs gave way and I fell forward, thudding onto my hands and knees. I screamed again as the molten burn of his hand sank into my flesh, eclipsing even the hot, tearing pain between my legs.

‘She would have me rip the babe from your belly and steal both its soul and your ain.’

I had to stop him; I had to save it—
I had to save the baby
.

Sobbing, I groped blindly at his legs, shredding his hose, raking bloody furrows in his calves, anything to make him stop—

‘So, ’tis a warning, tae nae let any of them plant their seed in your body.’

Fire blazed in my stomach, licked vicious, all-consuming flames through my body, and he roared in anguish. ‘I cannae gainsay her, doll: she has taken my reins, and you are nae tae trust me, for I am nae longer my ain master!’

—my fingers snagged on something cold and hard.
The gold chain
. I grabbed it where it trailed from his ankle, yanking at it with both hands, pulling his leg out from under him, feeling the little gold keys cutting into my palms, feeling his hand slide from my flesh as I collapsed, weeping, into the cold blood spreading beneath me.

‘Sidhe,’ the soft, husky voice murmured as sharp claws punctured the soft skin under my jaw and lifted my chin, ‘open your eyes and look at me, sidhe.’

I was frozen in the same nightmare state as before and I couldn’t refuse her order. I opened my eyes and stared into her acid-yellow ones.

‘Losing a child is . . . painful. The heart cracks and shatters into sharp, splintered pieces; pieces that are disparaged by the indifference of others.’ A curious expression crossed her wrinkled green face, and then her tongue flicked out and delicately licked a hot line across my face. ‘You, sidhe, you are not indifferent; you feel my pain in your tears. You will remember.’ She brought her face so close to mine that she was nothing more than a blur of green. Our lips met; her tongue slithered into and out of my mouth, leaving behind a taste of something bitter and sad. ‘You will remember.’

I swallowed, and the bitterness ran like sour juice down my throat, until it hit my stomach—

And I disappeared into a furnace of remembered pain.

T
here was a banging noise in my head; it meant something . . . The noise rolled around my mind like waves breaking on a shore, loud and close, then fading away . . . A rank butcher’s shop smell of spoiled blood wrinkled my nose. And the noise came back, this time shrieking like a storm wind battering through the trees. I half-opened my eyes and peered in confusion at the scattered pile of books next to me, and at my kitchen area beyond them. Why was I lying on the floor in my flat? Quiet footsteps tapped and scuffed on wood. . .

Memory caught up with consciousness and hit me like a Beater goblin’s baseball bat—
The baby
. I curled into a ball, protectively hugging my stomach, a whimper of terror escaping from my mouth . . . then, as I felt my belt buckle dig in at my waist and registered the absence of actual pain, reality began to reassert itself. Pulse leaping with frantic hope, I ran my hands over my body, checking, and finally lay back and stared blindly at my beaded chandelier in heartfelt relief.

I wasn’t pregnant, and I hadn’t lost a child
.

And if there was no child – what the fuck was the whole Ellen Ripley/
Alien
baby show all about?

The quiet footsteps stopped and something white blurred my view of the ceiling.

‘Fiddlesticks! Mother’s going to snap my twigs off if you’re broken,’ an annoyed voice muttered.

I squinted at a pair of feet in strappy silver sandals standing in the congealing blood next to my face: one heel was broken and half the pink-painted toenails were chipped. The feminine feet didn’t look threatening – but looks aren’t what matter; whoever it was had forced their way through my protective Wards, so chipped pink toenails or not, they could probably take me. My gaze skimmed over the shoes, past the thin ankles and up the slim, badly scratched legs that disappeared into white stretchy shorts. I stopped at the tattered edge of a pink and white flowered skirt that tented above me. Something about the way the material flared up was odd . . . like there should be an up-breeze to go with the movement. Then the skirt’s owner flattened the material as she bent down to study me, her bright eyes shining like polished green conkers, her lack of eyebrows giving her face an unfinished look. A scratched pink cycle helmet perched askew on her clipped scalp, the broken strap dangling by her left cheek.

Another dryad – and going by the eyes, I’d say it was Sylvia, Lady Isabella’s own daughter. Last time we’d met she’d tried to kidnap me.

This time I suspected her intentions were ‘friendlier’, as in ‘Nominated Go-Between’ . . . I really hoped so; I wasn’t sure I was up to dealing with much else right now.

‘Are you hurt, Ms Taylor?’ she shrieked, giving my shoulder a hard poke.

I winced at the noise –
did she think I was deaf or something?
– and smacked her hand away. ‘Not as much as you’re going to be if you touch me again. And hel-
lo
’ – I pointed at my face – ‘eyes open here?’

‘Just because your eyes are open doesn’t mean you’re awake, or even alive.’ She straightened, hands keeping the skirt under control.

‘I was moving! Dead people don’t move.’ Not usually anyway.

‘You were convulsing,’ she stated. ‘It’s not the same as moving. And you’re covered in blood.’

‘Lamb’s blood,’ I muttered, irritatedly eyeing the flattened Rosy Lea Café takeaway cup and my uncomfortable, blood-drenched jeans. Note to self: next time someone sics an
Alien
-inspired illusion spell on you, put the cup of blood down first. ‘It was dinner,’ I added with a sigh.

She tilted her head enquiringly to one side. ‘Are you going to lick it off the floor?’

Eew!
‘No!’

‘Oh,’ she said, sounding disappointed. ‘Well, anyway, you should be grateful I was here to save you.’

Save me! What the—?
I grimaced; was she channelling her graft-brother Bandana or something? And lying on the floor looking up her skirt was getting old, and as I didn’t appear to be suffering any ill-effects of whatever magic Tavish’s new mistress – or whoever the hell she was – had treated me to, I got to my feet.

‘Listen up, Sylvia’ – I poked
her
shoulder, hard enough to rock her back on her broken heel – ‘even if you did rush to my rescue, which is debatable, you’re a dryad, so you’ll have a long wait before I’m indebted to you or any of your pals.’

‘Gosh, you really are an ungrateful sort, aren’t you?’ she pouted, rubbing her shoulder.

‘C’mon, drop the injured act, Sylvia. It’s really not going to get you anywhere.’ I stuck my hands on my hips. ‘Ri-
ight
, let’s get a few things straight: this is my
home
, and you’re an uninvited guest, so you can start off with how you managed to get in, before
I
start snapping off your twigs.’ Not that I actually knew where her tree was, but—

‘There’s no need to be like that.’ She made a little moue of disdain and fluffed out her flowery skirt – which I now realised was actually a fifties-style dress, one more suited to a summer heatwave than a cold spring day, since the halter top only just covered her ‘Hello, boys!’ cleavage. The top also didn’t hide the cuts and scratches marking her bare skin, the ones she was now examining intently.