Burn Mark (13 page)

‘I’m glad to hear it. It’s a crying shame Angeline’s witchworking days are nearly done. It’ll be the end of an era when she goes.’ A regretful sigh. ‘But I got a feeling you’re destined for bigger things than Cooper Street – whether you’re witchkind or no.’ He leaned forward. ‘That’s why I’m asking for your help.’

So they were coming to the point at last.

‘How d’you mean?’

‘Takings are down at your coven, and I want to know why.’

The Wednesday Coven took a percentage of Cooper Street profits in return for a share of contacts and territory, and the prestige of their alliance. It was an unequal partnership in every way. The Wednesdays made millions from money laundering, racketeering, drugs trafficking, extortion and heists. Cooper Street, meanwhile, scraped a living through the likes of pirated DVDs, email scams and identity theft.

Glory managed a shrug. ‘Our head-witch is an OAP, our boss is a drunk and his son’s a waster. Business ain’t what it used to be.’

‘Hmm. What about the Bishops Green depot raid, then? And those designer watch knock-offs that did such great business round Christmas? They should’ve been prize jobs for your piggy bank. But the numbers don’t show.’

At the mention of numbers, Glory felt a new fear. ‘My – my dad does our accounts. And he’s not crooked.’ Her face grew hot. ‘I’ll burn before I believe it.’

Uncle Charlie held up his hands in a placating manner. ‘Your dad’s straight as they make ’em. But Patrick only makes a record of what cash and so on comes his way. If a slice of the pie is missing, he’s not going to know about it.’

‘You’re sure someone’s skimming the profits?’

‘Frank is. He’s the one who showed me the books. I haven’t mentioned it to Vince, mind. Not yet.’

Frank and Vince were Charlie’s brothers. Frank took care of the coven’s financial affairs. Vince was the one who threatened and maimed and killed to order, the one even the coven toughs talked about in whispers. He was also the only Morgan brother to have done time. Glory hadn’t seen him for a long while.

She understood the threat his name implied. Nobody wanted Vince Morgan looking into their business. She also understood that the issue wasn’t really about money. Whatever cut of Cooper Street’s earnings the Wednesdays took, it was small change to a man like Charlie Morgan. It was his reputation that was at stake. To cheat him was to disrespect him, and respect meant everything in the coven world.

‘I’m a busy man,’ Charlie continued. ‘The Inquisition’s over us like a sack of fleas, I got Bradley Goodwin’s trial to contend with, and ten other types of grief beside. That don’t mean I’m going soft. Far from it. So if there’s something rotten in Cooper Street, I want you to be the one to sniff it out.’

‘You want me to be a snitch.’

Uncle Charlie looked pained. ‘I wouldn’t put it like that. This is a very special relationship we’ve got here. Our covens are bound by blood-ties as much as business and, like you said, families stick together. Right?’

‘Right.’

‘That’s my girl. I’ve got faith in you, Glory. Plans too – big plans. Now’s the time to show me what you’re capable of.’

His teeth flashed brilliantly.

Since it was an informal supper, they ate in the kitchen, a sterile expanse of black marble-topped counters and cabinets of frosted glass. When Glory arrived, Kezia and Troy were standing by the stove. He’d said something to cheek her, and she’d dabbed sauce on his nose. It was a small mother-son moment that gave Glory a stab of envy. She turned away, and concentrated on resenting the state of the art kitchen gadgets instead.

Although Kezia’s position as head-witch was a full-time job, and she had an army of domestic staff at her disposal, it was part of her cover to play the part of a traditional housewife. The four of them sat down to roast pork with all the trimmings followed by home-made trifle. Charlie was on fine form: booming out crude jokes and coven gossip, topping up everyone’s glass.

It was impossible for Glory to relax. The conversation in the office had been such a slippery mix of flattery and veiled threats she hardly knew what to think. As for the task Charlie’d set her . . . Maybe someone at Cooper Street really was dumb enough to try to rip him off. Or maybe he’d made the whole thing up, to stir trouble.

Every rich, heavy mouthful lodged indigestibly in her stomach. She didn’t like wine and this one tasted sour, even though the bottle probably cost as much as what most people spent on a crate. She was too hot and her head was aching.

At last it was over. When she stood up to say her thanks and goodbyes, Troy got up too. ‘I’ll give you a lift home. I’m going your way anyhow.’

Glory found this hard to believe. It meant she wasn’t escaping just yet.

The mansion’s garage housed a vintage Bentley and several sports cars that looked like fighter jets. Troy’s Mercedes was relatively low-key in comparison.

They spent the first few minutes of the drive in silence. She had been aware of Troy’s scrutiny during dinner, and when they waited at the traffic lights by the Blythe Hill roadworks, she realised he was looking at her again.

‘What? Is there snot on my face or something?’

‘Prickly kid, aren’t you? Maybe I’m just enjoying the view.’

Glory didn’t know what to resent more – being called a kid, or the remark that followed it. But he’d said it so drily she decided to let it pass.

‘How’s it going at uni?’ she asked, partly to change the subject, and partly because she was genuinely curious as to how Troy combined life as a final-year Economics student with that of coven boss-in-waiting.

‘All right. It’s stuff at home that’s the hassle. Mum’s tearing her hair out over Candice. Dad reckons this latest detox will straighten her out but . . .’ He shrugged. ‘He’s in denial. When Candy got the fae, she went on a bender that lasted three weeks. It wasn’t as if she was celebrating either. She’s never wanted to be a witch. Too much like hard work. Anyway, Dad won’t even admit she’s got a problem, and that makes Mum mad.’

Interesting. Auntie Angel said Kezia’s abilities were only average, but that she was a clever manager. She needed to be, for a head-witch directed all fae-based operations in a coven, from hexing banes and crafting talismans to more complex works such as glamours, which disguised a person’s appearance, and fascinations, which were used for smuggling and forgery. The big restriction on coven witches was that they didn’t use their fae for violence. An ordinary criminal convicted of murder would go to prison. A witch would get the Burning Court.

It was probably more of an arranged marriage than a love match. Kezia had done well for herself; a head-witch was a powerful figure in the coven, and in many outfits was equal to the boss. But coven wives always deferred to their husbands. When she wasn’t witchworking, Kezia was at home being the loyal wife and mother. Meanwhile, Charlie gave the orders, met the contacts, made the deals . . . and played away with his string of girlfriends. Was Mrs Morgan content with the bargain she’d made?

‘Mum still hopes me or Skye will get the fae,’ Troy went on, ‘though, as a girl, it’s more likely for Skye. It’d only cause trouble for me. The boss should be the front-man; the head-witch, the power behind the throne. You need a division of responsibility. Combine both roles, and life gets complicated.’

‘Your gran Lily managed it.’

‘Things have changed since her day. Anyhow, Gran was a special case.’

Glory thought of the three blonde sisters in the photograph and smiled in spite of herself. ‘That’s ’cause she was a Starling girl.’

‘Yeah . . . I wonder where I can get one of those?’

She sensed, rather than saw, his eyes on her again. She was certain now that Angeline was right about Charlie Morgan’s plans for his bloodline. He and Troy and Kezia had probably already discussed it. Her guts twisted in anger and disgust.

At least they’d reached the turning to Cooper Street. ‘Home sweet home,’ Troy announced as the car pulled up at the kerb. ‘God. I’d forgotten what a dump this place is.’

‘Well, it’s
my
dump, all right?’ Glory felt for the door.

But Troy had taken her by the arm, pulling her back into her seat. His narrow green eyes fixed intently on hers.

If he tries anything on
, she thought,
I’ll nut him
.

However, it seemed Troy had other things on his mind. ‘Listen. I know Dad’s asked you to keep an ear to the ground. I also know he’s not the easiest guy in the world to deal with. So if you turn up something you’re not sure about, you can always run it by me first.’

‘Very kind, but I’m sure I’ll manage.’

‘I hope so,’ he said seriously. ‘These are tough times, Glory. The Inquisition’s upped its game and we’re facing a new kind of challenge. Dad won’t admit it, but if the Goodwin trial doesn’t go our way, the Wednesday Coven will take a major hit.’

‘Ain’t my problem.’

‘Don’t kid yourself. The two –’

She opened the door. ‘I know, I know. Blood-ties plus business equals A Very Special Relationship.’

‘You take care, Glory.’

It wasn’t so much a goodbye as a warning.

Auntie Angel’s light was on but Glory was in no mood for a debrief. She decided to slip home via Number Seven instead. It was only ten, but she was dog-tired. Her feet ached in their spindly stilettos.

‘Hello, girlie.’ Nate was sitting and smoking on the steps of Number Eight. ‘Had fun with your rich relations, did you?’

‘Not really.’

‘Should’ve been here then. Dad got rat-arsed in the Anchor and started raising hell with a couple of punks from the estate. Me and Earl only just managed to drag him off before the filth arrived.’

‘Is he OK?’

‘I guess. Probably collapsed in a pile of his own puke somewhere. It’s not like anyone here gives a toss.’

Nate’s mum Lola had lost patience and left around two years ago. She only visited when she needed to cadge money or coven favours. Thinking of this, Glory felt a pang of sympathy. ‘Maybe we should get him on one of them detox thingies.’ Like Candice Morgan – though she knew better than to mention her to Nate. ‘Rehab and such.’

‘What’s the point?’ Nate sucked on his joint broodingly. ‘The old man’s past it. Your Auntie Harpy is on her last legs too. It’s about time they let someone else take over, and kick this place into shape.’

‘There’s more to running a coven than chasing girls and getting high.’

‘Oh? So what’s
your
game plan? Sleeping your way to the top? ’Cause I gotta say, you and Troy looked pretty cosy in the car back there.’

‘Hex off, Nate.’

Glory jerked open the door of Number Seven. ‘One of these days, you’re gonna have to decide where your loyalties lie,’ he called after her.

In the narrow hallway, the pent-up tensions of the evening finally caught up with her and she started to shake. Her breaths came fast and light. Getting the fae had been all she wanted. Her dearest wish had come true. And yet she’d never felt so trapped.

Chapter 11

The four principal departments of the Inquisition were the Witchcrime Directorate, the Witchkind Assimilation Bureau, Intelligence Command (for surveillance) and the Office of the Inquisitorial Court. In spite of its size, everyone knew the Witchcrime Assimilation Bureau was for inquisitors who weren’t clever or ambitious enough to work anywhere else. Otherwise, Jonah Branning’s steady rise through the bureau ranks from junior clerk to Senior Witch Warden might have attracted more attention.

Hug-a-harpy jokes aside, Jonah liked his work and thought it important. His secret – which he knew was a shameful one – was that as a little kid, he’d actually
wanted
to come down with the Seventh Sense, until his dad caught him trying to make an amulet and gave him a clip round the ear that made him howl. Even now, he sometimes worried that his interest in witchwork wasn’t entirely professional. Within the Inquisition the fae was referred to as a ‘facility’, not an ability, and certainly not a gift. But Jonah hadn’t grown out of his wonder at it all the same.

And then came the telephone call late on Monday evening, and the summons to his department head’s office. ‘A strictly hush-hush business, this,’ his boss warned, just before he dropped the bombshell about the Stearne boy.

Jonah greatly admired the Chief Prosecutor. His courtroom skills were legendary, as were the cases he’d won. The tragic killing of his wife had given him an added authority, and dignity, that even his opponents had to respect. And now the boss was telling Jonah that Ashton Stearne’s only child, the heir to twelve generations of inquisition royalty, was a witch. A powerful one too: Type D. He’d been assessed that morning.

This news was followed by the second shock of the evening. ‘We’d like you, Jonah, to be his warden.’

Jonah stammered out something about his own youth and inexperience. His boss waved it away.

‘I’ve already discussed it with Ashton. He feels, and I agree, that Lucas would benefit from having a supervisor who is relatively close to his own age. What’s more, your record in this department is exemplary. You’re shaping up to be a damn fine officer.’ The boss nodded impressively. Jonah blushed. ‘There’s no denying this will be a difficult case. Lucas’s age is as unusual as his facilities. Then there’s his family’s history and position . . .’