The Bitter Seed of Magic (A Spellcrackers Novel) (30 page)

‘You’ve got six kids?’ I interrupted, aghast.

‘Everyone on the list has children,’ Sylvia said flatly, ‘or faelings, anyway. It was one of the criteria, which was why I wasn’t on it. I’ve never sprouted any seedlings.’

There were
criteria
?
‘What are the others?’ I demanded.

‘Gosh, there’s only the two. They had to be under two hundred years old, and have to have at least one faeling, so that they have someone to fight for and they’re proven fertile.’ She pursed her lips. ‘I think there were about fifty-odd on the initial list, but by the time Tavish had finished there was only about a dozen left.’

‘Tavish organised the list?’ I asked sharply – although why that should surprise me was a mystery. Damn, interfering,
arrogant
kelpie.

‘’Course he did, luv.’ Ricou’s eye membranes flickered nervously again. ‘Tavish always organises everything. He’s the one who said who got to court you, and in what order. Him first, of course. The Ladies Meriel and Isabella wanted it done by lots or something, but he said no. And no one messes with Tavish.’

I frowned. Tavish seemed to be pulling everyone’s strings in an effort to be Daddy Number One . . . except Tavish had done a disappearing act even before the Morrígan had caught him. Why would he do that if he was first in line? And then there was the
list
he’d organised. If Ricou’s facts were right, everyone on it was under two hundred years old –
except Tavish
. Everyone had at least one faeling kid –
except Tavish
. . . or at least as far as I knew, but then obviously I’d been on a need-to-know-nothing basis since the very beginning . . . my eyes fixed on the wilting carrot sticks—

Everyone on the list had to have proven their fertility
.

‘Here.’ Sylvia wrapped my hands round a cup. ‘Have some tea, Genny. It’ll perk you up.’

‘I don’t drink tea,’ I said slowly, looking at them both. Ricou’s eye membranes were fully down over his black orbs and his headcrest was flat to his head. Sylvia was fluffing out her skirt, refusing to meet my gaze. It didn’t take a genius to work out which path my thoughts were following. Finn’s and my relationship might not be exactly what London’s fae thought it was, but there was a relationship, and it wasn’t a secret.

‘Finn’s got a faeling child?’ I asked, surprised my voice came out normal when inside I wanted to scream.

Sylvia took the cup from my unresisting hand, sympathy clouding her glossy green eyes. ‘Yes.’

When the hell had he planned on telling me?
I didn’t need to ask who the mother was, but I did, and Sylvia told me.

‘Helen Crane.’

‘
F
inn’s waiting for you downstairs
,’ Sylvia had said.

The echoing noise my boots made pounding down the five flights of stairs to the front door of my building seemed to mark angry time with my shocked, thudding heart. And as I exited onto the street, Ricou and Sylvia hovering attentively on my heels, the church bells of St Paul’s Church in Covent Garden joined in with a knowing, mocking clamour.

Finn and Helen had a child together.

A child was a big,
big
secret to keep from someone you intended to marry and expected to have another child with. Okay, so Finn and I weren’t getting married, but with the fertility curse ‘arranging’ things, it was what everyone, including him, expected us to do, even if the reason was less to do with yards of white satin and lace, the damn church bells and death do us part and everything to do with jumping the broom, the patter of tiny satyr hooves, and the fucking curse.

Marry in haste, repent at leisure
.

Finn
was
waiting for me outside. My heart did a stupid little jump. It obviously hadn’t heard the latest newsflash about him being a
bastard
. But looking at Finn’s anxious face, he had – in fact, he looked like he’d bypassed the whole marrying bit and gone straight on to repentance.
Good
.

Except that Finn wasn’t the only person waiting for me.

‘Ms Taylor,’ Victoria Harrier, my solicitor called, hurrying up to me and beaming her polished steel smile that was the opposite of Finn’s anxiety. ‘I was just about to phone you. Our appointment with the Raven Master is at noon and we don’t want to be late. Traffic can be horrendous sometimes.’

‘Gen?’ Finn shot an unhappy look at Victoria Harrier, then said, ‘We really need to talk.’

Victoria Harrier held up a brown envelope. ‘Ms Taylor, I have the autopsy report on the dead faeling here.’ She indicated her black limo idling at the kerb and the uniformed chauffeur holding open the back door. ‘I thought we might look over it on the way.’

I could read an autopsy report, or find out about my supposed friend-and-almost-lover’s secret child. Choices. Choices.

I smiled at Victoria Harrier, took the envelope and touched my hand to her cheek and sent a careful order into her mind. ‘Would you mind travelling in the front with your chauffeur, Ms Harrier, while I talk to Mr Panos in the back? We need to talk about the curse and our relationship. You’re very happy about that.’

Her eyes glazed slightly, then she smiled back happily. ‘Of course, Ms Taylor.’

‘Thank you,’ I said, ‘oh, and if we get there, and we’re not finished chatting, please don’t disturb us.’ She nodded and trotted cheerfully off to the limo. Guilt pricked me, but the knowledge that she was in the pro get-the-sidhe-pregnant camp trimmed my remorse to an acceptable level.

I turned to Ricou and Sylvia, still hovering attentively on my heels. Sylvia was making a show of adjusting her pink cycle helmet and pointedly ignoring what I’d just done. Ricou, a.k.a. Professor of Spells, was now wearing a slightly rumpled Johnny Depp Glamour, one with a loud-checked jacket, dark glasses and a trilby – Sylvia’s current favourite, apparently, from among the multitude of Glamour spell tattoos that decorated the insides of both his scaly arms. He was also watching me over the top of the sunglasses with an assessing expression. Was he going to be a problem? ‘Look, why don’t you two . . . hang out together for a bit or something?’

‘Gosh, what a good idea.’ Sylvia grabbed Ricou’s hand. ‘Come on, lover boy, I know just the place. See you later, Genny.’

I looked at Finn and indicated the car. ‘You want to talk, don’t you?’
Because I was damn sure I did
.

He nodded sharply and we got in. I touched the chauffeur’s hand and (surprisingly easily) gave him the same orders as Victoria Harrier, then the limo door shut with a soft clunk, cutting off the noise, bustle and bells of Covent Garden and enclosing us in the cosseted smell of leather and luxury. The limo looked similar to the previous day’s, with its L-shaped seat, the blacked-out screen between us and the driver and the half-dozen Privacy-spell crystals dotted around, except this one still had the bar installed instead of the James Bond – type office. Briefly I wondered if maybe I’d fried some of her equipment in the other limo, then put it from my mind. Finn had taken the back seat, and if my little mind-control party piece had Ricou reassessing me, it had etched the worry lines deeper into Finn’s face.

‘Hell’s thorns, Gen, what are you playing at? The woman’s a witch! Using magic like that could get you the death sentence.’

As the limo moved quietly into the busy traffic I flattened my palms on the leather seat and studied him, to give my anger and hurt a chance to cool down. He was in his usual human-looking Glamour, and he looked good. His dark blond hair waved to his shoulders, his sharp, triangular horns were tight to his head and almost hidden. His brown suit was dark enough that it was verging on black. The suit looked dressier than usual, and fitted his athletic, muscular body like it was hand-tailored. His fine cotton shirt was open at his throat, the soft cream contrasting nicely with the darker tan of his skin. It dawned on me he looked more than good: he always looked great, but today he’d made an extra effort . . . maybe the bastard thought it would gain him points. My hands curled into tight fists in anger. It didn’t.

‘When were you going to tell me about your child, Finn?’ I said, forcing my voice into calmness. ‘The one you fathered with Helen? After all, it’s not like we’ve known each other very long, right? I mean it’s only been – what? Ten fucking months?’ Okay, so maybe I wasn’t as calm as I could be. ‘And it’s not like we don’t work together on a daily basis or anything, is it, Finn? Or that we didn’t talk about you having kids with Helen only yesterday,
did we
?’

He let out a breath and pushed his hands through his hair, his moss-green eyes sombre and, oddly, filled with something that looked more like relief than guilt at being caught out.

‘I’m sorry, Gen. I really didn’t want you to find out from someone else,’ he said quietly.

‘Then why didn’t you tell me yourself?’ I demanded. ‘Or did you think maybe you’d just wait until I gave birth before introducing me to my future child’s brother?’

‘Sister,’ he said.

‘
What?
’

‘Helen and I have a daughter. Her name is Nicola.’

I stared at him in disbelief, my anger momentarily forgotten in the face of something that went against everything about fae ‘facts of life’ I’d had drummed into me by Grianne. ‘That’s just not possible. Witches
always
have sons – faelings – if the dad is a lesser fae. That’s the way the magic works.’

‘Why do you think I was chosen to court you, Gen?’ Finn said, an old note of resignation in his voice. ‘My daughter might be faeling, but she’s the nearest to a full-blood fae born in the last century. If I didn’t know different, even I’d say she was satyr, and that Helen couldn’t possibly be her mother. But I know she is. I watched Nicky being born. I know it’s not supposed to happen. Hell’s thorns, Helen shouldn’t have been able to get pregnant anyway! Most ninth-generation witches never have more than one child, and we weren’t even taking part in the fertility rite proper; we just ended up fooling around nearby.’ Faint colour stained his angular cheekbones. ‘The witches’ rites get a bit wild at times,’ he said more quietly. ‘You know how it is.’

I didn’t, never having been to one. I wasn’t sure I wanted to, either.

‘Of course, once we both realised, we were thrilled. We jumped the broom.’ He paused. ‘We broke up when Nicky was nine, but we’ve always stayed friends.’
Because of Nicky
. He didn’t say it, but it was as obvious as the worried look on his face. And, of course he was too much of a good guy
not
to stay friends with his daughter’s mother—
that explained why Helen was his number one speed-dial
. My heart did its little leap again. Even if his comment about ‘fooling around’ meant Nicky’s advent hadn’t been planned. Although, if it wasn’t for what he’d said about Helen being a ninth-generation witch, I’d have bet money she’d trapped him. The thoughts kept a lid on my anger.

‘Why didn’t you tell me about Nicky?’ I asked.

He gave me a rueful look. ‘I couldn’t, Gen.’ He shook his head as he saw my questioning look. ‘No, not a magical gag, but I gave my word to Helen that I wouldn’t speak of Nicky to you unless you specifically asked me if she and I had kids. This was before I met you.’

He’d given his word. Fae don’t give or break their word lightly; the magic demands too great a price. My anger redirected itself at Helen. She’d been determined to put a spoke in mine and Finn’s relationship wheel from the beginning . . . except she hadn’t known me.

I frowned at him. ‘Why would she make you promise something like that?’

‘Helen’s always been . . .
conflicted
about the sidhe,’ he said, leaning forwards. ‘It stems from a problem with her father. For some reason he visited. Most of them don’t.’

Right. Witches were the ultimate single parents by necessity. Sidhe dads don’t stick around much after the fertility rites, which isn’t such a wonderful endorsement for the male of my species, but it’s not like the covens haven’t been encouraging the sidhe to keep coming back for centuries, so it wasn’t all one-sided. But it sounded like Helen’s sidhe father was an exception and, sadly, not a good one. I sighed. I so didn’t want to start feeling sorry for her again.

‘She had a good relationship with him,’ Finn said, as if he’d heard my thoughts, ‘but then when Helen was eight, her mother fostered a little girl: a relative of her father’s.’ He paused. ‘A sidhe. The two girls were the same age and became great friends, even thought of each other as sisters most of the time, except whenever Helen’s father visited after that, he was more concerned with the sidhe, and’ – his mouth tightened with disgust – ‘he virtually ignored Helen, his own daughter.’

I stared at him, remembering the family tree and the horrific story the Librarian and Sylvia had told me, and pieces of the puzzle dropped into the bigger picture. ‘Helen’s foster sister was Brigitta, wasn’t she? The one whose mother’ – Angel – ‘was kidnapped and raped by the Old Donn? And you all insisted on keeping Brigitta in London when her mother was sent back to the Fair Lands because you all wanted to breed from her to break the curse, just like you do me,’ I added accusingly. ‘Brigitta’s father was the fossegrim. Her daughter is a faeling called Ana’ – I waved at the privacy screen between us and the front of the limo – ‘and she’s married to my solicitor’s son.’

He stilled, and scrubbed a hand over his face. ‘Yeah, that’s her, but I didn’t think you knew the story.’

I laughed: it wasn’t happy. ‘Seems like everyone I talk to just now has something new to tell me about the curse.’

‘But then, you haven’t really talked to anyone about it before, have you, Gen?’ he said, a hint of reproach in his words. ‘So it’s only natural now you’re asking, that you’re going to hear about all the sordid stuff that no one usually mentions.’

He could say that again. I pursed my lips. ‘So Helen doesn’t like any sidhe because her father ignored her when she was a kid, and I’m the one who ends up as her whipping girl.’