The Bitter Seed of Magic (A Spellcrackers Novel) (43 page)

‘No,’ she screamed, clutching at her son and staring at the dog in abject horror. ‘You said I could keep him! You
promised
!’

‘D
id you have to drop her?’ Helen Crane’s familiar patrician voice, along with the reek of ammonia, pulled me out of the despair of her memory. ‘She was already injured, and now you’ve made it worse. She really needs to have most of her faculties about her for this, otherwise it won’t work. It’s important; we won’t get another chance.’

Looked like I’d found Helen, or rather, she’d found me. And she wanted something, which really wasn’t headline news. I pushed her desperately sad memory to the back of my mind and played dead as I tried to assess my injuries through the pain radiating out from my shoulder, down my arm and across my back. The verdict came back: not good. I was pretty sure my collarbone and shoulder blade were broken, and quite possibly my humerus too. My left arm was useless. On a lesser scale of discomfort, the flagged stone floor I was lying on was cold and hard, and the temperature was near-freezing. The icy chill made the police-issue gem – and spell-studded silver cuffs shackled around my wrists and ankles burn like super-heated brands.

‘I know it’s important, my lady,’ an apologetic male voice said. ‘I tried my best, but we were attacked and I almost lost her. I ask your forgiveness, my lady.’

I peered out from under my lashes. Jack the raven in his blond, indigo-eyed sidhe guise was crouching by my hip. He was wearing jeans, topped with a thick purple jumper, so his ability to get himself changed from feathers into clothes had either improved, or I’d been lying unconscious for some time. He was looking worriedly at Helen, kneeling next to him.

She looked the most casual I’d ever seen her. Her blonde hair was scraped back in a utilitarian ponytail and she was wearing pressed jeans with a pink tailored shirt and a navy cardigan, all of which looked out of place with her usual jewellery-shop-display of spell-carrying bling. She was treating Jack to an exasperated frown, while absently wafting a small brown bottle under my nose: smelling salts – which accounted for the ammonia. I almost laughed. Did she think I’d fainted or something?

‘I told you to stop calling me “my lady”, Jack,’ she snapped at him. ‘I’m your mother, not one of your fancy sidhe females you have to flatter and flirt with. Call me Mum, Mother or Helen, I don’t care which one, but most definitely
not
“my lady”!’

So looked like I’d found Helen’s changeling son, too, and if her memory was correct, he was also Mad Max’s long-lost little boy, and Jack had to be the dog’s offspring she was protecting. Part of me was surprised I hadn’t put it together before, even if Helen was a witch and Mad Max was a vamp and ne’er the twain shall meet, let alone get down and dirty and produce a bouncing baby boy complete with tiny vamp fangs.

But while mentally playing Happy Families with Helen, Jack and Mad Max was entertaining, it wasn’t going to help me escape from my evil witch nemesis, or help me save Nicky and the missing faelings. Hoping for inspiration, I scanned around. We were in a large, dimly lit mediaeval-looking room the size of a tennis court, judging by the ceiling, which was all I could see from my prone position. The walls were irregular grey stone, and the thick wooden beams and pillars were darkened with age. Huge circular wooden chandeliers, stuck with half-melted candles, marched down the centre of the room. The room didn’t look too different from the pictures Hugh had shown me of the interior of the White Tower itself – but then, it’s always easier to base
Between
on something real; if you rely on imagination too much, there’s a chance you’ll end up with a pic’n’mix nightmare of whatever the magic decides to winkle out of your mind.

And speaking of nightmares . . .

‘Alternatively, you could always call her Witch-bitch,’ I said, my voice sounding as croaky as a raven’s caw. ‘That works for me,’ I finished as they both turned.

Helen’s mouth pinched sourly. ‘At least you’re awake.’ She took the smelling salts away and I took a decidedly more pleasant breath.

‘Hello, my lady.’ Jack gave me a tentative smile; it held the same apology as his voice. ‘I’m sorry I dropped you. I wasn’t planning on it, you just sort of slipped.’

‘Hey, no hard feelings, Jack.’ I hit him with my best glare. ‘So how’s the Morrígan and the mother thing working out for you then? Or am I wrong in thinking you’re one of the goddess’ messengers?’

‘Um, the Morrígan wanted you here, and so did my la—my mother,’ he said sheepishly.

‘Ri-
ight
. You do know that pissing off a goddess isn’t the healthiest thing you can do, don’t you?’

‘Ms Taylor,’ Helen spoke briskly, ‘the Morrígan didn’t say how, or where she wanted you once you got here, so Jack has fulfilled the task set for him. Please stop trying to intimidate him.’

‘I’m not
trying
,’ I said, keeping my eyes on Jack, ‘I’m telling it like it is. And I bought
two
tickets for this “Tour the Magical Tower” trip, so, no, he hasn’t fulfilled his task yet.’

‘I’m sorry, my lady,’ Jack said, ‘but I have to wait until the feather—’

‘Jack, be quiet,’ Helen said. ‘You don’t need to tell her anything.’

Jack gave me a ‘nothing I can do’ shrug.
Damn. So much for my intimidation skills.
And so much for my fanged backup: with his super-senses, finding a feather with my blood all over it should’ve been like finding a giant needle without the haystack.

I switched my glare to Helen. ‘Oh, and while we’re on this whole need-to-know-or-not subject,’ I said, ‘how about filling me in on all the Tour’s gory details. What’s my fate this time? Are you going for straight sacrificial victim, or can I look forward to something more creative?’

Helen ignored me and spoke to Jack, who was hovering anxiously at her shoulder. ‘I told you to rest, so will you please do so and get your strength back.’

‘I’m fine, my la—Mother.’

‘Just do as I say, Jack,’ she said tiredly.

He sat back with a loud long-suffering sigh.

‘Having problems with the kids, Helen?’ I said sarcastically. ‘I mean, you just get your son back, then you lose your daughter. Very careless of you.’

She flicked her finger at me, a fist of magic punched my injured shoulder and I disappeared into a furnace of pain.

Then the sharp ammonia scent brought me back.

Fuck. Whatever happened to not making my injuries worse?
As I shifted away from the pungent smell, another shock of pain ripped through me and I resolved to stay still. If I didn’t move, it didn’t hurt. Of course, if she didn’t spell-punch me, it wouldn’t hurt either.

‘Ms Taylor.’ Helen clenched her hands, her multitude of rings chinking in anger. ‘There are no friendly trolls, inquisitive media or
my
ex-husband here to protect you this time, and my patience is wearing thin. I suggest you keep your mouth shut until I ask—’

A clock struck, sounding like the Westminster chimes of Big Ben. Helen and Jack started chanting under their breath and turned their backs to me. Magic shivered over us like a light snowfall, illuminating the dome of the ten-foot circle enclosing us and melting like cool kisses against my cheeks. I lay there counting the sixteen notes of the hour, waiting for the deeper gongs at the end to tell me how long I’d been here: one, two . . . ten, elev—

The eleventh gong cut out halfway through.

Four hours, give or take. Shit, that was a long time.
C’mon, Malik, find the damn feather; the night’s not getting any younger.

In the silence that followed, I could hear the quiet rustling of people moving, the muted cry of a baby, quickly hushed, and the scrape of metal on stone.

The cold round me increased, and my breath fogged into the air as my teeth started chattering.

My stomach heaved as a spell rolled over us like an air pressure wave following an explosion.

Jack moaned and collapsed against Helen; she wrapped her arms round him and gently lowered him to the floor. As she stroked his hair back from his face, sadness and longing crossed hers, and I relived the memory of her grief as he’d been taken from her by Angel.

I scowled; I so didn’t want to feel sorry for her.

Then her sadness was gone and she fixed me with an irritated look. ‘You’re shivering, Ms Taylor.’

I didn’t bother to answer. One, it was obvious, and two, my teeth were going at it like they were one of those joke wind-up sets that clatter around until they run out of power and die. A not-so-cheerful thought.

She pulled her cardigan off and laid it on top of me, tucking it under my chin. ‘It will warm up in a minute,’ she said absently. ‘It’s just the after-effect of keeping this circle tuned to
Between
so we don’t go out of Time-sync.’

‘Time-sync?’ I asked, then braced myself for another magical shoulder-punch as her attention focused on me instead of her internal thoughts.

After a moment, she said. ‘Yes, Time-sync, Ms Taylor. Time here runs slow, around a day for every hour in the normal world. Until the clock finishes the chime we can’t get out, and no one can get in. The place is cut off until this time tomorrow.’

I digested that. Time in
Between
– like space and form – was malleable, of course. Not that I had much of a clue where to start with any of that, but that was less important than how long . . . in other words, how long before Malik, my super-powerful fangy back-up found the bloody Morrígan’s feather and caught a raven-powered flight to my (and everyone else’s) rescue. Still, the good news was I probably hadn’t been out of it for as long as I thought. The bad news—If it took Malik an hour, I could end up trapped here for twenty-four of them—

Panic bubbled inside me and I slammed a lid on it, hard. I’d been in worse situations; I could find a way out of this, I wasn’t dead yet – and to be honest, I was pretty sure me dead wasn’t part of Helen’s immediate game plan, so—

‘You have to pick your moment.’ Helen interrupted my thoughts. ‘It’s why it took us so long to get in without him knowing.’

‘Without who knowing?’ I asked cautiously.

‘Dr Craig, of course.’ She regarded me as if I was simple. ‘This is all his doing – although he had to force Ana – she’s his sister-in-law – to pull this patch of
Between
into being, he’s not powerful enough to
cast
this sort of magic.’

Ri-
ight
. Dr Craig was The Mother’s killer, so the ‘horned god’ in Her photofit
was
symbolic, as I’d thought. Someone really did need to buy Her a digital camera. I fervently hoped Hugh had already discovered that Dr Craig was the main perpetrator, and that he’d got him locked up in one of Old Scotland Yard’s cells, but part of me knew I couldn’t get that lucky. And my glee at Helen being a crooked cop wasn’t quite as satisfying now she’d got me in her shackles, only—Helen didn’t appear to be on the same baddie team as Dr Craig any more, not if she was hiding out in a circle. Plus she wanted something from me, something I needed to agree to if I was supposed to have all my faculties . . . and her daughter was missing. I took a mental leap and came up with—

‘So, Dr Craig’s holding Nicky hostage and I’m your ransom.’ I gave her a level look. ‘Have I got it about right?’

‘Spot on, Ms Taylor.’ She looked down her patrician nose at me. ‘But you can be quite clever, on occasion.’

‘So the real question is, since you’re not just handing me over now you’ve got me all trussed up’ – I lifted my uninjured arm with its police issue silver shackle – ‘what is it you want me to agree to before you do the swap?’

Her lip curled in disdain. ‘Craig’s interested in your childbearing capabilities.’

Of course he was. Everyone else and their dog was, so why not him? But—‘What exactly does “interested in my childbearing capabilities” mean?’

‘Sit up and have a look.’

‘Why don’t you just do your magic-punch thing again? It’d be easier,’ I said flatly.

Her lips thinned, then she muttered and slapped her hand on my shoulder. I yelped, but the expected pain didn’t come; instead everything went warm and numb. ‘It’s not healed, so don’t try and use it,’ she said warningly. ‘And it won’t last long, either.’

Better than nothing. Using my good arm as a lever, I sat up.

I
n the centre of the large mediaeval-looking room there were around twenty metal hospital beds, all in the half-reclined position and set out in a large circle. The beds were all occupied by young girls. As I studied the faces of those I could see, I realised they all were all wearing the same Doppelgänger spells as the two dead faelings found in Dead Man’s Hole. Sitting alternately round the circle were the pretty ‘girl next door’ with her brown hair and freckles (Sally Redman’s spell) and the beautiful, blue-eyed blonde: Miranda, the teenage witch from Morgan Le Fay College.

‘Oka-
aay
,’ I muttered, ‘creepy or what?’ Then I realised something even creepier: they were all pregnant, and most of them looked like it wasn’t long to D-Day – or rather, B-Day. Not only that, half a dozen of the beds had small clear plastic cots next to them, complete with sleeping baby. And all the girls were silent and smiling, like this was the best place to be in the whole, wide world, like some sort of weird gathering of Stepford mums-to-be. Had to be some sort of Happy spell; twenty folk just wouldn’t sit that quietly. I
looked
, but there was no magic to
see
, not on the Stepfords, anyway.