The Bitter Seed of Magic (A Spellcrackers Novel) (8 page)

I grinned. ‘Thanks.’

He let go of my wrist and smiled ruefully. ‘Guess this means I’m not that irresistible after all.’

‘Oh, I don’t know.’ I tilted my head and smiled playfully. ‘You could always try and convince me. Maybe kill two birds with one kiss?’

A sharp gust of river-scented wind sliced between us and he reached out and carefully tucked a stray strand of my hair behind my ear. ‘Probably not a good idea, Gen. Tavish must’ve
tagged
you after the funeral. Those type of spells aren’t meant to last for more than a couple of weeks, to help you get over things, so it should’ve worn off by now, which means he’s added his own spin to the spell. If I defuse it instead of him, it could cause problems. Want me to try and pull it apart instead?’

Always the white knight. But much as I appreciated his concern, I couldn’t help regretting that reality had brought responsible, serious Finn back. ‘Thanks, but I’m not sure there’s time.’ I jerked my head over at the police still milling round the launch bobbing next to the dock. ‘There’s my trip to Old Scotland Yard. I have to give a statement, remember? I don’t want to delay it, and to be honest, I’d feel happier if the spell’s gone before then. That’s if you don’t mind . . .’

‘Mind? “Tempt not a desperate man”,’ he said softly, eyes bleak. Then a wicked light eclipsed the bleakness so quickly I thought I’d imagined it. ‘Though, talking about tempting’ – a grin spread across his face – ‘how about a bet? Dinner says the power of my kiss demolishes the spell inside a minute. If it takes longer, then it’s my treat.’

I narrowed my eyes. It was a bet he couldn’t lose. ‘Do you
really
expect me to fall for that?’

‘Yep,’ he said, much too happily. ‘Unless of course, I’m
really
not irresistible.’

Anticipation fluttered in my stomach and I struggled to contain my smile. ‘Go on then,’ I said, deliberately offhand as I stuck my chin out and puckered up. ‘Get it over with.’

All teasing left him as he reached out and clasped my face, mirroring my earlier movements, then bowed his head and rested his forehead against mine. The flutter brushed my heart, turning nervous – in a good way. ‘This one’s for the spell,’ he murmured, his breath warm across my cheeks. He dropped a light kiss on my mouth. My lips tingled, and a pulse of power slipped over my body, pebbling goosebumps on my skin. I felt the thorns pop out of my flesh and the briar stem wither and dissipate back into the ether.

‘Wow,’ I murmured, warring between being impressed and disappointed that the kiss was over so fast. ‘Looks like dinner’s on me then.’

He gave a quiet, satisfied laugh.

‘Now this one’ – he tilted my face up, thumbs caressing my jaw, his eyes dark and solemn – ‘is for you alone, Gen.’ He pressed his lips to mine, a quick hard kiss that filled me with his magic and stopped my heart for one glorious second, leaving me breathless, wanting and stunned.

Oh boy, now I really
was
screwed
.

I
t’s always handy to know you’ve got a five-hundred-plus-year-old – and therefore
very
powerful – vamp on speed-dial, even if the realisation is one of those good news/bad news things.

The bad news was I’d been arrested.

Not for the kiss (even though the kiss was
so
worth being arrested for, and more) – although seeing it was DI Helen Crane who did the arresting, the kiss was definitely a contributing factor. But on the face of it, the charge was for Misappropriation of Police Property, the police property in question being the Stun spell I’d
misappropriated
from Constable Martin’s baton, the one I’d used to knock out Bandana. Talk about irony. Witch-bitch Helen Crane had all but pounced on me with barely hidden glee as soon as Finn and I turned up at Old Scotland Yard.

More bad news: I was locked up in a state-of-the-art silver-lined police cell. The twelve-foot-square room had no windows, a six-inch steel door, a CCTV camera high in each corner, icky plastic facilities, and the ultimate in sleeping luxury: a barely there foam mattress. The cell was designed for keeping vamps and dangerous witches in line. Maybe I should be flattered she thought so much of me? Nah, she was just going for overkill again.

I shifted uncomfortably on the thin mattress and carefully tugged down the sleeves of the snazzy white paper jumpsuit provided by the Met’s fashion dept, adjusting them so that the silver-plated ‘slave-bracelets’ studded with chips of jade (Stun spells) and citrines (Magic Dampening spells) no longer touched my skin. I did the same with the jumpsuit’s legs – not that it would make much difference; every time I moved the heavy leg manacles slipped down again, so now I had a nice neat line of silver-burn blisters encircling both ankles.

Yet another helping of bad news: my phone call to Malik – or, to be precise, as it was daylight, my call to Sanguine Lifestyles, the vamps’ 24/7 answering/gofer service. The request to make the call had just popped out of my mouth without any conscious decision on my part. That meant Malik had not only used his vamp mojo on me but planted a mind-locked order in my head. No wonder my memories of him were so hazy.

‘Damn arrogant vamp,’ I muttered. I didn’t need to be
ordered
to call him if I needed help.

After all, I wasn’t stupid. If the Witch-bitch thought she could make a strong enough case out of my stealing the Stun spell to show I was a danger to humans, I could be taking a one-way trip to the guillotine. It was an extreme possibility, but thanks to fae not having ‘human rights’, it was still a possibility, and one she’d taken great pleasure in reminding me of during my arrest. Calling Malik, hell, calling
anyone
who could get me out of clink was a no-brainer. Okay, so it might end up with me paying in blood, but considering the alternative, there really wasn’t any contest.

Still, irritation at high-handed vamps aside, at least the woman at Sanguine Lifestyles had been reassuring. ‘No problem, Ms Taylor. If you can give me the details, I will have a solicitor there within half an hour.’

It had sounded too good to be true.

Now, eight hours later, of course, I’d discovered it was.

I growled in frustration and frowned at my left arm.

The final bad news was that as well as wearing the pretty police-issue jewellery, I was now also sporting a nifty spell bracelet. I’d uncovered it when I’d been looking for any magical leftovers from the Sleeping Beauty spell. Like that one, the bracelet had been nothing more than a line of shadow hidden beneath Malik’s mark. With the citrines in the silver manacles dampening my magic, it had taken me all day to force the bracelet back into its original form.

But hey, time was one thing I had plenty of.

I gave the bracelet an assessing look. Tavish really had gone to town when he’d made it. Even pissed off as I was at the tricky, scheming kelpie, I had to admire his spellcraft. The plait of green-black horsehair tied tightly round my wrist was threaded with twelve glass beads, five clear, and the rest deep red. I hadn’t a clue what they did. Interspersed between the beads were seven tiny charms. The first two were detailed replicas of a red telephone box and a red London bus, both made from enamelled gold. The telephone box had been crushed: I guessed to stop me from communicating with anyone outside London. And the bus was missing its wheels: probably to make sure I couldn’t leave – or be taken from – the capital. The third charm was a wooden spindle – no guesses needed as to what that did – but at least it was broken, thanks to Finn’s kiss. The fourth was an inch-long miniature sword – like some sort of scimitar – so perfectly carved from obsidian that it could only be the work of a Northern dwarf. The fifth and sixth were a gold egg, crackled like old china, and a plain gold cross; again, I hadn’t a clue what they did. And the last was a miniature platinum ring set with a black crescent-shaped gem.

Malik’s ring.

I knew it was his, not just because I recognised it, but as I touched it the knowledge of who it belonged to, and what it was for – contacting him – was suddenly there in my mind. Damn vamp and his mind-mojo.

‘Of course, I should’ve known the pair of them were in it together,’ I told the ring. ‘They’re as bad as each other when it comes to being scheming, arrogant and over-protective.’ And it wouldn’t be the first time the pair had joined forces to make my life ‘safer’ in their opinions. ‘Question is, do I try and activate you, or not?’

I tapped my knee thoughtfully. The worst that could happen would be I’d end up knocked out by the Stun spells stored in the fancy silver manacles. The best . . .

‘Hell, there’s got to be some good news in all of this,’ I muttered.

Focusing
, I carefully ran my finger along the edge of the tiny sharp blade, wincing as it sliced cleanly through my flesh.

I stared at the bright bead of blood.

It trembled with magic.

Then before the spells in the silver manacles could kick in, or I changed my mind, I smeared the blood on the ring. It dropped off the bracelet into my palm, growing large enough for me to wear.

‘Here goes nothing,’ I murmured, and pushed it on my finger.

T
he over-large double doors in front of me were Victorian style, the six panels painted white, the frames a bright sky-blue. The paint looked fresh enough that I gingerly touched it to check it wasn’t still wet; and that the doors weren’t some magical construct. The paint was dry, and the doors felt as mundane as any other. There were no locks or handles, just steel push-plates. Curious about whether this place was as real as the doors felt, I glanced around. I was on a small, boxy landing. Behind me, a large green arrow pointed down a dimly lit concrete stairwell (which thankfully didn’t have the sulphurous nose-wrinkling smell of most such places) but otherwise there was nothing to indicate where I was . . . except I was now in jeans and, oddly, one of the lime-green hi-vis T-shirts sporting the
Spellcrackers.com
logo that we wore whenever we worked in a public place. And my feet were bare and half-frozen: the concrete floor was cold.

The knowledge in my mind told me Malik’s ring was a way to contact him. I’d sort of expected to get the magical equivalent of a telephone call, to hear his voice with its not-quite-English accent in my head. But as soon as I’d put the ring on, I was just standing here in front of the blue and white doors.

I eyed them speculatively. ‘Right, enough of cold feet, let’s find out where you lead.’

I pushed the right door open. It swung back easily, if slowly, and without the spooky sound effects I was half-expecting, and left me staring into a long shadowed corridor about ten feet wide. The corridor was made from steel beams, the ones on the walls criss-crossing each other to leave large diamond-shaped gaps that had been fitted with glass. The diamond windows framed a spectacular view of the dying sun searing the cloud-laden sky with golden fire. It reminded me of one of Tavish’s Turneresque paintings. I frowned; the corridor was familiar too . . . then it clicked: it was one of the high walkways of Tower Bridge.

I’d chased gremlins along every single frustrating step of both the two-hundred-foot-long corridors, five – or was it six? – times, in the last month alone. The little machine-hexing monsters kept getting down and dirty in the bridge’s engine rooms, and Spellcrackers had won the contract to evict them . . . which was proving to be so much easier said than done. But now, as I scanned the gloomy walkway, it was empty of all life apart from the lone figure about halfway along gazing out over the Thames.

Malik al-Khan.

I headed towards him, bare feet silent (but warming up) on the rough blue carpet. As I came closer, he turned to me, his expression enigmatic. I stopped, stunned at the sight of his pale, perfect face, his dark almond-shaped eyes that showed his part-Asian heritage, the black silk of his hair where it slipped just below the sculptured line of his jaw . . . Damn. I’d almost forgotten how beautiful he was. A memory surfaced of him lying still and defenceless during the demon attack, and my heart lurched wildly at the thought that I might have lost him too. Shocked at my reaction, I clutched Grace’s pentacle at my throat and scowled, my steps slowing.

Sure, he was eye-candy, and I’d have to be more than dead not to have the hots for him,
and
he’d come to help me when I’d asked, putting himself in danger for me, which gave him not just my unending gratitude, but also a place in my heart. But no way was I going to
fall
for the beautiful, arrogant, infuriating, over-protective vampire. He might be a good guy for a vamp; but vamps don’t do partnerships; they go for that whole ‘master and slave’ type of deal. And while I was sort of okay with all the other vamps thinking I was Malik’s ‘property’, I wasn’t interested in being the trophy sidhe/arm-candy for real . . . however hot his arms – and the rest of him – might be.

I relaxed my grip on the pentacle and sped up over the last twenty-odd feet. I stopped just out of touching distance, and, ignoring the splinter of regret lodged beneath my ribs, I held up my left hand with his ring on my third finger and waggled it. ‘So does this make me a Bride of Dracula? ’Cause if it does, you’ve got the clothes wrong.’

‘Good evening, Genevieve.’ Pinpoints of red –
anger? Or just power?
– flared in his pupils, then were gone. A warm, calming breeze sprung from nowhere and slipped over me like the barest touch of silk. Power then, since he was using
mesma
to play with my senses. I relaxed despite myself at the small vamp trick. ‘The ring is merely a conduit, while your outfit is one I am aware you have recently worn. Wearing clothes that you own and are familiar with assists in grounding your consciousness in the dreamscape.’

Ri
-ight. So this was a dream and not a gaol-break, then. Figured.

His own outfit was familiar enough too: a plain black T-shirt and black jeans. The casual clothes showed the lean, hard muscles honed to peak perfection before he had taken the Gift. Of course, physical strength wasn’t an issue for him now, not with his vamp powers, and he wasn’t going to grow old or lose any of that muscle tone, whatever he did or didn’t do – the reason why so many vamp wannabes hit the gym. But all that lean, hard strength made me curious about his past. Having been on the receiving end of his compulsive neat-freak skills a couple of times, I was almost ready to bet he’d been some sort of soldier. I looked down. His feet were bare too.