Текст книги "The Bitter Seed of Magic"
Автор книги: Сьюзан Маклеод
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Текущая страница: 21 (всего у книги 26 страниц)
Chapter Forty-Three
I hunkered down in my seat and contemplated the vampire daylight travelling kit, a.k.a the zipped body bag provided by the police. It was made from leather, not the more usual thick plastic. Apparently leather stops vamps from being more than just victims of fashion. The bag—or rather, Malik—was stretched out on the floor between the two rows of seats in the back of the police van.
Malik and the two constables had treated the whole ‘getting into the bag and being carried out to the van’ project like it was something they did half a dozen times a day. The tourists in Covent Garden hadn’t been so laid-back. The mobile phone/camera brigade had been out in force. I’d cringed and hurried, head down, into the van; I just knew I was going to end up with the media hounding me again after all this. Still, better that than dead. And at least I hadn’t blown up any bridges this time. Not yet anyway.
A half-heard voice made me look up.
The headlights of the passing traffic glinted on the specks of gold in Constable Taegrin’s polished black skin. He was sitting with his feet propped up on the opposite seat, as I was, to leave room for the bag. Had he said something? But he caught me looking and just winked. I smiled back, thinking I must’ve imagined it. And that my life would be so much easier if I could just unzip Malik and force him to tell me whatever it was he and Tavish had going on, and what it was the pair of them were hiding. Yep, like that was ever going to happen. But the main thing was, I’d got Malik to agree to what we wanted, which was a big relief. I closed my eyes, hoping Hugh and his crew had been just as successful with the rest of our master plan preparations—
‘—understand you have a son, Maxim.’ Malik’s distant not-quite-English voice popped into my head.
There was a short silence, then Maxim’s voice muttered, ‘Bleeding sidhe. Knew nothing good would come of her slurping up my blood.’
I briefly wondered how I was picking up their conversation– Mad Max’s blood maybe?—and how they were managing to have it; then scrunched my eyes tight shut and concentrated on listening.
‘Where is the boy, Maxim?’
Hmm, why isn’t he askingwho he is? Does that mean he knows, or that he doesn’t think it’s important?
‘Haven’t a clue, old chap,’ came the breezy answer.
‘This is not the time for your games.’ Malik’s tone was impatient. ‘If it is he who is behind these disappearances, then he needs to be stopped, and if it is not him, then he could be in danger.’
‘All that ruckus with the faelings is the fae’s problem, especially now you’ve stopped us sticking our fangs in,’ Maxim said bitterly. ‘And my son’s safe enough without your help. So bleeding safe I haven’t seen him for twenty years. That bitch won’t let me.’
‘Ah.’ Malik’s voice was soft. ‘So you do have another child.’
Mad Max hastwo kids?There was another, longer silence. I waited with Malik for Mad Max to answer.
Finally Malik gave up and said, ‘The witch has left a note, Maxim, saying she cannot protect your dog’s offspringany longer. If she is not protecting your son, then you must have other offspring. The witch has now vanished.’
‘I saw the new hairdo, old chap,’ Maxim said cheerfully and seemingly at random, ‘so I take it His Brattiness has been enjoying himself at your painful expense again. Still on the old eviscerating kick, is he? Or is it the old starvation diet? Must be hard when you can’t snack on any passing pigeon and have to rely on His Princely Benevolence. Bet his little royal heart jumped for joy when you made yourself Oligarch and dropped yourself back in his bloody little hands again.’
Terror rolled through me at the mention of the Autarch, and the thought of Malik being in his clutches. I clutched Grace’s pentacle at my throat, and swallowed the fear back. Was that why Malik was so hungry—he could only feed off other vamps and the Autarch wasn’t letting him? I shuddered and tuned back in.
‘—nothing to fear, Maxim. I will not give up your secrets,’ Malik was saying calmly.
‘No, you bleeding won’t,’ he replied angrily, ‘because you’re not getting to know them.’
‘Maxim, this situation is as a result of the curse; it could be what we have all—’
‘No! Not my problem any more,’ Mad Max interrupted sharply. ‘I’ve washed my hands of the whole sodding business. I’ve lost too much already assistingyou and your horsey friend. I told you both, don’t ask me again.’
We? Who did he mean bywe ? And what had Malik and Tavish asked Mad Max to help with?
‘I understand,’ Malik said gently after a moment’s silence, then added briskly, ‘There is another concern. Genevieve knows about the faeling, the one you took from Francine.’
‘So what? The little bitch is under the protection of the witches now.’
‘But it appears there is a vampire interfering with the family. This was not what we agreed.’
‘You’re not laying that one on me, mate. Oh, no, nothing to do with me. I haven’t been near the little cow, not since she took a fancy to that pipsqueak of a wizard.’
‘Francine?’
‘Your butt-licking little illusionist? Doubt it; she’s too busy playing with the girls she’s still got.’
‘Fyodor?’
‘The old man?’ Maxim gave a barking laugh. ‘Good God, you’ve got to be joking. He’s so trussed up in all his promises to everyone and her dog, he has trouble managing a nibble without checking what night it is.’
‘Who then?’
‘I’m not a bleeding oracle, old chum. If you’re all fired up about it, ask my nutter of a cousin to sleuth for you. She’s the one who’s pally with the fae. But then, you’re not her type, are you?’ His voice took on a taunting tone. ‘She likes them a good bit younger and a good bit more impressionable, like our yummy Darius. Quite a feat that: jumping bodies. Old Francine’s got the heebie-jeebies about it, not surprising, really, but it makes you wonder just what my cousin and her pet-fang have been up to, doesn’t it?’ He lowered his voice conspiratorially. ‘I suspect they’re a tad closer, if you know what I mean, than we all thought. Not that I’d want to get that close to her; the apple hasn’t fallen far from the tree with that one, my bleeding face still hurts like the devil—’
‘Maxim, who is Andy?’
My ears perked up: Andy was the name Darius had been thinking of when I’d wanted to know why Mad Max was taking my bagged blood.
‘Maxim?’ Malik’s voice came again, but however they were communicating, Mad Max had obviously gone offline.
After a few more minutes of silence, I opened my eyes. We were driving past the Gothic towers of Tower Bridge, its brightly lit walkways flashing colour into the heavy grey sky. Not far now. I frowned down at Malik in his bag, resisted the urge to kick him and ask what the hell he wasn’t telling me, and tried to work out what I’d learned by eavesdropping. That Mad Max had twokids was the obvious one, not that the info got me any closer to finding out how Mad Max and his kids were involved with Helen and the missing faelings. The only thing I did know was that Mad Max was afraid of the Autarch finding out—not that I blamed him—which suggested Max wasn’t quite as mad as he seemed. Then Malik had asked about the fanged cuckoo nesting in with Ana’s family, and while Mad Max had denied having anything to do with Ana, hadn’t in fact appeared to like her much, he hadn’t seemed surprised, so I was betting he knew who the vamp was—
The van braked, and I winced as Malik’s body bag slid into the back doors with a soft thud.
I looked up to see we’d arrived at our destination: the War Memorial at Tower Hill.
Hugh was waiting on the pavement outside, in front of the long stone-built corridor with its Greek-looking columns and huge engraved bronze wall plaques. I grinned as an idea hit me. Maybe Hugh could get Malik to reveal his secrets—after all, the annoying vamp was going to have to do something while he was waiting for me to collect our ‘Tour the Tower’ entry tickets. I jumped out, thankful that the rain had stopped. We said our hellos, then Hugh silently watched as the two constables carried the bagged-up vampire through the gate and into the vaulted building.
Finally he said, ‘I see you managed to convince Mr al-Khan to cooperate.’ His ruddy face creased into a concerned frown. ‘I hope he didn’t cause you any problems?’
‘Nothing I couldn’t handle,’ I said, keeping the grimace off my face as he gave me a searching look. Hugh doesn’t have a sense of humour when it comes to vamps. ‘Any news on Finn’s daughter?’ I asked anxiously.
‘Sorry, Genny, no.’ He gave my shoulder a gentle consoling pat. ‘Finn’s out with a couple of WPCs, canvassing all of Nicola’s friends to see if they can come up with any helpful information. He should be along shortly.’
I sighed, worried about how Finn was coping, then asked, ‘What about the doppelgänger plan?’
‘That one’s not going too well.’ Dust puffed from Hugh’s headridge and settled on his black hair. It was beginning to look like someone had emptied a bag of red flour over him. ‘Constable Martin spent half an hour talking to the Raven Master and six of the ravens, all of whom claim they know nothing whatsoever about the dead faelings, nor are they interested.’ He ushered me through the gate and we walked down towards the Memorial Garden. ‘She is currently chatting with Victoria Harrier and her daughter-in-law, Ana, about the antics of Ana’s large brood of children over tea and cakes in the café in Trafalgar Square.’
‘Damn. So Victoria Harrier didn’t buy the switch.’
‘Or she is as she seems, and her connections with everything are entirely coincidental.’
‘She can’t be,’ I said, ‘unless the vamp’s got her so locked up she hasn’t a clue what she’s doing.’
‘It’s possible, Genny, but unless I have proof otherwise, the judge won’t issue a warrant. My hands are tied.’
Which meant everything rested on my part of the master plan. ‘No pressure then,’ I said, determined to make it work.
‘Once Victoria Harrier and Ana have finished their chat with Constable Martin,’ Hugh said, ‘if nothing develops, then we’ll bring them in for questioning. We’ve already had Ana’s husband picked up in New York, and we’ve got Dr Craig down at Old Scotland Yard.’
‘Don’t suppose he’s spilled any interesting beans yet?’
‘Until we finish talking to him, Genny, I can’t be certain, but so far he is exactly what he appears to be: a workaholic doctor who spends more time at his job than there are hours in the day. Unless that changes, he’s not going to be of help.’
‘What about the Old Donn?’ I asked, hoping that one lead might pay out and give us something helpful. ‘Did you find out if he’s really dead, or not?’
Chapter Forty-Four
‘The Old Donn’s definitely dead,’ Hugh stated, deflating my hope. ‘I’ve had it confirmed by the Lady Meriel. After the incident with the sidhe he was executed, along with two other wylde fae, Hallbjörn the White and Arthur Ursa.’
Executed!Well, executed sounded pretty dead to me, but– ‘What about Sylvia mentioning his remains?’
‘The three were decapitated, then burned, and their ashes were mixed with salt on Tower Green. Apparently a spell was castto stop them from fadinguntil after the execution had been carried out.’ Hugh’s ruddy face paled. ‘The Lady Meriel chose to explain it in detail for me.’
I patted his hand; his skin felt dry and gritty, a sure sign he was disturbed by what he’d been told. But then, Hugh was a softy at heart. No wonder the Librarian’s old newspapers had called their deaths a ‘Brutal Slaying’. The execution sounded a bit barbaric, but personally, I thought it was well deserved.
‘Good to know the Old Donn is a dead end then,’ I said brightly. Hugh rumbled, and I gave him another pat to cheer him up. ‘You know I couldn’t resist.’
‘Hmph.’ Hugh gave me one of his patented looks that was meant to have me shaking in my boots. I grinned wider; the last time it had worked I’d been sixteen. He sighed, and pointed towards the garden. ‘It’s not long until sunset, so you need to get going. Ricou has organised everything. Good chap, that.’ Hugh nodded approvingly, then hit me with his ‘concerned’ look. ‘Are you sure calling up the Morrígan for help is the right thing to do, Genny? Goddesses can be dangerous to deal with.’
‘She’s been giving me pointers all along, and she’s had her messenger stalking me, so I’m pretty sure the Tower is where she wants me to go.’ Of course, typically, she was now making me do things the hard way, since I hadn’t seen a single black feather of Jack the raven, her messenger, once I’d decided the Morrígan was my back-door way into the Tower’s Between. But hey, that’s goddesses for you. Not to mention she probably wanted something, so making me ask, instead of offering, was just standard negotiating tactics.
Not that I told Hugh that. Instead I reassured him I’d be fine, and quickly filled him in on the conversation I’d overheard between Malik and Mad Max. Then I followed the path and went down the steps into the sunken garden.
Last time I’d been in the garden I’d been on Spellcrackers business. It had been high summer, and I’d had to remove a flight of garden fairies attracted by the sunbathing tourists and their picnic lunches. The place had been full of life and noise. Now it was full of hundreds of small jasmine-scented tea-lights placed around the base of the high stone walls that enclosed the garden. The candlelight cast an eerie glow over the tall bronze panels inscribed with the names of those merchant seamen who lost their lives in the two World Wars. And in the darker corners, frail shadows shifted independently of the evening wind, drawn by the promise of ritual magic, shadows I tried not to look too closely at, for fear they’d take on more substantial ghostly forms. I shuddered; ghosts are so not my favourite things.
Sylvia was sitting on one of the benches in the better lit section of the garden. Her pink and white dress and pink cycle helmet shone brightly in the last throes of dusk. She waggled her fingers at me, but didn’t get up, just gestured towards the centre of the garden.
I walked towards the middle, careful to step over the collection of weapons that was laid out in a circle around the edge of the grassy area. The weaponry circle was large, around twenty feet in diameter, and consisted of swords, daggers, poles, axes, a metal breastplate, a pair of armoured boots and a black-plumed helmet. It looked like someone had raided a mediaeval armoury.
Next to the small bronze pool—the centrepiece of the garden—Ricou was waiting for me in his true form. His blue-grey scaly skin shimmered in the candlelight, his spiny headcrest was flat to his head, his fluted fins flared out either side of his face, and his long whip-like tail was wrapped round his waist, securing what looked like a Union Jack flag in place. As I reached him I realised it was another towel.
‘Ricou here’s not sure this is such a good idea, luv,’ he said, his membranes flickering nervously over his black orb eyes. ‘Calling up a goddess isn’t going to make her feel too charitable towards you.’
‘I think she’s sort of expecting me to call,’ I said wryly.
‘Oh, well, on your head be it.’ His headcrest snapped up, then down again. ‘Everything’s been done as per the Librarian’s instructions. She provided the bull’s horn herself.’ He pointed a clawed finger at where the aforementioned bull’s horn, longer than my arm, lay next to the bronze pool. It was curved like a scimitar and the pointed end looked sharp, but the head end was hollowed out enough that my fist could’ve fitted inside. I had a brief thankful thought that it wasn’t the Old Donn’s, since I was calling on his mother. Beside the horn was a short silver knife, a bottle of Jameson’s whisky, a crystal tumbler, some milk and a pile of clothes—the same clothes that had been found pillowed under Aoife’s head when she’d been discovered in Dead Man’s Hole this morning.
‘The milk’s in a carton,’ I said, frowning.
‘How many cow farms do you think there are in London?’ He did a yawn-grin and thumped his chest. ‘Not only that, as soon as Ricou here mentioned “goddess” all they heard was sacrifice. Anyway, it’s organic.’
‘Oh, good,’ I said, not sure if it was. I raked my hand through my hair, suddenly nervous. Crap, I didn’t have a clue. I peered down at the whitish liquid in the tumbler. ‘What’s in the glass?’
His headcrest rose. ‘She’s a goddess of fertility. What do you think’s in the glass?’
Okaay! I decided not to ask who’d made the personal donation. ‘Didn’t the Librarian say something about ears of wheat?’ I asked sceptically.
Ricou’s face-fins quivered. ‘It’s spring; ears of wheat are a bit scarce just now.’
Ri-ight. ‘What about the raven feathers?’
‘The ones at the Tower all refused, and I couldn’t find your feathered friend. But I got you this.’ His tail swished out over the bronze pool and a gaping mouth with sharp teeth similar to Ricou’s own snapped at it. The mouth belonged to a five-foot-long eel thicker than my arm, twisting sinuously round and round in the shallow water. ‘She’s female.’ Ricou made a clicking sound as he laughed. ‘I’ve checked, so watch your fingers.’ He handed me a piece of rice paper. ‘Here’s the glyph to close the circle, luv.’ He sniffed the air. ‘You’ve got about five minutes until sunset now. Good luck.’
‘Thanks, Ricou,’ I said, then I undid Grace’s pentacle from round my neck—I didn’t want to lose it in Between—and handed it him along with my jacket. ‘Can you give these to Sylvia to look after for me?’
‘Sure, luv.’ He took them, hooking the pentacle carefully over a claw, then he hopped out of the circle of weapons and joined Sylvia on her seat.
Left alone in the circle, I crunched on a couple of liquorice torpedoes and looked round. I’d gained an audience while we’d been talking and the garden was now full. There were a dozen witches, their dark WPC uniforms all merging together. Constables Lamber and Taegrin had been joined by four other trolls. Hugh was standing with Malik, the pair of them almost hidden under the shelter of the memorial building, and sitting next to them was a large silvery-grey Irish wolfhound; looked like Mad Max had turned up in his doggy persona. Hopefully Hugh would get some useful info out of him.
And all of them were here to see the show. Lucky me.
Still, once the circle went up, the show would be pretty much over from their point of view, since they’d stay in this world while the circle, with me in it, would be in Between—if I castit right, of course—apparently neutral ground was needed when calling on a goddess.
I wiped my suddenly sweaty hands down my jeans, decided not to send any prayers in case the wrong god heard me, and picked up the silver knife. It burned against my fingers. I walked to the edge of the circle. Holding the rice paper glyph in my left palm, I took a deep breath, focused, and sliced the knife through it and my flesh. Pain hit a second later and I stifled a gasp. Then my blood welled, bright and viscous, and the scent of honey and copper and magic filled the air. Hunger– not mine—cramped my stomach, nearly doubling me over, a hot, spiced wind blew my hair back from my face, and I looked around to find Malik, now standing inches from me on the outside of the circle, his hands clenched at his sides.
‘Set the circle quickly, Genevieve.’ His eyes were dark, bottomless holes. I glimpsed all four of his fangs as he spoke. ‘The scent of your blood is … tempting.’
Tempting?A perverse moment of retaliation sparked in me.
I held his gaze, taunting him as I extended my hand and let the blood fall. I felt, rather than saw, the first drop splash on an iron axe-head. It sizzled. His nostrils flared. The second drop hit the tip of the broadsword touching the axe. The tendons in his neck stood out with effort. Time slowed as the third drop splattered on to the black-plumed helmet eating the sword. He snarled and leaped—
The magic ripped out of me and I fell to my knees, screaming as it rushed round the weapons like wildfire and closed the circle. Above me rose a translucent dome of swirling, liquid blood.
I lay there getting my breath back, my eyes closed. Hell, I’d never felt a circle, not even a blood one, close like that before.But then, I’d never closed a circle into Betweenbefore. When I thought my legs would hold me, I struggled up to my feet. Worryingly, I could still see the garden and its occupants. Malik now stood a couple of feet back, watching with his usual enigmatic expression, and I wondered if I’d imagined him leaping for me. But the silvery-grey Irish wolfhound was standing in front of him, and the dog’s disconcertingly blue eyes twinkled at me as he wagged his long upright tail. His mouth was clamped round Malik’s wrist.
Behind them both was Hugh, the disapproving crevices that etched his face clearly saying, ‘ Goading vampires is juvenile and stupid and wasting time, Genny.’
And satisfying,I added silently. But Hugh was right. I sighed, and gave him an apologetic shrug—
Only he wasn’t there to see it.
The garden had disappeared. Outside the dome was … emptiness: not fog, not sky, nor space or anything, just rolling emptiness.
Horror crawled down my spine.
I turned my back on it, strode back to the bronze pool and dropped to my knees. Before I could give myself time to think, I thrust my bleeding hand and Aoife’s clothes into the water.
‘By my blood, and the blood of her child, in this sacred place of war and death, I call upon the Morrígan,’ I shouted. ‘Hear me, Morrígan, and answer my call.’
