Текст книги "The Bitter Seed of Magic"
Автор книги: Сьюзан Маклеод
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Chapter Forty-Eight
‘ Here’s your little man, dear,’ Witch Harrier smiled. ‘All bathed and ready for his new mummy.’
Behind Witch Harrier came Dr Craig, his bald patch shining pale as a fish’s belly in the overhead lights, and his messy brown curls crowding his jug-handled ears.
She squirmed lower in the bed, the memory of Old Big Ears doingit to her as disgusting as ever—but for once she was tired and desperate enough that she almost didn’t care that he was here, didn’t care that his face held that same suspicious expression it had ever since she’d told him she was expecting after that one time. She’d put up with him if it meant keeping her baby.Nothing was going to stop her keeping her baby.
She took him carefully, nerves and excitement making her tremble. What if she dropped him, or held him too tight? Then as he settled in her arms, her nerves turned to happy eagerness. She gently pushed back the blanket and traced his little scrunched-up face, still flushed from the birth. Her heart stuttered with awe. He was beautiful, perfect, incredible. His nose was hers, and his chin looked like his father’s, and his ears were neat and flat to his head—not like Old Big Ears’ monstrosities—and his eyes were screwed tight shut … but she knew they’d be blue.
She pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead, breathing in his soft baby scent with a deep-felt joy. He wriggled, and she loosened the blanket some more, tucking her finger inside his tiny hand as he waved it. The baby’s own fingers tightened, clutching at her with a strength that surprised her, his little mouth puckering up with a quiet whimper.
‘He needs feeding, dear,’ Witch Harrier told her encouragingly. ‘Just point him in the right direction and you’ll be fine.’ She sent an indulgent smile Old Big Ears’ way. ‘I was with my two boys.’
She glanced from one to the other in embarrassment. It didn’t matter that they’d both watched avidly as she’d given birth, or that Old Big Ears had doneit to her. She didn’t want them watching now. She rocked the baby, too fearful to ask them to leave, but hoping they’d get the hint and go anyway.
But deep down, she knew they wouldn’t. Witch Harrier wasn’t going to be denied any moment of her new ‘grandson’, and Old Big Ears was the school doctor. All the girls in her class knew what he was like, they’d all commiserated with her when he’d bought her Bride-Price, and gossiped with relief behind her back. Of course, she’d always known someone would buy it; she was a ninth-generation witch, the most powerful in her year. She hadn’t worried about it much, not after her mother had told her what to do so they wouldn’t have to give the money back if she didn’t get pregnant within the year, like a lot of the girls had to; wizards were more infertile than witches a lot of the time. But why did it have to be Old Big Ears, that disgusting pervert? When she’d found out, she’d decided to put her mother’s alternative into action straight away. She hadn’t wanted Old Big Ears doingit to her more than was necessary. He was even worse than the other girls knew, too; he’d spent the last week ‘instructing’ her with hands-on demos; pinching and squeezing, until she’d wanted to cry. She hadn’t, though, but now she hunched her shoulders at the memory. With that and the awful sickly-sweet fenugreek tea Witch Harrier had made her drink to bring her milk on, her breasts were like two aching, swollen boulders sitting on her chest.
The baby whimpered again, more demanding.
She shushed him.
‘Did you want some help, dear?’ Witch Harrier leaned forward, her face solicitous. ‘Breastfeeding is so important, not just for his health, but it will make the magic come much more easily to him.’
She knew that, she’d been told it often enough: wizards weren’t just born, they were breastfed.
‘Maybe, I should help you this first time, Helen?’ Old Big Ears said with a lascivious look.
She shook her head, then quickly tugged at the bow on her nightdress, trying not to let them see. Witch Harrier was right, the baby knew what to do; he latched on straight away, no hesitating. She flinched at the slight sting, then the small pain and the soreness and aching dissolved in relief, her worries disappeared and love flooded out of her into her son. She didn’t care about the audience any more, this was just perfect. He was her baby. Her wonderful beautiful baby son.
Tired and exhausted, she fell asleep holding him.
Soft singing jerked her awake, and, panicked, she looked at the baby. He was cuddled safely in her arms. He’d fallen asleep as he’d fed, and his little mouth hung open. Now she could see his tiny, sharp fangs, not just feel them: the minuscule specks of white glistened against the soft pink of his baby gums. And two tiny beads of blood trembled on her still leaking nipple. Heart fluttering fast and anxious, she surreptitiously tried to wipe them away as she covered herself with the thin white nightdress.
‘Dear?’ Witch Harrier’s disapproving voice made her look up.
Her heart stopped.
They were all there.
Witch Harrier, Old Big Ears, the kelpie … and next to him was a young girl, hardly any older than herself.
The girl was the one singing, a soft sad lullaby, swaying from side to side as she twirled her long silver-gilt hair around her finger– Beside her stood the Irish wolfhound.
‘No,’ she screamed, clutching at her son and staring at the dog in abject horror. ‘You said I could keep him! Youpromised !’
‘It’s for the best, dear,’ Witch Harrier said, her face hard.
The sidhe girl stopped singing and danced over to her. She leaned down and kissed the baby’s head, then looked at her with the wide, guileless gaze of a young child.
The pendant was hanging round her neck.
‘Don’t be sad, pretty girl,’ the sidhe whispered, and took her son from her arms.
Chapter Forty-Nine
‘Did 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 notmy 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 Betweenon 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 twotickets 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 myex-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 Betweenso 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 Betweeninto being, he’s not powerful enough to castthis sort of magic.’
Ri– ight. Dr Craig was The Mother’s killer, so the ‘horned god’ in Her photofit wassymbolic, 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.
Chapter Fifty
In 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 alternatively 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.
But there was on the right side of the room. About halfway down was a modern pine grandfather clock dripping with spells. It clashed with the whole mediaeval look—suits of armour would’ve been more in keeping—but then, the clock had to be what was stopping the time—literally. Next to it was a door. I doubted it was the way out: it didn’t look large enough to get the hospital beds through, and they’d definitely been imported from the humans’ world—
‘You are now looking at the Merlin Foundation’s newest initiative to produce the next generation of wizards,’ Helen said, interrupting my escape-planning, ‘all done through a combination of IVF, magic and surrogate mothers. Craig has developed a method of creating test-tube babies that consistently produces powerful wizards, through sex and gene selection. A lot of wizards, especially those older ones whose chance at marrying a long-lineage witch disappeared when the Bride-Price was abolished, are happy to pay his fees.’
‘ Dr Frankenstein Does Designer Babies, in other words,’ I muttered in disgust as I tried to focuson the far end of the room … there was something hidden there, behind a massive, curtain-like Look-Away veil. It had to be the way out, or at the very least, worth investigating … once I got out of the Witch-bitch’s evil clutches. ‘What’s with the Doppelgänger spells?’ I asked, more to keep her talking than any real interest.
‘They indicate who the baby’s biological mother is,’ she said coldly.
I shot her an appalled look. ‘Surely the biological mothers haven’t agreed to that many babies?’
‘Apparently yes.’ She stared impassively at the Stepfords. ‘The witches are being very well paid for their eggs. He’s even paying the faelings for their surrogacy services; they’ve all signed contracts; they’re here by choice.’
I snorted. ‘So he’s killing them to save himself a bit of money? Nice to know he’s got absolutely no ethics at all.’
‘He’s not killing them per se,’ she said, turning back to me, her blue eyes as cold as her voice. ‘The majority of them just don’t have enough fae blood. They die not long after giving birth—incubating baby wizards and then breastfeeding them sucks all the magic and life out of them.’
I stared at her, shocked. ‘But he’s a doctor; didn’t he work that out before he did his test-tube thing?’
‘He did trials on Ana. The daughter is hers and her husband’s, but the sons are all Craig’s, both biologically, and by way of being his experiments. Ana is strong enough to survive the surrogacy because of her sidhe blood, but he wasn’t successful with any of the other faelings, until he put together this set-up’—she indicated the large stone-walled room—‘here in Between. It keeps them alive just long enough.’
‘Fuck,’ I said in revulsion, ‘I don’t know which of you is worse, him for killing them off, or you for covering up their deaths. And all because you didn’t want anyone to know that you had a child with a vamp.’
‘Despite what you think of me, Ms Taylor, I don’t condone the death of innocents. I didn’t know the full extent of what was happening until recently, and Jack’s birth is only a small part of it.’ She cast a poignant look at the still sleeping Jack. ‘Did you know vampires are infertile?’
‘Well, Maxim isn’t, obviously,’ I said, ‘otherwise your boy wouldn’t be here.’ Not to mention me. ‘But what the hell’s that got to do with anything?’
She laughed. ‘You really don’t know, do you? I always wondered if you were actually that clueless, and now I see you are. But then, you wouldn’t have spent all this time looking for a way to crackthe fertility curse if you’d known the truth …’ She trailed off, giving me a sly look.
I narrowed my eyes suspiciously. ‘You’ve got my full attention. What truth?’
‘Jack is Clíona’s grandson,’ she said, giving me a self-satisfied look. ‘His father, Maxim, is Clíona’s son—the one the vampires took from her.’
I gaped at her in astonishment for a moment, then it clicked into place. ‘Maxim’s the reason why she laid the droch guidhecurse—but he’s supposed to be dead?’
‘Which is what she and the vamps wanted the rest of the other fae to think.’
‘She? Clíonaknew her son wasn’t dead?’
‘Not immediately, but by the time she found out the truth, it was too late. She’d already laidthe droch guide.’
I frowned down at the stone-flagged floor, trying to see the whole picture. ‘So he was a vamp, and not dead, but why keep it a secret?’
Helen’s lips thinned in derision. ‘Don’t you mean: why didn’t she tell the fae that she’d been so blind that she’d fallen in love with a vamp’s blood-pet, had a son with him, and then blamed the lesser fae when the vamps took her son from her and made him a vampire? And then cursed them to know the grief in her heart, a curse which made all their faeling children into vampire victims? A curse she could not remove?’
Ok– aay, so I could see how Clíona owning up to that sowouldn’t go down well.
‘Instead,’ Helen carried on with an air of imparting great news, ‘she tried to break the curse by having another child.’
‘Yeah, I heard,’ I said, remembering what Grianne, my faerie dogmother, had told me during my side-trip to Disney Heaven, why Clíona had given birth to Angel. ‘ A child for a child.’
‘Oh, so you do know some of the story then.’ Helen sniffed. ‘Of course, actually producing another child was where Clíona ran into difficulties. The vamps hadn’t just given the Gift to Maxim, but they’d given it to his father too, so of course he’d been made infertile.’
‘Look,’ I said, ‘you keep saying that, but you only have to look at your own son to know it’s not true.’
Helen’s superior expression reached new levels as she shook her head. ‘Unlike you, I do know what I’m talking about. Vampires areinfertile. The only way a vampire can make anyone pregnant, including a sidhe, is by using a lot of concentrated fertility magic. Clíona isn’t a fertility fae, so when it came to having a child to break the curse, she entered into a bargain with the Morrígan for a Fertility spell.’ She gave me a smug look. ‘Where do you think they got the fertility from?’
Horror seeped into me as I realised what she was saying. ‘Clíona and the Morrígan stole the fae’s fertility?’
‘They borrowed it,’ she confirmed briskly. ‘Clíona was supposed to give it back, but when she sent her daughter Rhiannon to return the Fertility spell, the spell was lost.’
Rhiannon was Angel—and she’d lostthe spell! Fuck, no wonder London’s fae were dying. And everyone was blaming it on the curse—which was sort of at fault—but if they didn’t know their fertility had been stolen, they couldn’t look for it. That was a huge secret Clíona—and anyone else who knew about it—was keeping. Only why would they? Why not tell everyone and get them searching?
But as I thought about it, the tail-end of Helen’s memory replayed itself in my mind: Angel kissed baby Jack’s head … and a pendant was hanging round her neck …The huge sapphire pendant that Helen always wore. The one that was even now shining like a captive star beneath her blouse. Damn. No one who knew about the Fertility spell needed to find it, because they all knew where it was.
So the million-pound question was: why hadn’t anyone taken it back?
‘You’ve got the Fertility spell,’ I said slowly, itching to reach out and rip the pendant from her neck.
‘Yes.’ She cradled the sapphire in her hand.
Finn’s words came back to me when he’d told me about Helen getting pregnant with Nicky: ‘ We were just fooling around…’
‘You used it to trick Finn, didn’t you?’ I accused, then a disturbing thought hit me. ‘He doesn’t know about the pendant, does he?’
‘No, of course not—’ She paused, then sighed. ‘I did consider telling him, but I had a baby daughter, a new husband, and status in the Witches’ Council at last … and then Craig demanded to know how I’d had another child. He blackmailed me into telling him. Since then he’s been using the Fertility spell in his experiments.’
‘You selfish bitch!’ Bile rose in my throat. ‘London’s fae are dying. Faelings havedied, not just the two most recent ones, but all those who ended up as vamp victims. Don’t you care?’
‘Faelings have always died at the hands of the vampires, Ms Taylor,’ she said bluntly. ‘It’s sad, but no one can save them all. But what’s more important now is saving my daughter.’
‘You do know that there’s no way out for you in all this, don’t you?’ I gave her a frank look. ‘It won’t be long before the police know all about Dr Craig and his experiments, and your involvement in them. The note you left me indicates you’ve got some connection to the vamps, so you’re finished with the Witches’ Council.’ And Finn will probably never forgive you for putting his daughter in danger—but I kept that comment to myself. ‘But you could make it go easier if you help me. All I need to do is find the entrance, then I can crackit open and let the police in to rescue Nicky and all the other faelings.’ I waved at the Stepfords. ‘Then they can all have their babies with a lot more care than this.’
‘No, Ms Taylor,’ she said firmly, not even considering my idea. ‘The Time-sync spell means it will be another twenty-four hours before any help can get here. By then it will be too late for Nicky. This way you’ll end up as Craig’s next experiment, and not her. I’d say I’m sorry, but I’d be lying. But I will sweeten the deal for you,’ she added. ‘If you’ll give your word to do what Craig wants, I’ll tell Nicky about the pendant, so she can tell her father.’
I did consider her proposition. It would save Nicky, and Finn and the rest of London’s fae would know their fertility had been stolen and where it was—and where it had been. And unlike Nicky, Dr Craig’s experiment wasn’t going to end up with me pregnant, not with the Morrígan’s Chastity/Contraceptive spell Tavish had sicced on me. But the spell was also the reason I couldn’t agree to Helen’s terms, even if I wanted to. I couldn’t give my word to let myself be impregnated, or even act as a surrogate, or whatever Dr Craig wanted, not when I knew it to be impossible, and when I couldn’t lie.
Damn. It was a no-win either way.
I needed an Option Three.
Helen leaned towards me. ‘Oh, and if you’re worried about having to have sex with him,’ she said, ‘don’t be. One: you’re much too old and flat-chested for his tastes, and two: he’s a scientist, and his experiments have to be done just so. So do you agree, Ms Taylor?’
I took a deep breath, looked at Jack, still curled up asleep on the floor—
And I punched Helen, a hard uppercut to the jaw. Her head snapped back and, satisfyingly, she crumpled like yesterday’s news.
Spell shackles might stop you using magic (not that I had any), but they don’t stop you using your fists.
Yep, Option Three worked for me.
