Текст книги "The Shifting Price of Prey"
Автор книги: Сьюзан Маклеод
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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 33 страниц)
I clenched my teeth, swallowing a frustrated scream.
The silver blanket covering me rustled and Mary looked up from her phone. ‘Oh good, you’re awake.’ She crouched down next to me, hitching her black trousers at the knees as she did, a relieved expression on her face.
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Sorry, I was thinking.’
‘Thinking?’ She grinned. ‘I thought it was called fainting. You did a good job of it too. Like a tree toppling.’ She demonstrated with her forearm. ‘Awesome faceplant. Or it would’ve been if the DI hadn’t caught you. We tried to wake you, but you were way out of it.’
‘I don’t faint,’ I grumbled, as my eyes caught the remains of the sand and salt circle. ‘Any luck with scrying for the kidnappers?’
Chapter Thirty-Five
Mary grimaced. ‘Nada. The blood on the kurta was too old.’
Damn. If the scrying was a bust then I needed to find Hugh and tell him the blood was werewolf. I started to get up—
Mary slapped a heavy hand on my chest and pushed me back down. ‘Stay there until the DI gets here,’ she ordered. ‘He’ll probably want the medic to look at you again. I’ll let him know you’re conscious.’ She thumbed her radio and started giving more orders.
Medic? Again? Hugh was going overboard on looking after the definitely-did-not-faint sidhe. For which I was grateful, but . . . I did a quick mental inventory to make sure all my fingers and toes, and everything in between, felt normal. Everything did so there was no point lying here, waiting for a – no doubt efficient, but human – medic to tell me I was okay as far as they could tell. I mouthed at Mary to cancel the medic, and, brushing away her exasperated hand as she tried to keep me prone, I sat up.
It put my head on a level with the tiger’s. It was sitting on its haunches like a patient dog, less than a foot away from me. The sunlight streaming down highlighted the black stripes marking its orangey coat, and silvered the white fur haloing its lower face and jaw like an old man’s beard. Its long whiskers were almost translucent in the glare. And its stripes weren’t symmetrical as I’d always imagined, but fanned out from a point between its eyes as if someone had haphazardly painted them in. It was the first time I’d even been so close to a wild animal, and it was beautiful and awe-inspiring.
Movement in the undergrowth caught my eye. Another tiger padded up. It lay down with lazy grace a few feet away, its long tail twitching slightly. The first tiger flicked its black-tipped ears and half-closed its yellow eyes, but otherwise ignored its pal. Both stared at me as if I was the most captivating thing they’d seen this year. But unlike the predatory gaze I’d have expected, the tigers looked more as if they were waiting for my next trick.
I frowned. Was that natural? I pinged them, the possibility of werewolves giving me the crazy idea that they might be weretigers. Got nothing but animal back. But then when I’d pinged the werewolves all I’d got back was human, so maybe that’s how they felt to me. I tapped on the glass, mouthing hello. They just kept staring. I pulled a face, stuck my tongue out at them, told them I knew what they were. Still nothing. I caught Mary giving me squinty eyes, so I bit the embarrassment bullet. ‘Do you think they’re weretigers?’
She looked at me in silence for a long moment, then said, ‘Did you hit your head when you fainted?’
I huffed. ‘I didn’t faint.’
‘If you say so.’ She grinned then said, ‘Okay. Weretigers, or ailuranthropes to give them their proper name, became extinct’ – she frowned – ‘on 21st June 1758, in Hunan province in southern China, when the last one went loco and mauled eight teenage girls. The girls died and the locals trapped the weretiger in its animal form and stoned it to death.’
I blinked. ‘That’s . . . very specific.’
‘Mum was looking at something in the witch archives the other night, to do with weres, proper name, therianthropes.’ Mary’s mother was on the Witches’ Council. ‘It stuck in my memory.’
The hair on my nape stood on end. ‘Really? That’s a weird coincidence.’
‘Why weird?’
‘Because I asked,’ I said, mulling over how likely it actually was a coincidence, or was the Witches’ Council somehow aware or even involved in what was going on. ‘And because I was just thinking about werewolves.’
‘Werewolves, proper name, lycanthropes, are the only therianthropes that aren’t extinct,’ Mary said blandly.
‘I know,’ I answered just as blandly. ‘What was the problem your mum had?’
She gave me her cop face. ‘Why do you want to know, Genny?’
I hugged my knees, debating what to tell her, if anything, saved from making a decision when Hugh appeared.
He hunkered down next to me, concern creasing his face and offered me one of the takeaway cups he was carrying. ‘How’re you feeling, Genny?’
‘Good, thanks.’ I wrapped my fingers round the cool cup, inhaled the welcome scent of orange juice. ‘Now I’m awake.’
He patted my shoulder gently. ‘The medic wanted to take you to HOPE’ – the Human and Other Preternatural Ethics clinic where they treated all things magical – ‘but as your vitals were stable, I thought if you stayed here it would be easier for us to talk.’
‘Yeah, we need to,’ I said, then got to the point. ‘It was the blood on the bodyguard’s kurta. Its scent was the trigger and knocked me into a sort of vision.’
‘The scent knocked you into a vision?’ Interest lit his cloud-grey eyes.
I glanced at Mary listening a few feet away. She was a friend, but she was also a witch, and her mother was on the Witches’ Council. And they’d been looking into wereshifters. My paranoia hit: I still had a nasty taste from Witch-bitch Helen interfering in my life. I dug a Privacy crystal out, set it, then filled Hugh in on nearly everything; the tarot cards, the ambassador at the mosque, the werewolves, and Malik’s memory (which I asked Hugh to call a ‘sort of vision’ to respect Malik’s privacy). ‘Only none of that tells us why the werewolves kidnapped the victims from here,’ I finished. ‘Or where they’re holding them. Or what they gave the ambassador. Or what it all has to do with the fae’s trapped fertility.’ I gave him a hopeful smile. ‘Any ideas?’
Hugh’s ruddy-coloured face creased with worry. ‘That’s a lot of information, Genny, and I’m not happy that Tavish has involved you with the fae again, or with the vampires, but what’s done is done. And I can see why you agreed to help.’ He tapped his cup thoughtfully. ‘As for everything else, most of what you’ve told me is uncorroborated and circumstantial.’ He held his hand up as I started to disagree. ‘But I’ll get the blood on the kurta checked for werewolf identifiers, which will give us something concrete. And I’ll put an official request to the Oligarch’s office to speak with Malik al-Khan.’
I scowled. ‘Told you, I’ll be talking to him myself, tonight.’
‘You also told me Malik is being difficult.’
I’d actually told Hugh Malik was being an idiotic, irritating vamp, but hey. And Hugh had a point. Despite my ‘blackmailing’ text, Malik might still go all Lone Ranger on me, but he wouldn’t ignore an official request from the police. And this was about the victims. I nodded. ‘Sure. Whatever works.’
‘Good.’ Hugh said, giving my shoulder a satisfied pat. ‘This is why I wanted you here, Genny. I hoped that with a closer look, your sensitive nose might pick up a recognisable scent. Which it seems it has. Admittedly, it was a bit of a long shot, but with three victims’ lives at risk . . .’ His mouth split in a smile, pink granite teeth gleaming. ‘No stone unturned is always a good motto.’
‘Ha ha, Hugh.’ I rolled my eyes at him. ‘But glad I could help, even if it’s not much. Though my “sensitive nose” disappeared yesterday. I’m not sure why it picked up the blood smell so strongly.’
‘Smells associated with traumatic and/or important events often bring strong memories or flashbacks. Which seems to be the case here, albeit second-hand.’ Anxious red dust puffed from Hugh’s headridge. ‘But there’s something else that worries me in all this. These tarot cards. For a question dealing with the fae, they seem very focused on getting you involved with the vampires. Are you sure the cards haven’t been tampered with?’
I raked a hand through my hair. ‘It’s crossed my mind. But Tavish assures me it’s not possible. And I trust him.’
‘Tavish is the àrd-cheann, and as such he is the one fae, other than yourself, who has regular dealings with the vampires.’
Right. Tavish’s dealings were with Malik. And I trusted Malik too. Only for the last few months he’d been under the sway of the Autarch, thanks to that icky Jellyfish spell. The only way I’d trust Bastien was if he was a pile of ash, even then not so much.
‘I’m not saying there is a problem with the cards,’ Hugh continued, ‘but . . .’
‘Be on my guard,’ I finished for him.
‘Yes,’ Hugh agreed. ‘Now, I’d like you to tell Mary about your vision. The event is obviously magical and distinct enough that she may know something that can help, either you or the kidnap victims.’
‘No stone unturned?’
‘Exactly.’
I laughed, deactivated the Privacy spell and Hugh explained what he wanted to Mary.
Mary looked intrigued. ‘You had a vision? Was that why you fainted?’
‘I don’t faint,’ I grumbled.
She grinned, getting out her notebook. ‘Fell over, then. Or tripped.’ She scratched a note, muttering, ‘Ms Taylor did not faint but tripped, and this enabled her to experience a vision.’ She looked up and gave me a beatific smile.
I stuck my tongue out.
‘Ladies, please.’ Hugh’s long-suffering sigh was belied by the amused glint in his eyes. We laughed, Mary took notes about the dead man in the snow and the young girl in collar and chain inside the circle, while I drew what I could remember of the glyphs.
Mary gave me a quizzical look. ‘You know I said Mum was looking into therianthropes in the witch archives? This was the ritual. I can ask her to compare the glyphs to check’ – she looked at Hugh – ‘if that’s okay with you, sir?’
‘It is,’ Hugh said. And as Mary took photos and emailed them, Hugh handily asked the question I wanted to. ‘Why was your mother looking at this particular ritual?’
‘There was an unauthorised user alarm on the private archives.’
I stiffened. I had a horrible feeling I knew who the ‘unauthorised user’ was– Katie: when she’d done her own werewolf research.
‘Mum was tracking what they’d been looking at,’ Mary carried on, ‘in case it was anything dangerous. There’s some pretty ancient spells in there. This is one of them.’ She cut me a look. ‘It’s part of that weretiger story I told you about.’
‘What weretiger story?’ Hugh asked, and Mary filled him in.
‘Um. When exactly did the unauthorised user access the archives?’ My question got me piercing stares from Hugh and Mary. I tried not to look guilty on Katie’s behalf, and no doubt failed.
‘The night of the “Harry Potter” spell in Leicester Square,’ Mary said, her cop gaze pinning me where I sat.
Damn. It had to be Katie. It was too much of a coincidence otherwise. ‘Okay,’ I said, ‘before you start interrogating me, if the ritual I saw of the girl in my “vision” chained up in the ash circle is the same one that was being looked at in the archives, what’s it for?’ I asked the question, though really I knew; I just wanted to be sure.
Mary pursed her lips, debating, then blew out a breath. ‘Okay, but if it’s needed for prosecuting someone, you’ll have to get a warrant to ask the Witches’ Council for permission to view it.’
Hugh gave a slightly insulted rumble. ‘Of course,’ I said, patting him consolingly on the arm; the witches were always a bit close-mouthed about their secrets.
Mary lowered her voice. ‘It’s a ritual for changing a human into a therianthrope.’
I stopped myself from pumping my arm and shouting, ‘Yes!’
‘I take it this isn’t the same ritual that’s in the police manual?’ Hugh’s deep voice rose in question.
‘No,’ Mary agreed. ‘It’s nothing like the Death Bite one. This one has some seriously revolting stuff.’ She shuddered. ‘Well, like your vision, Genny. The human has to be a virgin, and the whole ritual is barbaric. That last weretiger killed in China? There’s a note in the archives saying they think he was the last pure blood-born weretiger, and the reason he mauled all those young girls was because he was trying to replicate the ritual, to make himself a mate.’
Which all tracked with Malik’s memory. Young Fur Jacket Girl had called the dead male her mate. And she’d evidently been a virgin.
A pensive frown lined Hugh’s forehead. ‘Werewolves have no more magical ability than a non-magical human, other than their inherent shapeshifting, so there’s still the strange lack of magic at the kidnapping to be explained.’
‘Which I still maintain looks like when you clean up after the pixies,’ Mary said.
‘But the àrd-cheannis adamant that there is no possibility of there being another sidhe fae in London.’ Hugh looked at me. ‘How confident do you think he is about that, Genny?’
‘I think Tavish is pretty sure—’
My phone rang.
‘Aunty?’ A girl’s high-pitched voice.
My mind did a fast turnabout from werewolves and sidhe to my faeling niece, Freya, and the fact she was calling me in the middle of a school day. Had Ana, her mum, gone into labour?
‘What’s the matter, Freya? Is it your mum? Is the baby coming?’
‘You have to get here quick,’ she shouted. ‘Granddad says they’re coming.’
They’re coming!I clutched the phone, stuffing my instant panic away. Not Ana, then. ‘Where’s here,’ I said, forcing calmness into my voice, ‘and who are they?’
‘Home, and I don’t knoooow!’ It was a scared, frustrated whine. ‘He can’t frogging tell me. He just shook me by the scruff and ordered me to phone you.’
Home for Freya was Trafalgar Square. Or at least, that’s where the entrance to her home was, through the left fountain. Which was also the watery abode of her great-grandpops, the fossegrim, the fountain’s fae guardian. Though why he’d be ordering Freya to phone me was odd; the old water fae wasn’t exactly compos mentisduring the daytime, nor much better at night, not to mention we’d hardly spoken more than a couple of times.
A dog growled in the background; a low urgent warning.
My heart stuttered as I realised Freya didn’t mean the fossegrim, but her other granddad. Her vampire granddad. The one who wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near her. Mad Max.
Freya yelped. ‘He wants to know how long, Aunty?’
I looked at Hugh. ‘I need to get to Trafalgar Square. Freya’s in trouble, and Ma—’ Conscious of Freya listening, I stopped myself from saying Mad Max, changing it to, ‘my cousin Maxim is with her. He says they’re coming.’
The same alarm thrumming through my veins etched Hugh’s face, then he went into full DI mode. ‘I’ll get you a car and driver, Genny.’ He lifted his radio. ‘At the zoo entrance. Should be twenty minutes tops from here, with a siren.’
Chapter Thirty-Six
We sped along the morning’s route from the zoo back into the centre of London. I sat hunched in the back of the police car, muscles tense, hitting Freya’s number on my phone and getting shunted direct to voicemail every time, questions whizzing around my head like a flight of manic garden fairies.
How did Mad Max know they were coming if he didn’t know who they were? Were they the same ‘they’ that the tarot cards warned me were coming? The Emperor’s werewolves? But why would they come for Freya? And why would Mad Max go to Freya and get her to phone me? If they were dangerous, he’d led them straight to her. And why wasn’t Freya at school, where she’d be safe? Where was her mother, Ana? Was Ana even okay? And why the hell wasn’t Freya answering her phone? Why was Mad Max there anyway? Why wasn’t he tucked away in his daytime sleep instead of running round London in his dog shape?
Damn it. I didn’t trust him. Vamps weren’t exactly altruistic to start with but Mad Max took the prize for selfish. He might have ‘helped’ me with his Poultice spell, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t sell me out at the drop of a dog biscuit. Never mind that he was the Autarch’s dog and I could be heading into a trap. Not that it would stop me, not when Freya was involved. And truly, for all Mad Max’s faults, this was Freya, his grandkid, and he was all about protecting her. Which still didn’t mean this wasn’t a trap for me. Just not for her. Gods, I hoped not anyway.
Deciding after the sixth voicemail that I should do something more constructive than going insane with worry, I started phoning for help. Trouble was, the only help I could get wasn’t going to arrive at Trafalgar Square any sooner than I was.
Desperate, I leaned forwards, tapped Mary’s shoulder. ‘How many Stun spells have you got?’
She twisted to look at me, a wary expression on her face. ‘Stun spells are police issue only, Genny.’
I gave her a flat look. ‘My niece is in trouble. Probably from werewolves.’
‘There’re the two of us.’ Mary jerked her head at the driver; a five-foot-nothing witch, with dark cornrowed hair and golden, freckled skin a few shades darker than my own. I’d met her at the Harley Street/Magic Mirror crime scene where she’d introduced herself as Dessa – short for Odessa – and who was manoeuvring the cop car through the traffic with an easy confidence that carried an edge of glee. ‘And there’s another WPC and a troll constable heading there from Old Scotland Yard.’ I hadn’t been the only one phoning. ‘Plus I’ve called in the Peelers.’
Peelers. Non-magical human coppers, so called because of Robert Peel (who started the Met) and the fact they had no juice. ‘Peelers are cannon fodder when it comes to magic.’
‘Trained cannon fodder who can deal with the crowds.’
‘Also cannon fodder,’ I said, fingers digging into the plastic seat backs. ‘How many Stun spells, Mary?’
The siren hooted its wha whawarning as Dessa slowed through a junction. We held our breath as she zipped the car through a narrow gap between a delivery lorry and a souped-up four by four, then we were speeding up again.
Mary held her baton up. The jade mounted in the silver tip winked the bright green of a Stun spell in my sight. ‘The usual one in the baton,’ she said, ‘and one here.’ She tapped the jade pin in her shirt collar.
‘Only two,’ I said, dismayed. ‘Dessa?’
The cornrowed witch sniffed. ‘I’m a plod, so baton only.’
‘Stuns are time– and ingredient-heavy spells to cast, Genny,’ Mary said, frustration making her words harsh. ‘It makes them expensive. And please don’t ask for one, it’s against regs for civilians to have them and if we’re caught, I’m suspended and you’re in jail. The DI won’t be able to stop it.’
‘I’ll take my chances,’ I muttered.
‘If something happens to Freya,’ she carried on, ‘you don’t want to be in jail. We haven’t got time to argue, plus we’ve got your back.’
Crap. She was right. And more than ever, this was one of those times I desperately wanted, no needed, to be the all-powerful magic-wielding sidhe I imagined I would have been if not for whatever the hell was wrong with me.
‘Thanks,’ I said, grateful, but wanting more.
‘Here, take this.’ Dessa dug in her uniform shirt pocket as she overtook a beat-up white van, and held up a clear plastic packet with a pink plaster in it. A nicotine patch.
I blinked. ‘I want to knock them out, not stop them smoking.’
‘Sh—ugar! Wrong one!’ She fished again, held up another plastic packet. This one contained a blue patch and the label read: ‘Power Nap Patch ~ Restore your Get Up and Go.’
Was she mad? ‘Um, seriously, Dessa.’ I met her brown eyes in the rearview mirror. ‘If there’re bad guys threatening my niece, I want them out, not hyped up on caffeine.’
‘Trust me. This’ll knock anyone out in three seconds flat.’ She flipped it in the air. I caught it. ‘It’s got chamomile, valerian, and synthetic morphine. The caffeine only kicks in after forty mins; it’s slow release.’
The baggie had the slippery feel of spell plastic – it would vanish as the spell was activated – and a peelable ‘sticky’ to attach it to my palm until I was ready to tagsomeone. Neat. I almost dropped it as Dessa added, ‘Oh, and it’s got a touch of aconite.’
‘Aconite’s poisonous!’ Mary exclaimed.
‘So’s that patch if you eat it,’ Dessa warned. ‘But slap it on a “collar” and it drops them straight into happy snooze land.’ As she wove through the busy traffic, she explained how she’d confiscated the Power Nap Patches from a hoodoo witch with a stall in the black part of Covent Garden market. The witch had been doing a brisk trade as she’d neglected to stamp the patches with the traditional poison mark: the black skull and crossbones in a circle. Apparently there were no ill effects so long as the patches weren’t eaten or used more than once a week; something else the hoodoo witch hadn’t told her customers. And they were cheap, or at least cheaper than Stuns, to make.
‘You and I are going to have a serious chat, constable,’ Mary said firmly, once Dessa finished.
Dessa’s mouth turned down. ‘Yes, sarge.’
‘Sounds like it might be a useful spell,’ I said neutrally as I peeled the covering off the sticky and stuck the baggie to my palm. ‘Maybe it could be licensed . . .’ I looked up – we were driving through Piccadilly Circus – and met Dessa’s gaze in the rearview. I winked. She half-smiled back. I’d try to make sure Mary didn’t give her too much grief for the spell.
A minute later we turned into Haymarket. Straight on, then left into Pall Mall, and we’re there.I rolled my shoulders, releasing the tension there. C’mon, c’mon, not far now.Only the traffic in front of us slowed. ‘There’s some hold-up ahead.’ Dessa craned her neck as the car slid to a halt behind a black cab. ‘Looks like a breakdown.’ She moved to give the siren a burst.
I touched her arm. ‘No. We’re too close; the wrong people might hear it.’
‘Your call. But we won’t get past all this without it.’
Crap. Dessa, with her flashing lights and siren, had got us this far in what had to be the longest fifteen minutes of my life. But Trafalgar Square was still half a mile away. I ran at least ten times that every morning; when I wasn’t hauled out to a crime scene. ‘I’ll run,’ I said, opening the car door. ‘You two catch up as soon as.’ I jumped out into the middle of the road, slammed the door, and started sprinting up the queue of stalled traffic; so much easier than trying to dodge the pedestrian jungle. Under the background noise of cars, buses and people, I heard Mary shouting something, then another door slammed and her pounding feet echoed mine.
What felt like an aeon later, but was probably no more than two or three minutes, I slammed to a halt at the top of the stairs leading down from the north terrace of Trafalgar Square. I caught my breath, scanning the square. It wasn’t as crowded as I’d expected. But as always there were folk lounging on the rims of the fountains, some dangling their feet in the water. There was a queue for ice creams at the café. A crowd of tourists were taking photos of the pixies playing on the huge bonze lions . . . Automatically, I clocked their numbers: eight pixies, seven up from yesterday, and the lions were sparkling with pixie dust– a problem for another day . . . And another, smaller tourist group watched over by one of the square’s heritage wardens, were snapping pictures of the hawk used to keep the pigeons from the square; the bird was perched on the black and gold railing caging Nelson’s Column, and was eyeing the crowd with an imperious tilt to its head.
I curled my fingers around the Power Nap patch, sweat licking fear down my spine. The sparse crowd should’ve made it easy to find Freya and Mad Max, but there was no sign of them. I upped the focus on my inner radar . . . three witches; two somewhere near the column, and another further away, behind and to my right – Mary. And a weird ping towards the far corner of the square . . . I frowned trying to work out . . . but it was gone before I could ID it. And I still couldn’t sensehair or hide of Freya or Mad Max.
I phoned Freya, but again it went straight to voicemail. I snapped the phone shut, wanting to scream or hurl it at someone, anyone– Instead, I took a steadying breath and continued scanning the square. Damn. There was nothing out of the ordinary, nothing, no one for me to find, or fight, or extract info from. Time to go knock – figuratively, anyway – on Freya’s door.
I jogged down the steps angling towards the left fountain.
‘ Ciao, bella,’ a male’s voice called from my right. ‘ Io sono qui.’
I almost dismissed the loud and mostly unintelligible voice – no one with nefarious deeds on their agenda was going to draw attention by calling out ‘Hello, beautiful’ and whatever the rest was – but some instinct made me turn. The male was about ten feet away. Adrenalin hit, hyping my senses. In one long second I took him in. Black curly hair, cut short to his head; vivid green eyes, hard and watchful despite the wide grin on his olive-skinned face; tight jeans, open-necked shirt displaying thick black chest hair; his arms outstretched, a bunch of red roses, tied with ribbon, gripped in one hand – the picture of the stereotypical Latin lover enthusiastically greeting his girlfriend – and looking enough like the dead male in Malik’s snow-plateau memory to be a relative. Latin lover had to be the male werewolf I’d glimpsed at the mosque.
And in the hand not carrying the roses, glinting gold in my sight, Werewolf Guy was holding some sort of ready-to-go spell.
High-pitched barks, followed by low ominous growls, came from my left.
My pulse sped as out the corner of my eye I saw two dogs jump out of the fountain: a smallish fluff of silver and grey fur – Freya in her Norwegian elkhound shape – closely followed by Mad Max’s giant white-haired Irish wolfhound.
Of course, now they turn up.
Werewolf Guy changed course towards the dogs, drawing back his arm to throw the glinting gold spell.
Not at my niece, you don’t!
‘Hey,’ I yelled, willing time to stop and freeze around him. Almost predictably, my cool new vamp power didn’t put in an appearance. Brute force it is, then.I charged, catching heads turning in the crowd, along with Werewolf Guy’s startled expression. At the last moment before I barrelled into him, I ducked and shoved my shoulder into his stomach. He doubled over with a grunt, air whooshing out his mouth. I clamped my arms round his thighs, heaved and flung him over my back; for all I’m small for a sidhe, I’m way stronger than most humans. I whirled to find Werewolf Guy jumping lightly to his feet as he came out of a roll, still holding the roses– and the spell. Crap. He’d recovered acrobatic quick. Not that I truly thought it would be that easy.
Cameras flashed, and a few tourists clapped, obviously thinking we were some sort of street show.
He grinned, showing crooked but definitely human teeth, and swivelled back towards the dogs. The Irish wolfhound had the smaller, fluffy dog by the scruff, dragging her back towards the fountain. Werewolf Guy raised his arm. Determined bastard! I threw myself at him and slapped my palm, with its Power Nap patch, against his in a parody of a high five. Purple sparked as the spell activated. His eyes met mine, triumph gleaming in their vivid green for a second, before they rolled up inside his head and he crumpled. Shit. I’d got him– But not before he’d thrown his own spell.
Stomach churning, knowing I was too late, I jerked round to see a coin glinting gold as it spun through the air.
Straight at its target. The dogs.
In a blur of vamp-related speed, the Irish wolfhound grabbed the elkhound by the scruff and flung the smaller dog out of danger. She yelped as she landed in the middle of the fountain, disappearing in a cascade of displaced water. Then in almost in the same motion, the Irish wolfhound launched up, mouth open, and caught the gold coin. He dropped to all four paws with an audible thud, and froze, head hanging unnaturally still.
Mad Max and I stared at each other, less than ten feet apart.
Waiting . . .
I didn’t like him. He was a twisted selfish vamp who had no compunction about using anything or anyone in whatever way it suited his purpose, and he certainly didn’t worry about who might or might not end up hurt. And I definitely didn’t trust him. For the exact same reasons. But despite the fact he’d tried, on more than one occasion, to use my friends as ‘hostages’ to force me to give him my blood (Mad Max wasn’t the sort to even think of straight-out asking), he’d done it for the sake of Freya’s mother, Ana, and for Freya herself. Which even now didn’t make me feel overly charitable towards him, nor did the fact that he was sort of family. Nonetheless, I still found myself wanting the spell to not do whatever it was supposed to do, to him.
Which currently looked like . . .
Nothing.
He spat the coin out.
It hit the pavement with a tinkling sound, rolled in a wobbly semi-circle then fell on its side.
I looked. Whatever magic it had, it was gone.
The Irish wolfhound sunk to his haunches, pink tongue lolling in a manic doggy grin, diamond-encrusted dog-tags catching the sun. Well, that was a bleedin’ anticlimax, wasn’t it, Cousin?Mad Max said in my head. Thought things might get a tad more exciting than that.
Fury, along with a rush of relief, swept over me. I shot a quick glance at Werewolf Guy – still clutching his roses, but now snoring away – then snagged the coin, strode over and grabbed the Irish wolfhound by his throat.
‘If whatever fucking idiot scheme this is,’ I ground out, ‘hurts even one hair on Freya’s head, I’ll remove your balls with a blunt blade and wear them as earrings as I scatter your ashes on the Thames.’
Promises, promises, Cousin,he drawled. If I didn’t know you better, I’d almost believe you meant it.
I squeezed harder, almost choking him. ‘Believe it! Now what’s going on?’
Oh, stop getting your knickers in a twist, love, this one’s nothing to do with me.The dog licked his nose, nonchalantly. ‘It’s down to you and your friend, the Turk.
‘Malik? What’s the hell’s he—’
A sharp bark cut me off, and I found myself sprayed with water. I released Mad Max, swiped at my eyes, and glared down at a soaking wet Freya as she finished off her shake. ‘You need to go back home, pup.’ I pointed at the fountain. ‘Where it’s safe.’
