Текст книги "The Cold Kiss of Death"
Автор книги: Сьюзан Маклеод
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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 23 страниц)
I pulled my hands from Finn’s and straightened in the chair. ‘What happened when you and Helen went to see the florist’s lad last night?’
‘Hell’s thorns, Gen! Why won’t you talk to me?’
‘Because I’m not ready to.’ I pressed my hands flat on my knees, focusing on the snags in my jeans where I’d fallen over, keeping everything else—fear, hurt, anger and frustration—all bottled up. ‘And because right now,’ I carried on, ‘we have other things to worry about, like finding the sidhe who’s already killed once. What happened with the boy last night?’
‘Okay,’ he said, almost to himself, ‘okay, if you’re not ready, we can do this later.’ His brows drew together into a thoughtful frown. ‘The florist’s boy, yes ... we went to see him, only he wasn’t there. His dad said he was off to some concert or other with a mate. Helen’s got someone checking into it.’
Damn. The boy was a dead end. Now for the other question. I kept my gaze on my hands, not wanting to see his face. ‘I’ve just seen the phouka,’ I said, my voice neutral. ‘Helen gave a child to the sidhe. A changeling.’
He inhaled sharply, then he rose and retreated to sit behind his desk.
I looked up at him. His face was closed, all expression banished, leaving just a handsome mask. As I had expected. A dull pain twisted inside me, then I had a sudden—horrible—thought: was it his child?
But his next words denied it. ‘That is not for me to discuss.’ His voice was as blank as his face.
‘Well, you’re going to have to discuss it, Finn,’ I said, determined. ‘Someone’s used her blood and her connection to the child to open a gate between here and the Fair Lands. That same someone has let another sidhe into London.’
‘She wouldn’t do that.’ A line creased between his brows. ‘In fact, I’m not even sure she’d know how to.’
‘I’m not saying she would, but it’s her blood, Finn. Who else would have access to it?’
He grabbed his phone, pressed a button and clamped it to his ear. After a few seconds, he asked, ‘Helen, when was the last time you used blood in a spell?’
I pressed my lips together; nice to see his ex was on speed-dial, and that she answered him almost faster than the speed of light.
‘No, I need the answer first, then I’ll tell you.’ He snagged a pen and pulled his pad towards him. ‘That was the Seek-Out spell you did at Old Scotland Yard, wasn’t it? And before that?’ He listened. ‘More than a month ago, right. And what about the Witches’ Council Blood Bank?’
I raised my eyebrows. The council kept a Blood Bank for spells?
‘Okay.’ His face turned thoughtful. ‘Who would have access to it?’ He scribbled a couple of names on the pad in front of him. ‘Yes.’ He met my gaze briefly and admitted, ‘She’s with me.’
Damn, he just had to tell her, didn’t he? On the other hand, he couldn’t lie outright, and if he’d been evasive she’d have twigged.
‘No, I will not—and neither will you, not until after I ring you back, okay?’ His knuckles whitened as he gripped his pen. ‘Helen, it’s to do with what happened in the past, with the changeling.’ Another longer pause, then, ‘Five minutes, no more, and I’ll phone you back.’
He thumbed the phone off and looked at me, his eyes unreadable. ‘She says there’s no blood stored at the police station; they use it too infrequently. They call in a police doctor as and when they need it. So there’s no possibility of anyone stealing it from there.’
‘And the witches’ Blood Bank?’
‘The council takes donations from all working witches for use in the more complicated spells; it’s easier than trying to get them all together at casting time. Helen gives once a month.’
I could see the benefits. Most Witches’ Council spells took a whole coven—thirteen witches—which was why they were so damned expensive. ‘When did she last donate?’ I asked.
He tapped his pen. ‘A week ago yesterday.’
Yes! Now we were getting somewhere. I jerked my head towards the scribbles in front of him. ‘Who’s got access?’
He flipped the pad round to face me. ‘These three are the administrators.’
I didn’t recognise the first two, but the third—‘Sandra Wilcox is one of my neighbours.’
‘I know, and she’s also a highly respected member of the Witches’ Council, and not only that, she’s over eighty years old. Somehow I can’t see her stealing blood and persuading a sidhe to kill someone.’
‘She’s also a paranoid old witch who’s been campaigning like mad for the last month to get me evicted. Can Helen check and see if her blood’s still there?’
‘It won’t be. Blood is destroyed if it’s not used within five days. It loses its potency.’
‘Destroyed by the administrators, no doubt,’ I said drily. ‘So the old witch could’ve used it and no one would be any the wiser.’ I stood. ‘I’m going over there to find out what she knows.’
‘Gen, I’m really not sure that’s a good idea. Let me fill Helen in and she can arrange to talk to her.’
‘C’mon, Finn,’ I sighed, ‘no way am I going to let my fate hang on two witches, not when both of them are fully-paid-up members of the Get Rid of the Sidhe Club. And Helen’s got every reason to keep this under wraps, ’cause she’s hardly likely to want giving up her child to the sidhe to become public knowledge, is she?’
‘Helen will do her job—’
‘Phone her then, Finn, if that’s what you want. I know you have faith in her. But I don’t, so I’m going over there now, and if that means a whole division of police turn up, so much the better. That way there’ll be no sweeping things under the carpet.’
I turned on my heel and left.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Five days isn’t a long time to be away from home, but I’d missed it. Shoving that less-than-cheerful thought aside, I looked, and looked, around the communal hallway and up the stairs, checking for any new spells that might be lying in wait. Nothing. I pushed the main door shut without activating the Ward; the police needed to get in, after all. Taking a deep breath, I inhaled beeswax and faint musty earth—the scents of the goblin cleaner and Mr Travers, my landlord—almost buried beneath the less pleasant reek of Witch Wilcox’s garlic and bleach-laced Back-off spell: garlic for vamps, bleach for fae, so Tavish had told me.
The spell was going to be a problem. How was I supposed to knock on the old witch’s door if I couldn’t get near it? Still, determination had to count for something. And if the sidhe was with her, better I got her back to Grianne before the police turned up, even if it meant I’d probably spend the next few days sitting in a cell waiting for Grianne’s queen to sort it all.
I ran quietly up the stairs and stopped a couple of steps shy of the third-floor landing and lookedagain.
Sure enough, the anemone spell’s violet-coloured tentacles undulated over the landing. As I studied it, the dark gaping mouth in the centre of the anemone thing puckered up to a small round hole and then expanded, blowing me something that looked disturbingly like a kiss. Damn! The spell had been hanging around long enough to develop a sense of humour! I really hated it when the magic did that—I usually ended up being the butt of its jokes.
‘Well, if it isn’t the little sex-deprived bean sidhe,’ a rough voice drawled. ‘We’ve been waiting for you to turn up. Got ourselves a nice little party all planned.’
Adrenalin flooded my body as I looked up towards the voice. A male, a purple bandana tied round his clipped head, was leaning over the banister; he was the dryad who’d chased me from outside The Clink museum: Bandana. He grinned, revealing teeth stained brown from bark-chews, his eyes glinting the anaemic yellow of dying autumn leaves.
I went for the important question, keeping my voice light and slightly bored. ‘Who’s invited to this party then?’
‘A couple of close friends.’ He rubbed his jaw, leaving streaks of pale green where he’d scratched away his surface skin. Then he leaned further out, looking down through the narrow gap that separated the stairs from the landing. ‘I think you might have met them in passing.’
I looked down quickly. The lanky turban-headed dryad was making his way up towards me, his red turban bobbing with each long stride, and following him was a straw Panama above a pair of wide pinstripe-suited shoulders. Yep, friends all right; though not mine, obviously. Panama stopped to catch his breath, then squinted up.
‘Hi.’ He gave me a fat-fingered wave. ‘Nowhere for you to run to now, bean sidhe,’ he said, much too happily. ‘I liked the blonde bimbo look better, but then, this isn’t about looks, is it?’
‘Not where you’re concerned, Shorty,’ I said sweetly.
His face screwed up in anger and he started thudding up the stairs again. Red Turban hooked a long arm round Shorty’s stocky neck and yanked him to a halt. ‘Cool it,’ he said in a surprisingly high voice. ‘The bean sidheis not to be damaged, remember.’
Good to know they planned to pull their punches. Shame for them I had no intention of reciprocating the go-easy policy.
Red Turban released Shorty and looked up at me, his expression cold. Then he patted Shorty on the back and said, ‘I can show you plenty of other ways to get maximum enjoyment out of her body, whatever it looks like.’
Not if I can help it, you won’t!I thought, determined. Red Turban’s twin popped his blue-turbaned head over the banister above me and gave me an equally cold stare. Ambushed! How lucky was I? Then another dryad—this one in a yellow beanie hat—sneered as he hung over the banister next to Blue Turban and Bandana. So, five of them in total.
A low rustle, like leaves shifting in the wind, filled the stairwell. Crap, now they were talking together—not that I needed to understand what they were saying to work out their objective, not when they’d got me cornered and outnumbered.
This was sonot good.
My gut twisted with nervous tension as I tried to come up with some sort of plan. The police would be here soon, and hopefully Finn. If I could hold the dryads off until they arrived ... I had two options—up or down—and neither looked promising, not when upmeant getting past the witch’s anemone spell—
I turned to face the two below me and the rustling rose in volume. Red Turban tapped Shorty on his Panama hat again and up they came, Red Turban’s long legs eating the stairs two at a time, Shorty puffing red-faced behind him.
A creaking noise above had me itching to look up, but I ignored it, concentrating on the two below. I was only going to get one chance at this; either it worked, or I was in serious trouble. I grabbed the banister and braced myself. Time stretched as I took a calming breath.
Red Turban was seven steps away ...
A double thud like the duhm duhmof a heavy heartbeat sounded behind me. I pricked up my ears, hoping for a third, but it didn’t come. Shit. I’d hoped all three of them would jump or run down together, but it looked like the good luck wasn’t all on my side.
Five steps ... Red Turban paused, a puzzled look in his maple-red eyes, no doubt wondering why I was ignoring the two at my back.
I swallowed. He’d find out any second—
Right on cue the screaming started: a high-pitched noise like storm winds shrieking through winter trees.
Two dryads down, three to go.
Red Turban’s eyes flicked to the scene behind me. His momentary distraction was what I’d been waiting for and I jumped down two steps and used the banister to propel me up. As I leapt I kicked out and jammed my feet into his chest, and it made a satisfying crack like branches breaking. One good thing about dryads: hit them with enough force and their bones splinter like brittle wood. Air puffed like dust between Red Turban’s surprised lips and he fell backwards, long fingers grabbing for the banister—but he missed and, arms flailing, knocked into Shorty like a tall, lanky domino, sending the smaller dryad barrelling back down the stairs where he crumpled in a heap on the landing below. I landed back on my own feet with a thump that jarred my whole body and tightened my grip on the banisters.
Three down, two to go.
Red Turban shook his head and started to pull himself up; I kicked out again, swinging my foot into his temple. Another gunshot-loud crack reverberated above the screeching dryads behind me and Red Turban collapsed. This time he stayed down, limp and still. Then the screeching cut out, leaving behind only silence.
Only one dryad left now.
Then my good luck ran out.
A disturbance in the air behind me warned me, but too late as thick muscled arms clamped like a steel trap around my torso and lifted me from my feet. ‘I’m impressed, bean sidhe,’ Bandana said in his rough drawl, his breath hot and moist against my skin. ‘I like a girl with a bit of fight in her. It makes the sex more interesting.’ He shoved his hips forward, pushing his erection against my butt. ‘And you’re a fucking feisty one.’
I’ll give you fucking feisty, I thought, jerking my head forward then ramming it back as hard as I could. It connected with a gratifying crunch as my skull shattered his nose. He let out a gurgled roar and staggered back, falling, still hugging me to him like I was his favourite blow-up doll. He landed on his back and the fall vibrated through me, stealing what little breath I had left. We slithered and bumped our way down the stairs, coming to an abrupt stop as we crashed into Red Turban’s unconscious body.
I struggled, clawing at his arms, kicking my heels into his knees and shins. He scissored his legs over my thighs, locking my body against his. I reached back and grabbed his ears and jerked my head back again and there was another loud crack as his cheekbone splintered. He grunted, increasing the pressure round my chest, squeezing out what little breath I had left. I had to stop him before he broke something or I passed out. I slid my hands round his head, searching for his eyes, and jammed my thumbs hard into the soft sockets, praying that would be enough to make him let me go. He yelled furiously and his arms tightened even more around my chest and I felt something break inside me. A sharp pain pierced my right side as whiplike cords snaked round my wrists and yanked my hands away, up and back above our heads. More thin branches banded my neck, constricting and choking my throat. I bucked against him, panic battering in my mind, as his branches hardened and trapped me immobile against him.
‘Keed stihl, you studid ditch,’ he growled, his words almost unintelligible. ‘Dode wad you stragglin’ yoursel’ jus’ yet.’ He jerked his arm and the vicious hot pain spiked in my side again. I screamed, but the corded branches round my throat snapped tighter, choking me, and the edges of my vision started dimming ...
... then the ceiling blurred back into focus and the pain in my side spiked with each intake of breath. I lay there trembling with the effort of keeping the panic away.
‘You fuckin’ droke my dose,’ he said. Out the corner of my eye I saw him tentatively touch his face. ‘You’ll pay for dat.’
‘Should ... be an ... improvement,’ I gasped. Whatever happened to not damaging me?
‘Ditch,’ he shouted and jerked his arm around my chest again.
I panted through the pain until it dialled back to an agonising throb, telling myself it was stupid to antagonise him while he had the upper hand. He sniffed and snuffled against my cheek and I could feel his magic brushing against my skin; he was trying to speed up his healing. Crap—yet more magic I couldn’t do. As we lay there, other smaller discomforts started to make themselves felt: the roughness of the bark around my wrists and throat, the ache in my shoulders from where my arms were pulled awkwardly above my head, the prickly sisal carpet on the backs of my hands. At least he was underneath me; the stairs had to be way more uncomfortable for him to lie on, and if he wanted to try anything else, he was going to have to release either my legs or the hold his branches had on me. I stared blindly up at the ceiling. Of course, he wasn’t the only one on his back, and he could hold me still with just one arm ...
The panic threatened to boil over again ...
I gritted my teeth, told my mind not to go there.
A rustling whisper echoed through the hallway, and I realised he was talking ... or calling for reinforcements, maybe?
And speaking of back-up, where were the police, and Finn, or even my neighbours? Helen and her crew had had enough time to get here twice over by now. And it wasn’t like the dryads had been the quietest of attackers: right now I’d have happily welcomed the most unfriendly of witches with open arms.
‘So, we’re going to stay here like this until one of my neighbours comes home, or what?’ I said, aiming for unconcern, but the tremor in my voice meant I didn’t quite make it.
‘Dode worry, do one’s gedding in, bean sidhe,’ he said, and patted my cheek. ‘Dot wid de Tank spell we pud on the building.’
I swallowed, trying to ignore the branches digging into my neck. A Tank spell—whatever the hell that was—presumably stamped out the possibility that someone– anyone—had noticed something and might be coming to rescue me.
‘Bud while we’re waiding for more of by frieds’—his hand fumbled at the waistband of my jeans; my gut twisted with dread—‘you can keed still and waid with me.’ His arm round my ribs squeezed, shooting sharp, hot pain through my chest. ‘Or I’ll dock you out agaid, okay?’
There was no way I wanted to be unconscious again, not even for a fraction of a second. I forced myself to stay still, to think. He had to be a willow; they were the only ones whose branches grew fast and long like whips. But those branches couldn’t be all real: they had to have some magic in them, didn’t they?
‘We mide as well use de time well.’ His legs clamped harder around my thighs as he struggled to pull the zipper on my tight jeans. ‘Now, rebember, bean sidhe, keep still.’
I looked, and saw the magic flowing around me in multi-coloured currents, swirling and eddying like different strands of paint mixed into a jar of murky water: lacklustre greens and feral yellows merged into dull oranges, deep reds faded into sickly violets and brackish purple, and through it all sparkled tiny motes of gold. Crap, even I was leaking magic. I couldn’t see where his magic started and mine or the witch’s anemone’s ended. What would happen if I tried crackingit? No, that was a really stupid, mind-blowing idea ... Wasn’t it?
‘I always wanded to be a daddy.’ He flattened his hand over my bare stomach, rubbing it. ‘I’m going to plant my seed in here and watch it grow.’ I didn’t bother telling him he needed my willing consent if he wanted me pregnant. I just prayed he’d stay thinkingabout his future fatherhood and wouldn’t try and do anything about it yet. At least in this position it wouldn’t be possible; he’d have to let me up, which would give me a chance—
–a whiplike branch scratched across my stomach, pushing and slithering down the front of my jeans.
‘Shame we can’d make new shoots the fun way,’ he murmured against my cheek. ‘But dis way works just as good.’
The thin branch poked into my briefs.
No fucking way!
Anger rose like a golden tide inside me ... and I reached out, focusedon the magic, pushed all my will into it, and crackedit—
–and the world exploded.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
An angel smiled down at me out of a cool silver-gilt mist that twinkled with rainbow lights blurring in and out of focus. A silver halo hovered above the long curls of her pale-gold hair, and a bridal confection of silk, satin and lace wrapped her slender form. The air smelled of cinnamon, and oranges and sweetened vanilla. She held a star-tipped wand in one small hand, and offered her other hand to me. I stared at it, oddly bemused. Her fingernails were painted different colours: blue, green, yellow, red and black. They didn’t go with the rest of Angel. Was I dreaming, or hallucinating? Maybe I’d died and heaven really was just like the Christmas cards. I squeezed my eyes shut. But when I opened them she was still there, still smiling, still holding out her hand. I peered through the mist, trying to discern if the filmy image at her back was actually wings or not. Her delicate face creased in a frown as she turned and looked behind her.
‘Am I dead?’ I asked, my voice croaking like a strangled frog’s.
She turned back to me, bewilderment making her look even younger. ‘I don’t know,’ she whispered. The rainbow lights slowly stopped blinking and faded away. ‘Do you feel dead?’
I thought about it. It felt like my hands had been ripped off. I held them up in front of my face, vaguely concerned. Nope, still attached, though as scratched and bloody as if I’d fought my way out of a thorn thicket. If I squinted, I still had the right number of fingers. My throat felt like I’d swallowed a cactus, and when I touched it, my fingers came away sticky with blood and bits of green flaky stuff, while my head felt like a bad-tempered troll had stomped on it and turned it into squashed mush. But compared to the spiky pain in my ribs, all that was a minor torment. I decided if I was dead, I hurt too much for this to be heaven; so it was more likely the other place.
‘But they don’t have angels in hell, do they?’ I murmured, or rather, croaked again.
Her expression turned mutinous and she wrinkled her nose. ‘Angels bite you if you misbehave.’
I blinked. Not quite the answer I was expecting.
She bent at the waist and ran a strand of my hair through her fingers. ‘Your hair looks like dragon’s breath, all pretty golds and coppers. Can you spin it into smoke?’
Her eyes came into focus, beautiful pale-gold eyes with vertical cat-like pupils, and I realised she wasn’t an angel, but something I’d never seen before—at least, not without a mirror.
She was sidhe.
The mush in my mind started to rearrange itself into something more lucid.
Was this thesidhe? Tomas’ murderer? She had to be; there couldn’t be two of them in London, that would be too much of a coincidence. Only the eyes I stared into were as wide and guileless as a child’s—but she was sidhe fae, and while she might look to be in her late teens, she could be anything from that to—well, centuriesold.
But not only were her eyes blank; her mind wasn’t at home behind them either.
‘No, I can’t spin it into smoke,’ I said slowly.
She pursed her lips in disappointment as she straightened. ‘Cecily can, and she can make pictures in the smoke, like the moon and the sun and the stars and even mountains and castles.’ She formed the shapes with her hands as she spoke.
I struggled to my feet, my hand clamped to my right side. ‘What’s your name?’ I asked.
‘ No names, no shame, us dames are all the same,’ she trilled in a high falsetto, and grasping the long silk skirts of her dress she curtseyed before dancing away through the mist.
‘Fine,’ I muttered, pinching the bridge of my nose, trying to banish my headache. What had Grianne said? Something about being careful with her when I found her ...
I sighed; I was beginning to see what she meant. I lifted my head and looked around, trying to work out where I’d ended up.
The silver mist was dissipating, leaving only a fine haze in the air, and I realised I hadn’t gone anywhere; I was still on the third floor of my building, only now I was standing in the middle of the landing, my jeans half round my hips and my stomach covered with bloody scratches like my hands. I winced at the pain in my side as I zipped up my jeans. The landing looked the same as before I’d crackedthe magic—well, almost, if you ignored the jagged opening that now replaced the doorway leading into Witch Wilcox’s flat. And the wood shavings that blanketed the landing and stairs.
There were a couple of mounds under the sawdust, which I took to be the dryads laid out by the purple anemone Back-off spell. I looked down the stairs: yep, two more mounds, a.k.a. Bandana and Red Turban, and at the bottom of the stairs I could just make out the top of Shorty’s Panama, covered with its own sprinkling of wood shavings.
It was a lot of sawdust: more than one wooden door and frame could account for, so I guessed some of it had come from the dryads themselves. But crackingthe magic—which had to be why I looked like I’d been pulled through a thorn-hedge backwards andfrontwards—didn’t look like it had killed them, for their bodies hadn’t fadedaway to nothing. But I didn’t plan on playing Florence Nightingale; Bandana had been calling for reinforcements and I wanted Angel out of here before they or the police arrived. Any injuries the dryads had, they fucking well deserved.
I turned back to Angel, who was giggling with excitement as she lifted handfuls of the shavings and threw them into the air and pointed her wand at them; they didn’t fall to the ground, just spun around her in dizzying circles, like bees round a honey pot.
Time for her to go home. I wiped my scratched hands on my T-shirt, cleaning off the blood, then, careful of my ribs, I unzipped my jacket pocket and pulled out the smooth haematite stone Grianne had given me. It hummed as I held it in my palm, and I felt the faint noise vibrating down my spine. I waved to Angel, trying to catch her attention, and she lifted her voluminous skirts and skipped over to me, kicking up shavings to add to those already flying through the air.
I gave her a coaxing smile, the same one I’d offer a child. ‘Would you like to go and see Cecily?’ I asked, reasonably sure that Cecily must be some sort of carer, or keeper.
‘Yes!’ she cried, clapping her hands together, a big beam of a smile on her face, then, just as I was congratulating myself on an easy success, she dashed past me back into Witch Wilcox’s flat.
I sighed and followed her through the jagged opening into a short, windowless corridor. The metallic scent of old blood hit me, pricking goosebumps over my skin, and I hurried past two closed doors and stumbled into a living room.
Except the ‘living’ part was now a misnomer.
Daylight filtered around the half-drawn curtains. All the furniture was pushed back against the walls and a multitude of dirty-white candles had burnt down to misshapen blobs of wax. The air in the room was thick and heavy, as if something unseen lurked there. A shudder crawled down my spine. In the centre of the room was a large expanse of blue plastic with a circle marked out in red sand. Inside the circle lay a naked body, diminished by old age.
I took a careful step forward and then another until the toes of my trainers were just short of the red sand. The stench of blood mixed with the sour smell of sulphur and death-expelled bodily excretions hit the back of my throat, making me gag. A gaping wound ran from just under the breastbone to the crotch. I wasn’t going to check, but I was betting the heart and other internal organs had been removed.
Witch Wilcox wasn’t going to be campaigning to get me evicted any more.
I clenched my fists; the silver pebble buzzed anxiously against my palm. I might not have liked the old woman or her obsessive paranoia, but all of me wished she was still around to complain. At least then she wouldn’t be dead.
‘Can we go and see Cecily now?’ Angel appeared from a door on the other side of the room and skipped around the outside of the circle. Her dress pulled itself in and away, even though she didn’t seem to notice anything odd—but then, she’d seen it before. She stopped in front of me and smiled happily. ‘I want to show her my new books.’ She held up half-a-dozen children’s comics: Cinderella smiled merrily at me from the cover of her Christmas Spectacular, complete with rainbow twinkling lights, meringue bride’s dress, and silver halo. Now I knew where Angel’s outfit came from.
I opened my mouth to ask something, but stopped as Angel looked over my shoulder, her pale-gold eyes widening, her pupils dilating in fear, her bottom lip quivering.
‘Genevieve.’ The woman’s dulcet voice made me flinch as I recognised it. ‘I had hoped you two wouldn’t meet until much later, but que sera, sera.’
Fuck, she was just who I didn’t need right now!
I grabbed Angel’s hand, dropped Grianne’s shiny pebble into her palm and closed her fingers round it. ‘Travel safe,’ I murmured as she disappeared in a bright blinding blaze of silver-grey light.
Typical Grianne: flashy and efficient as ever.
And no doubt Angel was safely back in the Fair Lands before I’d even had time to blink.
I turned, still a little blinded by the dazzle, and said calmly, ‘Hello, Hannah.’ Obviously Malik hadn’t had time to deal with her yet—that whole ‘vamps don’t do daylight’ thing has its disadvantages—and just as obviously, Hannah had replaced the vamp-groupie look with a Chanel-inspired navy and white suit. She was also standing in the doorway, blocking my escape route. But though she might be a sorcerer, physically, she was still only human. A human I could take. Her magic? I wasn’t so sure about that.
‘Figured you’d turn up sooner or later after seeing your sorcerer’s handiwork here,’ I said drily.
‘I’m impressed, Genevieve.’ Her perfectly outlined lips smiled, but the expression in her coffee-brown eyes was more about smiting me on the spot. ‘I wasn’t aware you were capable of Transportation spells.’
I shrugged. ‘You learn something new every day.’
‘Ah. Well, it must be time for your next lesson then.’ She stepped aside. ‘Joseph?’
Malik’s doctor friend stepped into the room, his owl-like eyes blinking rapidly. He lifted his arm and aimed a gun straight at me...
Oh shit.
... and a sharp pain pricked my chest. I looked down to see a steel dart embedded in the swell of my left breast, then there were three darts, then too many to count as the world fractured around me into tiny unrecognisable pieces and I felt myself falling ...
