The Bitter Seed of Magic

Chapter Twenty-Six

I came awake in an instant, fully aware of where I was: in my own bed, in my PJs, covered by a cool cotton sheet, and aware of who was with me: Malik. The moonlight filtering in through the window left the corners of the room in shadow, turned the wardrobe and chest to dark, silent sentinels and muted the white-painted walls to grey, the same greyness that clung like mist to my mind. As I pushed into the mist, so pieces of events came back to me: the vibration of a vehicle, the hot splash of a shower, and Malik’s constant caring presence.

I ran my hand over my stomach, tentatively investigating it—magic sparked as I brushed over Tavish’s handprint spell—and found my injury healed—

‘The metal is removed, Genevieve.’ Malik’s voice was soft; a brief push of mesma giving the words a soothing note.

‘Thank you,’ I said quietly, deeply grateful.

The soothing touch of his mesma and his presence in my head withdrew. I turned to look at him.

He lay on his side, his head propped on his hand, watching me out of his dark, exotic eyes. The moonlight glinted off the black stone in his left earlobe, played over the pale, gleaming skin of his shoulder and along the muscled contours of his arm, but left his bare chest in shadow. My gaze followed his arm down to where his hand rested on his leather-clad thigh— and stopped. Part of me—the part that was all instinct and lust and heat—was disappointed, even frustrated that he was still half-dressed. The rest of me was intrigued, albeit slightly wary.

I shifted onto my side, mirroring his position, and pasted an enquiring look on my face. ‘Should I expect to be seduced any moment now, or am I getting the wrong message?’

His eyes lit with amusement. ‘You still have a distinct lack of furniture, Genevieve. I see no reason to sit on the floor when you have a perfectly comfortable bed.’

Damn. I was getting the wrong message. ‘Ri-ight, so we’re just being practical here,’ I said drily.

‘Also,’ he smiled, giving me a glimpse of fang, ‘you appear to have a dryad tree growing in your living room.’

Sylvia! Oops, I’d completely forgotten about her. ‘Back in a min,’ I said, and jumped out of bed to check on her.

She was still asleep, still smiling blissfully, and her roots were still digging into my wooden floorboards, but the blood was gone. The buds on her fingers and scalp had grown into long, delicate branches covered with pink and white cherry blossom, and their subtle fragrance filled the room with the scent of springtime. As I stood there, she made a small sound, a sort of hiccoughing snore, and the flowers shivered. A mini-snowfall of petals drifted down to decorate her rooted feet.

Sylvia was fine—out of it, but fine.

I smiled, my anxiety gone. I didn’t care about the holes in my floor; she was far too pretty and she looked way too happy for them to matter.

Now to sort out the beautiful vampire.

But first—

I needed a drink. I suddenly realised my mouth felt like I’d swallowed a bucket of sand. I headed for the kitchen, downed two glasses of water, then grabbed the bottle of vodka from the fridge and knocked back a generous shot. The alcohol burned an ice-cold path down my throat into my stomach, where it set up a nice warm glow. Carrying the bottle and two glasses, I walked back into the bedroom and bumped the door closed with my hip.

Malik had moved. He was lying on his back, propped against the pillows with his eyes closed and his hands tucked behind his head. I frowned. Something about the relaxed pose didn’t quite ring true …

My attention caught on the silky triangle of hair that graced his chest. Mesmerised, I followed the arrow of black silk down to where it disappeared tantalisingly beneath the low-slung waist of his leather trousers, and then my eyes were drawn to the rose-shaped scar below his left rib. I’d stabbed him there. I’d also bitten him there once; and tasted his blood in all its sweet, glittering glory. My mouth watered as need tightened my body, and lust and thirst vied inside me. I took a step towards the bed, not sure if I wanted to bite him or—

The vodka bottle bounced with a dull thud on the wooden floor, and it hit me that I’d been practically drooling over him. I scowled at the bottle, absently noticing a yellowing bruise on my left ankle. What the hell was the matter with me? Sure, he was eye-candy, and well worth ogling, but no way should I be lost in lust at the sight of him like that, desperate to taste him, desperate to sink my fangs in him—

Except I didn’t have fangs.

But he did. Damn. The vamp was still in my head and I was picking up on his desires. I frowned. I’d picked upon his emotions on Tower Bridge, in the dreamscape, but they felt stronger now, almost as if it was me inside his head. Curious, I closed my eyes, and tried to wade my way through his feelings. Thirst, hunger, lust, need and something indefinable swirled round me like crossing currents of breaking waves, pulling me first one way then another, and the notion that only indecision was stopping him from giving in to any one impulse chilled my skin. Then I dipped below the waves and found the flat, glassy surface of a vast black sea, old and controlled, and I realised the waves were nothing to worry about. But beneath the sea’s still surface something simmered in the dark depths, a memory that called to me, and I pushed down towards it—

And ended up on my butt on my bedroom floor, my head spinning like I’d taken a trip on a roller-coaster.

‘I would prefer that you stay out of my mind, Genevieve.’ Malik’s calm voice floated down from the bed above me.

‘Yeah?’ I scowled at the bottle of vodka, which was now nestled under the bed among the messy pile of my shoes and boots. ‘How about you stay out of mine then?’

‘As you wish.’

Something snapped in my head, and a barrage of aches and pains pulled a groan from me, and when I looked down, I saw it wasn’t just my ankle that was bruised, but the rest of me too. The bruises carried on up both legs, going from fading yellow to puke-coloured green as they disappeared under my sleep shorts and—I lifted up my strappy vest—darkening to a mottled purple mass over my diaphragm. More bruises tracked down both my arms like blue fingerprints, and the soreness in my back no doubt meant it was as colourful as my stomach.

I pressed my lips together, grabbed the vodka and shakily knocked back another shot in a futile attempt to fool my body that I hadn’t gone ten rounds with a starved vamp lost in bloodlust.

Trouble was, my sidhe metabolism meant I’d have to drink the whole bottle—not to mention the two others in my fridge—before I even started to feel the effects. At least the alcohol rinsed away the sour-apple taste of Mad Max’s blood. I gently prodded the spreading bruise colouring my midriff: either Mad Max wasn’t as good at healing as Malik, or he hadn’t put enough effort into it. I was betting on the latter.

And thinking about Mad Max, it was time for the beautiful vamp in front of me to come up with some answers.