The Bitter Seed of Magic

Chapter Thirty

‘So where did Jack fly in from then?’ Sylvia gave me a teasing grin, then peered round me at the leather-coat-covered Malik lying on the bed. ‘Gosh, you look like you’ve had an interesting night.’

‘Something like that,’ I said wryly. ‘Sorry, but I’m not really in the mood to talk about it, though.’

‘Okay,’ she agreed cheerfully, ‘if you change your mind, I’m here.’

I blinked at her easy acceptance, then feeling a prick of guilt, I also apologised for siccing her with the Security Stingers and running out on her offer of dinner.

But she surprised me again, accepting my apology with another smile, just as easily as she’d taken Malik’s presence in my bed. I guessed her night spent sucking up the blood from my floorboards hadn’t only repaired her Glamour—her white fifties-style dress and silver sandals were positively glowing—but left her as happy as— well, as a dryad who’d spent the night sucking up blood.

‘Don’t supposed you’ve heard of, or met Jack the raven before now, have you?’ I asked. ‘When he first appeared his eyes were like mine.’ I waved a hand at my face. ‘Except his were this indigo colour.’

‘He was one of the sidhe?’ She clapped her hands and did a little twirl. ‘How exciting!’

‘So you don’t know him, then?’ I asked again, hoping that since Jack could change his eyes, that there was always the possibility she’d know him as something different from a sidhe.

‘Umm …’ She tapped her cycle helmet, her nails making a little drumming tune as she stared into space. ‘No, sorry, Jack the raven doesn’t ring any bells.’ She gave me a wide smile, then said, ‘Now, I bet you’re hungry, Genny. How about breakfast? I’ll just borrow your mirror first—a girl’s got to look after herself, hasn’t she?’

‘Works for me,’ I said, hiding my disappointment she didn’t know Jack and stepping out the way so she could use the long mirror on my wardrobe.

She whistled and rustled as she pruned her scalp, vanished her excess twigs, called a fluffy pink mohair cardigan and repaired the broken strap on her pink cycle helmet. Then she cleaned up her snowfall of petals, repaired the holes in my floorboards by blowing them a kiss, and declared herself ready for breakfast. After a quick look at the contents of my fridge—two bottles of Cristall and nothing else—she cheerfully agreed to go to the Rosy Lea Café to get it. Even more amazingly, she equally cheerfully helped me move my heavy wardrobe in front of my bedroom window, a feat I’d never have managed on my own. I might be stronger than a normal human, but Sylvia had the edge on me. The wardrobe was oak, and as soon as she grasped one side and flattened her ‘Hello, boys!’ cleavage against it, the wardrobe almost moved itself.

I didn’t ask.

I just thanked her gratefully, and told her breakfast was my treat.

After Sylvia had gone, I looked thoughtfully down at Malik where he lay on the bed, his black eyes staring sightlessly upwards. In spite of my temporary shielding measures, the narrow beam of sun had caught Malik’s right foot and a diagonal wound now striped his flesh. The wound wasn’t bleeding; it looked more like someone had branded him with a red-hot poker, burning down to the bone, leaving the sides charred and crispy.

Maybe I’d missed an opportunity there.

Throwing the coats over him had been one of those instinctive things: vampire plus sun equals needs protection. But protecting him wasn’t going to stop him running my life. Maybe what I should’ve done, instead of covering him up, was had Sylvia help me throw him out onto the flat roof outside the window and left him to fry for the day. And I could’ve chopped his head from his body while I was at it, chopping him irrevocably out of my life.

Damn tyrannical vamp.

But however dictatorial, annoying—and let’s not forget secretive—Malik was, I couldn’t do it, my conscience and my heart wouldn’t let me. Not only that, it wasn’t the practical option: without him as Oligarch there’d be no one to protect London’s fae and faelings from the rest of the vamps. We’d end up with Open-Fang Night on anyone fae, and the results wouldn’t be pretty.

‘So, I need to find a way to neutralise you, without actually dragging your oh-so-gorgeous, damned arrogant arse out to be barbecued,’ I told him through gritted teeth. ‘But for now, I think you’d be better somewhere less flammable.’

I dragged in the thick silk rug that usually covered my living room floor, then leaning over him, I grasped his arm and pulled him towards me. He rolled easily and limply, and with a quick tug I had him off the bed. He landed with a heavy thud on the rug.

‘Sorry,’ I muttered unrepentantly as I straightened his arms and legs and tugged the rug over him. Grunting with exertion, I managed to roll him up, Cleopatra-style, then I sat on the floor, bracing myself against the wall, and shoved the rug with my feet until it was tucked under the bed.

I hauled myself up, wiped my sweaty forehead and grimaced. The rug was added insurance against the daylight. If he got a few bruises along the way, well, it was only what he deserved.

‘Right.’ I dusted off my hands. ‘Annoying vamp temporarily disposed off: check. Time for a shower and clothes before Sylvia gets back.’

I tugged off my vest top and sleep shorts and caught my reflection in the wardrobe mirror. Not a pretty sight. The mass of purple bruising centred on my midriff didn’t look—or feel—any better, nor did the rest of the multicoloured patches that decorated my arms and legs. But while I might be bruised and battered, I had things to do. I needed to buy a new Ward—Malik couldn’t be left unprotected, however much the angry part of me might want to—but I couldn’t afford a Ward and a Healing spell. I decided a couple of aspirins and a handful of blood-fruit to up my venom levels—I had a brief relieved thought that even after Darius’ attack last night, when he’d venom-stuck me, I didn’t seem to be suffering any ill-effects—and I’d live for another day.

I looked, and ran my fingers over Tavish’s handprint spell where it sat low down on my stomach; it hadn’t changed. It was obviously to do with the fertility curse—but hey, right now everything and anything was to do with the fertility curse—but since it wasn’t active yet, that didn’t tell me what it was going to do. Maybe Finn would know, once we got round to talking today. I wondered again what had been so important that he hadn’t wanted to chat last night, although with what had happened, Finn not being around had turned out for the best. If he’d been here when Malik had brought me home injured, he’d probably have tried to stake—or rather, stick his horns in—the arrogant vamp. But Tavish’s spell gave me a good enough excuse to phone Finn and hurry up our chat. Plus, there was my job, or lack of it, at Spellcrackers, and our relationship, whatever it was, to sort out. I fished my phone from my jacket, hesitated, and took the coward’s way out and texted him instead.

Can we meet soon, please?

I stared as the little envelope symbol winged off on its way, then stared some more as if that would get me an immediate reply, before telling myself to get on with more sensible things, like checking my emails … which consisted of a load of the usual ‘no, I really don’t want whatever it is you’re selling’ spam, and one from Hugh saying he’d was looking into my queries about the missing faelings, the Morrígan, Ana and the other stuff, and he’d get back to me.

‘At least someone’s trying to help me,’ I said loudly, nudging the carpeted Malik with my foot (not that I thought he could hear me, but it made me feel better). I picked up Grace’s pentacle from my bedside table, found another chain in one of the drawers to replace the broken one, and clasped it round my neck as I went over my day’s to-visit list.

There was the chat with Finn, hopefully. There was the visit Victoria Harrier, my lawyer, had arranged with the ravens at the Tower of London. And then there was the other visit Victoria had arranged, with her very pregnant daughter-in-law, Ana, to chat about babies and 3V and vamps and curses. I wasn’t looking forward to it, as even without Ana being a past, and possibly present and future, victim of the curse, the whole idea of talking to a faeling whose grandmother was a royal sidhe princess (which Angel was, however nutty she also was), and whose great-grandmother was a sidhe queen, filled my stomach with oddly nervous butterflies.

And that gave me another more immediate problem: what on earth was I supposed to wear that would be suitable for a meeting with the ravens, a faeling who had royal sidhe blood, and a serious chat with my ex-boss to sort out both the personal and working sides of our relationship, all the while trying to deal with matchmaking magic. In the end I decided on smart, but casual, with just a slight touch of sexy: a green top of silk and lace, black velvet jeans and killer-heel boots.

‘And then tonight,’ I said, bending down and giving the evil eye to Malik in the rolled-up carpet under my bed, ‘I’m going back to Sucker Town and find out what’s going on with Fyodor, Mad Max, Darius and my blood, and what they all have to do with the curse, and you are not going to stop me.’