The Sweet Scent of Blood

Chapter Fourteen

I headed for Sucker Town, or Greenwich as it’s known by daylight, the heart of the mean times. I’d left my flat using the back way: over the roof and down the fire escape ladder into the garden of St Paul’s Church. A rush of hot air at Waterloo Station signalled the arrival of the tube train. Dropping into a seat, I rubbed the back of my neck, heart labouring in my chest. My body felt like I’d climbed Hugh’s mountain with a bad attack of the flu; I was weak, itchy and craving. I’d have been making the trip anyway, even if I hadn’t wanted to hear the gossip.

I gazed, exhausted, at the train’s tunnel-darkened windows and, stifling my regrets over Finn, made a promise to myself that that was an end of it. No more wishing for something that couldn’t be. I slumped in the seat and checked out my reflection: black baseball cap hiding the telltale amber of my hair, tinted glasses over my eyes, loose black T-shirt, charity shop jeans, heavy motorbike boots and a knee-length black jacket that had me sweating in the stuffy heat. My only accessory was the pearl-handled flick-knife that nestled against my spine: six inches of silver-plated steel.

Apart from the knife, my venom-junkie outfit fitted in right along with the other occupant of the carriage.

The goth leaned against the doors, arms folded loosely across his chest. Only he wasn’t the real deal, just a cheap copy. His ankle-length coat was PVC instead of leather, his dye job was patchy and safety pins featured heavily in his attempt at low-cost adornment. Heavy-handed eyeliner gave him the naïve panda look, and the black, round-necked T-shirt shouted out his inexperience. A true sucker wannabe would’ve worn a muscle vest. Or nothing. As I’d stumbled past him onto the train, his lip had curled, showing crooked teeth, and I’d recognised him. Cheap Goth was Gazza, the dirty-mouthed pot-washer from the Rosy Lee Café. No prizes for guessing why he was off to Sucker Town.

Ignoring him, I closed my eyes, tucking my hands under my arms to stop from scratching.

The goblin woke me.

I opened my eyes to the blank stare of his dark wraparounds and was reminded of Jeremiah, the goblin who’d died at the police station. But this one was smaller, with his pale grey head-fur crimped into artificial waves and fanned out like a miniature peacock’s tail. His white translucent ears flicked like a rat’s and he clutched a gold lamé satchel tight to his chest, almost obscuring the London Underground badge on his navy boiler-suit—a gold embroidered ‘G’ that marked him as a Gatherer.

He slid a thin grey finger down his twitching nose. ‘Rubbish, miss.’

My disguise wasn’t good enough to trick a goblin, or even a vamp—not that it mattered. It was only the witches I was trying to fool.

I shook my head at the goblin, then touched my own nose in reply.

He patted the flap of his satchel. ‘Thankee, miss.’

The goblin clomped along to Gazza, his trainers flashed green with every step. ‘Rubbish, mister.’

Gazza sneered again. ‘Bugger off, you little creep.’

The goblin grinned up at him, baring black serrated teeth, three of them studded with square-cut garnets. He opened his mouth wide, leaned forward and snapped his teeth together with a loud crack, right next to Gazza’s cheap PVC-covered groin. ‘Rubbish, mister,’ he demanded.

Huddling against the door, his eyes wide, Gazza fumbled in his coat pocket, found something and offered it warily to the goblin. A stick of chewing gum, still wrapped.

Thin fingers plucked at it, then tucked it away inside the gold lamé satchel. ‘Thankee, mister.’ The goblin stamped his feet, leapt onto a seat and curled up in a ball, his arms hugging tight around his bag.

Gazza subsided like a pricked balloon.

I tucked my chin down, hiding a smirk.

Two stops later, the doors hissed open at Sucker Town North and Gazza jumped out and raced along the platform, coat flapping behind him like the Night Hunt was nipping at his heels.

Following at a slower pace, I shambled onto the escalator, closing my eyes briefly against the headache pounding behind them. I stuck my hand in my pocket and smoothed my fingers over Jeremiah’s Union Jack badge I’d found outside the police station, then touched my fingertips to the other two just like it that I’d picked up from home.

My lucky charms.

Reaching ground level, I fed change into the turnstile and pushed through into the ladies. A miasma of bleach, ammonia and sickly-sweet weed clung to the white brick-laid tiles and my stomach roiled. I shuffled along the row of cubicles, gave each door a push, checking for the cleanest.

Two girls, one with dirty blonde hair, the other a more brassy yellow, sat on the counter facing each other, bare feet in one of the washbasins. Giggling, they took it in turns hitting the tap and splashing water over their toes. Brassy threw me a quick furtive glance, decided I wasn’t anyone to be bothered about and took a long drag of her spliff.

Dirty gave me the finger. ‘Piss off, cow,’ she hissed.

Ignoring her, I choose a so-so cubicle at the end and locked myself in. It wasn’t the nicest place to change, but it was the most convenient available. The poster on the door advertised HOPE, and warned against 3V and the perils of Sucker Town.

I hung my jacket over it.

My heart started palpitating and I braced my hands on my knees, and panted shallow breaths until it calmed down. I wiped the sweat from my face and neck, pulled off my boots and then stripped down to my underwear: Lycra black crop-top and hipster shorts. Once I’d donned my jacket and boots again, I’d be good to go as Gazza the Cheap Goth’s twin.

Easing down the shorts, I stared at the spell-tattoo on my left hip. Its hard black ridges stood proud against the honey-colour of my skin. Licking my lips, I traced the knotted Celtic shape, and a shudder of power echoed through me.

A door banged, making me jump.

‘Give it ’ere, you silly mare,’ one of the girls shouted.

‘In a min,’ the other sniggered back, ‘but I wan’ some more first.’

I pulled out my knife and flicked it open. The silver gleamed sullenly in the stark light of the fluorescents. Resting my left hand against my thigh, I hesitated. Was using the spell the reason I wanted so badly to sink my teeth into Finn’s neck? Was that why his blood smelled of berries? I’d never had that happen before with a fae. And why now? Had something changed? The doubts edged their way into my mind, until something wild and eager and alien pushed them away. I was too far gone to turn back now. I sliced a deep diagonal cut down the bone, bisecting my life line in two.

Nothing happened.

No pain. And no blood.

‘Fucking G-Zav,’ I breathed out in a whisper.

I chewed my lip, trying to decide whether to tap the vein in my arm—then hot, viscous fluid seeped out of the wound like blood-coloured tar. Inhaling the rich honey scent, my heart beat with shallow thuds. I watched as the blood pooled in my palm. I took a deep breath, then smeared the sticky blood across the spell on my hip. It ran liquid into the knotted design, flooding out over the black ridges and misted in a thin red haze around my body.

My heart stuttered, and stopped thudding in my chest.

A moment’s vertigo made me lurch.

The heat fled my skin, my flesh tightening as though I’d walked out into a chill winter’s day.

My heart wouldn’t beat again now until I fed.

‘Open the bog door,’ a girl’s voice screamed, followed by loud thumps. ‘Open the bogging bog dooooor!’

I could smell them, smell their blood, hear the fast rat-tat of their hearts in their chests. Running my tongue cautiously over my teeth, I touched the sharp points of my fangs. I could almost taste the girls: hot and salty and coppery. My jaw ached with need and my stomach pinched with hunger.

‘I can see you,’ the girl sing-songed.

Stretching my arms, I flexed muscles like a cat.

‘I can see you too.’ More giggles tumbled out.

I wiped the knife clean on the T-shirt and swung my hair forward so glossy black waves settled over my shoulders. I didn’t need to see my eyes to know the colour was like frozen blue gentians. I checked my hand. The wound had already healed to a thin pale red line; it would be gone in another few minutes—part of the expensive spell package: injuries healed fast, even those caused by silver. I pulled up my shorts, smoothing them over my wider hips, and pressed a hand flat against my stomach as another cramp hit. I tugged at the Lycra top, stretching the material over my fuller breasts, tracing the map of blue veins under the paleness of my skin. Lifting my chin, I inhaled, drawing the girls’ blood-scent deep into my body. Anticipation hardened my nipples and wet heat throbbed between my legs.

‘C’mon.’ The whining tone grated like nails on a blackboard. ‘You goootta give me it. It’s my turn nowww.’

I tucked the knife against my spine and shrugged into my jacket. Leaving the old clothes behind me, I opened the door of the cubicle. Brassy was kneeling on the floor, arse in the air, arms reaching under a cubicle door.

I hissed, lips drawn back.

She peered at me over her shoulder, mouth falling open as she saw me. ‘Fuckin’ell,’ she gabbled and scrambled back on her haunches, ‘there’s a bloody sucker out ’ere.’

I crouched next to her. She didn’t move; the drug suffocating any fear. I stroked my finger along the blue vein under her jaw, felt her pulse jump, then pushed back a straggle of her hair. The skin covering her neck was smooth, unmarked, virgin. My gut spasmed again. I stood, inhuman quick, and snatched my hand away.

She had nothing I needed.

And everything I thirsted for.

Brassy fell forward, fingers crawling over my boots. ‘Wan’ some blood, sucker?’ She flung her arm up, waving her wrist in the air, shrieking, ‘Bloodsucker!’

I ran, her cries of bloodsucker chasing me through the night.