The Sweet Scent of Blood

She chewed her lip and considered the deal. Then she sighed. ‘Fine, okay.’

A quiet chime split the air around us.

‘Hear that?’ I squeezed her wrist. ‘Never break a bargain with a fae.’

‘I know that,’ she sniffed.

She’d come up with a way to weasel out of the deal; I’d made it too fast to think through all the options, but if it was the wrong way—the magic could be capricious when it wanted—then the magic would take its retribution. I’d be okay, so long as I kept my end of the bargain. I laughed—not a happy sound—and released her.

She threw me a nasty look and massaged her hand. ‘You’re pretty strong for such a skinny bitch, you know.’ She grabbed an envelope from a pile on a nearby desk and slipped the bracelet off her wrist. ‘I really get to keep it and you won’t say anything?’

‘Yes,’ I repeated, ‘as long as it’s kept sealed in the same envelope.’

A devious smile twitched across her lips, then was gone. She knew as well as I did that the bracelet worked best worn next to skin, but even in an envelope it would still have some power ... but she wasn’t a witch, only a witch’s daughter—she’d have a touch of ability through her genes, but it wouldn’t be much more than any other full-blooded human. And judging by how overweight she was, she had to be scoffing sugar by the bagful to amp-up what little sight she did have. There was no way she’d be able to check the bracelet still had all its spells while it was in the envelope, and until she figured out how to get out of the deal, Hugh would be safe.

As if I’d conjured him up the door opened and Hugh’s deep voice sounded from the hall. A tall thirtysomething woman appeared, stopped and scanned the office, then stalked in, her thin body ramrod-straight. Hugh followed behind.

Constable Curly-hair quickly dropped the bracelet inside the envelope, and sealed it closed. She tucked her package safely into her pocket then turned towards the woman, saying brightly, ‘I was just getting a coffee. Can I get you one, ma’am?’

I slumped back in my chair—I needed to be sitting down for the next part of my plan—then I focused on the pink glow at Janet’s hip and called the spell. The magic hit me like a fist in the stomach and winded me so badly I hunched over, hugging myself. The grey linoleum floor turned into a swirling sea that threatened to engulf me, bile rose in my throat and I banged my head on the underside of the desk to keep from throwing up. I scrabbled for my bag, then, clutching a hand to my head, I eased upright in the chair.

‘Are you okay, Genny?’ Hugh’s concerned face blurred in front of me.

‘Yeah,’ I mumbled, ‘just banged my head.’ I blinked at him. ‘I feel a bit dizzy.’

He placed a gentle hand at the back of my skull. ‘Put your head between your knees. Take deep breaths.’

I breathed in and out and a shimmer of heat rushed through me. The magic settled. Slowly I sat up and sank back into the chair. As I apologised I noticed the constable had left the room.

‘Accidents happen.’ The thin woman stared down at me, a deep frown making her patrician features look even more severe. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Helen Crane, Ms Taylor.’ She smiled and it was like the moon shining in the night sky. Suddenly she was beautiful.

I’d been wondering why no one else had noticed the constable’s bracelet. Here was the answer: Helen Crane’s jacket lapel sagged under the weight of three gold broaches set with chips of jade. A wide belt glittering with crystals cinched her waist. Long strings of garnets swung from her lobes tangling with her honey-blonde hair, and as she leaned towards me I noticed a sapphire the size of a robin’s egg nestled in the deep vee of her black silk blouse.

DI Crane was decorated like an expensive Christmas tree, only it wasn’t the fortune in jewellery that had my nerves twitching but the strength of the spells stored in the gems—almost enough juice to fill half the magic stalls in Covent Garden Witches’ Market. It made me want to ask her exactly what she was afraid off.

She regarded me with an indecipherable look out of eyes as blue as the sapphire she wore, then lifted a hand, her fingers adorned with enough rings to double as high-priced knuckledusters, and brushed her thumb across the side of my mouth. ‘You have a smear of lipstick on your cheek, Ms Taylor.’

‘Have I?’ I snagged another of Hugh’s paper coasters and rubbed at my face.

She took the crumpled coaster from me, tilted my chin and wiped my mouth as though I were a child. ‘There.’ She gave me a peculiar smile. ‘All gone.’

I gave her a half-smile back, not sure whether to be amused or insulted.

Her expression fell back into severe lines. ‘Sergeant Munro tells me you want to look at the pathologist’s report on Melissa Banks.’ She angled her head and looked at me quizzically. ‘Why exactly is that?’

I wasn’t really all that interested; it had been Hugh’s reason for escaping after I’d deliberately embarrassed him. But as I felt another prick of guilt for the way I’d manipulated him, I said, ‘As I can’t look at the body, I thought it might be a good idea.’

‘You misunderstand me,’ she said. ‘You’re not a police consultant. You have no medical qualifications. You don’t deal with the dead. So why are you even here?’ Her eyes bored into me.

I had misunderstood her. ‘Alan Hinkley asked me to come.’ I accepted the cup of water Hugh was holding out towards me. Red dust shimmered in his black hair.

DI Crane’s mouth turned down. ‘Do you always do what people ask of you?’

‘My job is to find magic, Inspector.’ I took a sip of water, looked at her over the rim of the cup. ‘If that’s what I’m asked to do, then it pays me to do it.’

Spreading the fingers of her right hand, she inspected her rings, then clenched her fist. ‘The Witches’ Council wouldn’t have approved any involvement in this matter from Spellcrackers.com without a police request.’ She looked up, stared me straight in the eyes. ‘There hasn’t been one. Furthermore, there is no need for one. I have personally investigated Mr Hinkley’s claims that his so—’

She stopped mid-word, blue eyes going unfocused.

I glanced at Hugh, but he gave a tiny shake of his head, as mystified as I was.

DI Crane grasped her left earring as the colour faded from her face. A thin red line snaked out of her palm and twisted around her wrist, vanishing into her sleeve.

I jumped up, thinking she’d cut herself on her gems, that it was blood, then I realised it was a spell, one so powerful that I’d seen it without needing to look.

‘Munro.’ The DI’s voice cracked. She clutched the sapphire pendant with her other hand. ‘Sergeant Munro.’ The words were firmer, more decisive. ‘Reception. Now.’ She turned and made for the door, saying over her shoulder to him, ‘They’re coming.’

Who is coming?

I hurried after them into the Back Hall, where a soft slapping sound caught my attention. Jeremiah the goblin, his mouth stretched wide in a grin, his green sequins bright against the black of his teeth, was smacking his bat against the palm of his hand as he stared fixedly at the entranceway.

Behind the goblin stood Neil Banner and Alan Hinkley, looking similarly confused as they looked from the goblin to us to the door.

Then a crawling sensation washed over me, raising every hair on my body, and I knew what—or rather, who—was coming. This was so not good. Advertising their approach like this was akin to taking an imp to show-and-tell at Sunday School.

Hugh’s hair had flattened, giving him a hard, crushing look. Had he remembered about the goblin’s bling, remembered how young and inexperienced the goblin was? ‘Hugh,’ I muttered, trying to catch his attention.

‘Not now, Genny,’ he said, voice calm. ‘Go back inside. This is no place for you.’

Maybe he was right.

But it was too late.

The door crashed open. A chill wind rushed in, swirled round the hall, set the lights swinging on their chains and rattled the glass in the windows.

Then all was perfect stillness.

And the sound of the goblin slapping his bat on the palm of his hand sounded as loud as a fire-dragon’s jaw snapping closed.