The Bitter Seed of Magic

Sure, he was eye-candy, and I’d have to be more than dead not to have the hots for him, and he’d come to help me when I’d asked, putting himself in danger for me, which gave him not just my unending gratitude, but also a place in my heart. But no way was I going to fall for the beautiful, arrogant, infuriating, over-protective vampire. He might be a good guy for a vamp; but vamps don’t do partnerships; they go for that whole ‘master and slave’ type of deal. And while I was sort of okay with all the other vamps thinking I was Malik’s ‘property’, I wasn’t interested in being the trophy sidhe/arm-candy for real … however hot his arms—and the rest of him—might be.

I relaxed my grip on the pentacle and speeded up over the last twenty-odd feet. I stopped just out of touching distance, and ignoring the splinter of regret lodged beneath my ribs, I held up my left hand with his ring on my third finger and waggled it. ‘So does this make me a Bride of Dracula? ’Cause if it does, you’ve got the clothes wrong.’

‘Good evening, Genevieve.’ Pinpoints of red—anger? Or just power?—flared in his pupils, then were gone. A warm, calming breeze sprung from nowhere and slipped over me like the barest touch of silk. Power then, since he was using mesma to play with my senses. I relaxed despite myself at the small vamp trick. ‘The ring is merely a conduit, while your outfit is one I am aware you have recently worn. Wearing clothes that you own and are familiar with assists in grounding your consciousness in the dreamscape.’

Ri-ight. So this was a dream and not a gaol-break, then. Figured.

His own outfit was familiar enough too: a plain black T-shirt and black jeans. The casual clothes showed the lean, hard muscles honed to peak perfection before he had taken the Gift. Of course, physical strength wasn’t an issue for him now, not with his vamp powers, and he wasn’t going to grow old or lose any of that muscle tone, whatever he did or didn’t do—the reason why so many vamp wannabes hit the gym. But all that lean, hard strength made me curious about his past. Having been on the receiving end of his compulsive neat-freak skills a couple of times, I was almost ready to bet he’d been some sort of soldier. I looked down. His feet were bare too.

‘What’s with the no shoes thing?’ I said.

His enigmatic expression didn’t change. ‘I decided it was easier than choosing an unacceptable option from your own footwear collection.’

Footwear collection? I had about two dozen pairs of shoes, and half again as many boots and trainers; that was a long way off Imelda Marcos territory. And he’d said it with a straight face, so I couldn’t tell if his tongue was in his cheek or not, nor did it explain why he wasn’t wearing any. And when the hell had he checked out my footwear anyway?

‘I take it that “familiarity” also explains why we’re here enjoying the view then?’ I indicated the walkway, and the bird’s-eye panorama it gave over London. The wind-rippled waters of the Thames reflected the blazing clouds, giving the river a metallic sheen, and in the distance the Ferris-wheel silhouette of the London Eye was a dark, nobbly circle against the bright sky. Nearer was the Tower of London, its two outer stone walls guarding the massive castle compound with the mediaeval White Tower dominating the centre. Dusk seemed to swathe the Tower’s regimented battlements and the lead-capped turrets in ever-shifting shadows. As I looked the shadows coalesced into a huge amorphous shape that rose high into the heavens, the sound of wings buffeted my ears, and the bridge beneath me turned insubstantial and swayed. Vertigo hit. I shot my arms out for balance—

‘Genevieve! Look at me!’

I blinked at the sharp order, and fixed my gaze back on Malik. The bridge solidified. I blew out a relieved breath and lowered my arms.

‘The more recognisable the landscape is to you,’ he said, ‘the less likelihood there is of your subconscious invading the dream. It allows for a continuing illusion of reality.’

Right. No more staring at the view. Unless … ‘So, there’s no other reason for being here other than it’s somewhere I know?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘The faeling who died this morning was found in Dead Man’s Hole.’ I waved in the direction of the Tower, careful not to look. ‘She had corvid blood, possibly raven.’

‘Ah. I did not know the faeling’s heritage. No, I am sorry, Genevieve. I chose here because it is one of two public places that you frequent on a regular basis, and where you wear your eye-catching outfit.’

I plucked at the T-shirt. ‘Trafalgar Square being the other?’

‘Yes, but it is normally too populated a place to use as a dreamscape. The lack of people would make your subconscious uneasy, and it would try to compensate. I have no desire for our conversation to be held while you attempt to corral pixies, entertaining as that might be.’

Entertaining for him and everyone else, maybe. And he was right, I chased enough of the mischievous little fiends in my real life job without adding them to my dreams. I sighed and gave Malik a resigned look. ‘I suppose I shouldn’t really be surprised you’ve been spying on me.’ After all, everyone else was. Maybe I could charge a fee?

‘Then you will be surprised.’ Amusement glinted in his eyes. ‘There were thirty-four videos of your energetic interactions with the pixies on YouTube, last I looked. There are fewer of you dealing with the problems here, but the bridge management are particularly vigilant at updating their blog when it comes to any interruption in service.’ He smiled fully, and I caught a glimpse of fang. ‘I have no need to spy on you when the general public are happy to do the task for me.’

I was surprised—not by the YouTube vids; that was old news—but by Malik being web-savvy. For some reason his enthusiastic acceptance of modern technology hit me as out of character. Then I remembered he and Tavish were friends and co-conspirators. And Tavish is a top geek for hire; rumour has it he even contracts for the Ministry of Defence. Maybe Tavish’s geekery was catching, along with his magical expertise.

‘And of course, there’s this other little surprise.’ I held my left arm up again, rattling the charms on my newest accessory. ‘I can guess what four of the spells are for; care to enlighten me about the sword, the cross and the egg? Oh, and the beads?’

He inclined his head, an elegant acknowledgement. ‘The beads are time, they span a month each. The egg is to contain the sorcerer’s soul. The cross is protection from the demon.’

I frowned: twelve beads meant twelve months, which made sense, what with Clíona’s year-and-a-day time limit and the fact that five of the beads were clear of magic. The egg had to be why the sorcerer’s soul hadn’t caused me any problems so far—and now Angel/The Mother had removed the soul, it no longer would, thank the goddess. And that explained why the egg was crackled, like old china. A cross as a shield symbol was pretty standard, although it would have to have been infused with the faith of someone who believed for it to work. Not that that was too difficult, as most churches would provide one, for a suitable donation.

‘And the sword is to sever your tie with Rosa,’ Malik continued, all trace of amusement gone now, ‘should she attempt to reactivate the spell you share.’

Shit. I rocked back on my heels at this mini-bombshell. Rosa was a vampire, and the spell we shared linked us together magically. It had allowed me to unwittingly borrow her body whenever I’d used it—unwittingly, because I’d thought the spell was a bespoke Glamour spell, one I’d used as a disguise on my ‘faeling rescue missions’. It had turned out to be much more. Vamps’ souls are magically bound to their bodies as part of the Gift—hence their near-immortality—and it usually takes the removal of the heart or head, or total destruction of the body (usually by fire or daylight, or a combination, depending on how old the vamp is) to kill them and release the soul (which then goes straight to Hell, or its equivalent, according to most human religions; personally, I wouldn’t want to guess). But the spell had trapped Rosa’s soul, leaving her body functioning but vacant. When I’d found out the truth, I’d resolved never to use the spell again. And then Rosa had been lost in the Thames at Hallowe’en, and the spell tattoo on my body had gradually faded until it was now almost gone. I’d assumed she was too.

Worry tied a knot in my gut. ‘Are you saying she could come back?’

‘No, not after this length of time,’ he said. ‘The sword is a precaution only, in case she was found and her soul somehow restored.’ He studied the water a hundred and forty-odd feet below us, and a tendril of his grief, twisted with guilt and anger, soured my own euphoric relief. The emotions felt like mesma, but he didn’t seem to be projecting them intentionally; it was more as if I was