The Bitter Seed of Magic

before you can be fully healed. Maxim is a suitable donor, but with his heart stopped by the knives, we will need gravity to aid the transfer.’

I frowned, not thrilled about having Mad Max’s blood in my body. ‘Why can’t I have your blood at the same time as you heal me, like you did before?’

‘You need more blood than I can safely give you, Genevieve. Such quantity as you require would risk afflicting you with my curse.’

‘Okay,’ I said, puzzled, and not entirely understanding his worry. ‘But I’m not human, I’m sidhe. Your curse can’t affect me, because I can’t become a vampire. The magic doesn’t work that way.’

‘That would be true if you were full-blood sidhe,’ he said quietly, ‘but your father is a vampire.’

‘No, my father being a vampire is irrelevant,’ I said firmly. ‘Sidhe reproduction is different, so I am a full-blood sidhe—I’m like a clone of my mother; that’s how it works.’

‘I am not willing to take that gamble,’ Malik insisted, ‘not when his blood will suffice.’ He waved at Mad Max, now swaying gently above my actual body. His arms and long silver hair were just inches above my body’s face and I wrinkled my/ Darius’ face in disgust as I clicked exactly how I was going to get Mad Max’s blood: I just knew he was going to taste bad.

‘Fine,’ I agreed. Getting back in my body was the priority, not worrying about whose blood I was going to get. ‘So what’s next?’

‘Darius should feed now,’ Malik said, an edge of displeasure in his voice. ‘Sparingly,’ he added.

‘Okay, let’s do it,’ I said, then as Darius stopped hovering unobtrusively behind his white wall and leaned us eagerly towards my body’s neck, I added; ‘From the wrist.’ Ignoring his vague disappointment, I/Darius lifted up my limp hand, the one we were still clutching, and we sniffed the sweet honey scent that pulsed just under the skin. Hunger cramped our stomach, and we struck—

—thick viscous, honey-tasting blood burst into our mouth—

Cold, so cold … every beat of my heart hurt, as if a large hand were gripping it and squeezing, the fingers digging in painfully, then a brief second of respite before the hand gripped and squeezed all over again, like some torturous mechanical pump. I screamed, desperate to get away from the unbearable agony …

‘Drink, Genevieve,’ Malik’s voice commanded in my mind, and as Mad Max’s metallic, sour-tasting blood touched my lips, I opened my mouth and let it flood in, swallowing convulsively as it hit the back of my throat—

He watched as the boy slid down the slide squealing with pure joy. The security lights flooded the playground in a bright white light that kept the night at bay, and turned the boy’s blond curls silver. He wanted to pick him up, lift him and swing him round, and tell him he could fly. Tell him he loved him. It was something the old man had done when he’d been the boy’s age: a small, happy thing in among the ever-constant fear. But he hugged the want to himself, tucked it away in his heart. She’d never allow it. It had taken five years from the boy’s birth until now for her to grudge him this one brief glimpse from a distance. And he didn’t want to give the bitch the satisfaction of seeing his need. Or his pain.

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