‘Nothing I couldn’t handle,’ I said, keeping the grimace off my face as he gave me a searching look. Hugh doesn’t have a sense of humour when it comes to vamps. ‘Any news on Finn’s daughter?’ I asked anxiously.
‘Sorry, Genny, no.’ He gave my shoulder a gentle consoling pat. ‘Finn’s out with a couple of WPCs, canvassing all of Nicola’s friends to see if they can come up with any helpful information. He should be along shortly.’
I sighed, worried about how Finn was coping, then asked, ‘What about the doppelgänger plan?’
‘That one’s not going too well.’ Dust puffed from Hugh’s headridge and settled on his black hair. It was beginning to look like someone had emptied a bag of red flour over him. ‘Constable Martin spent half an hour talking to the Raven Master and six of the ravens, all of whom claim they know nothing whatsoever about the dead faelings, nor are they interested.’ He ushered me through the gate and we walked down towards the Memorial Garden. ‘She is currently chatting with Victoria Harrier and her daughter-in-law, Ana, about the antics of Ana’s large brood of children over tea and cakes in the café in Trafalgar Square.’
‘Damn. So Victoria Harrier didn’t buy the switch.’
‘Or she is as she seems, and her connections with everything are entirely coincidental.’
‘She can’t be,’ I said, ‘unless the vamp’s got her so locked up she hasn’t a clue what she’s doing.’
‘It’s possible, Genny, but unless I have proof otherwise, the judge won’t issue a warrant. My hands are tied.’
Which meant everything rested on my part of the master plan. ‘No pressure then,’ I said, determined to make it work.
‘Once Victoria Harrier and Ana have finished their chat with Constable Martin,’ Hugh said, ‘if nothing develops, then we’ll bring them in for questioning. We’ve already had Ana’s husband picked up in New York, and we’ve got Dr Craig down at Old Scotland Yard.’
‘Don’t suppose he’s spilled any interesting beans yet?’
‘Until we finish talking to him, Genny, I can’t be certain, but so far he is exactly what he appears to be: a workaholic doctor who spends more time at his job than there are hours in the day. Unless that changes, he’s not going to be of help.’
‘What about the Old Donn?’ I asked, hoping that one lead might pay out and give us something helpful. ‘Did you find out if he’s really dead, or not?’
Chapter Forty-Four
‘The Old Donn’s definitely dead,’ Hugh stated, deflating my hope. ‘I’ve had it confirmed by the Lady Meriel. After the incident with the sidhe he was executed, along with two other wylde fae, Hallbjörn the White and Arthur Ursa.’
‘The three were decapitated, then burned, and their ashes were mixed with salt on Tower Green. Apparently a spell was
I patted his hand; his skin felt dry and gritty, a sure sign he was disturbed by what he’d been told. But then, Hugh was a softy at heart. No wonder the Librarian’s old newspapers had called their deaths a ‘Brutal Slaying’. The execution sounded a bit barbaric, but personally, I thought it was well deserved.
‘Good to know the Old Donn is a dead end then,’ I said brightly. Hugh rumbled, and I gave him another pat to cheer him up. ‘You know I couldn’t resist.’
‘Hmph.’ Hugh gave me one of his patented looks that was meant to have me shaking in my boots. I grinned wider; the last time it had worked I’d been sixteen. He sighed, and pointed towards the garden. ‘It’s not long until sunset, so you need to get going. Ricou has organised everything. Good chap, that.’ Hugh nodded approvingly, then hit me with his ‘concerned’ look. ‘Are you sure calling up the Morrígan for help is the right thing to do, Genny? Goddesses can be dangerous to deal with.’
‘She’s been giving me pointers all along, and she’s had her messenger stalking me, so I’m pretty sure the Tower is where she wants me to go.’ Of course, typically, she was now making me do things the hard way, since I hadn’t seen a single black feather of Jack the raven, her messenger, once I’d decided the Morrígan was my back-door way into the Tower’s
Not that I told Hugh that. Instead I reassured him I’d be fine, and quickly filled him in on the conversation I’d overheard between Malik and Mad Max. Then I followed the path and went down the steps into the sunken garden.
Last time I’d been in the garden I’d been on Spellcrackers business. It had been high summer, and I’d had to remove a flight of garden fairies attracted by the sunbathing tourists and their picnic lunches. The place had been full of life and noise. Now it was full of hundreds of small jasmine-scented tea-lights placed around the base of the high stone walls that enclosed the garden. The candlelight cast an eerie glow over the tall bronze panels inscribed with the names of those merchant seamen who lost their lives in the two World Wars. And in the darker corners, frail shadows shifted independently of the evening wind, drawn by the promise of ritual magic, shadows I tried not to look too closely at, for fear they’d take on more substantial ghostly forms. I shuddered; ghosts are so not my favourite things.
Sylvia was sitting on one of the benches in the better lit section of the garden. Her pink and white dress and pink cycle helmet shone brightly in the last throes of dusk. She waggled her fingers at me, but didn’t get up, just gestured towards the centre of the garden.
I walked towards the middle, careful to step over the collection of weapons that was laid out in a circle around the edge of the grassy area. The weaponry circle was large, around twenty feet in diameter, and consisted of swords, daggers, poles, axes, a metal breastplate, a pair of armoured boots and a black-plumed helmet. It looked like someone had raided a mediaeval armoury.
Next to the small bronze pool—the centrepiece of the garden—Ricou was waiting for me in his true form. His blue-grey scaly skin shimmered in the candlelight, his spiny headcrest was flat to his head, his fluted fins flared out either side of his face, and his long whip-like tail was wrapped round his waist, securing what looked like a Union Jack flag in place. As I reached him I realised it was another towel.
‘Ricou here’s not sure this is such a good idea, luv,’ he said, his membranes flickering nervously over his black orb eyes. ‘Calling up a goddess isn’t going to make her feel too charitable towards you.’
‘I think she’s sort of expecting me to call,’ I said wryly.
‘Oh, well, on your head be it.’ His headcrest snapped up, then down again. ‘Everything’s been done as per the Librarian’s instructions. She provided the bull’s horn herself.’ He pointed a clawed finger at where the aforementioned bull’s horn, longer than my arm, lay next to the bronze pool. It was curved like a scimitar and the pointed end looked sharp, but the head end was hollowed out enough that my fist could’ve fitted inside. I had a brief thankful thought that it wasn’t the Old Donn’s, since I was calling on his mother. Beside the horn was a short silver knife, a bottle of Jameson’s whisky, a crystal tumbler, some milk and a pile of clothes—the same clothes that had been found pillowed under Aoife’s head when she’d been discovered in Dead Man’s Hole this morning.
‘The milk’s in a carton,’ I said, frowning.
‘How many cow farms do you think there are in London?’ He did a yawn-grin and thumped his chest. ‘Not only that, as soon as Ricou here mentioned “goddess” all they heard was sacrifice. Anyway, it’s organic.’
‘Oh, good,’ I said, not sure if it was. I raked my hand through my hair, suddenly nervous. Crap, I didn’t have a clue. I peered down at the whitish liquid in the tumbler. ‘What’s in the glass?’
His headcrest rose. ‘She’s a goddess of fertility. What do you think’s in the glass?’
Okaay! I decided not to ask who’d made the personal donation. ‘Didn’t the Librarian say something about ears of wheat?’ I asked sceptically.
Ricou’s face-fins quivered. ‘It’s spring; ears of wheat are a bit scarce just now.’
Ri-ight. ‘What about the raven feathers?’
‘The ones at the Tower all refused, and I couldn’t find your feathered friend. But I got you this.’ His tail
