Suzanne McLeod - The Shifting Price of Prey

‘Ms Taylor,’ the gnome spluttered, smoothing the ruffled lichen on his head. ‘I really must object to this animal’s treatment of me.’

Gold Cat coughed. My mind translated the cough as Hungry?

I frowned. ‘Hungry?’

‘Ms Taylor,’ the gnome objected. ‘You can’t—’

Gold Cat batted the gnome off his feet and coughed again. You. Hungry?

Oh, she’d brought me a present, like a cat bringing a mouse. Which was sort of . . . gross. ‘Um, no thanks.’

Mine.

I wrinkled my nose at her, not sure if she was kidding. ‘Are you sure? A juicy steak might be better. He doesn’t look very appetising.’

‘Ms Taylor—’

Gold Cat snarled in his face, baring huge sabre-tooth sharp canines, then when he started squealing like a stuck pig, shut him up with a large paw on his mouth.

Hurt kits.

Ah. She wasn’t joking, and she wasn’t hungry for food as much as revenge. ‘Rather you than me,’ I said, nudging the disgusting gnome with my toe. ‘But if you want him, have him.’ I let Ascalon free. ‘Do you need him skewered first?’

The gnome gave a muffled squeak.

No.

Fair enough. Though really even eaten alive was way too good a fate for him, but . . . I grinned at her. Bon appétit.

Police troll here.

Hugh was here? Heart in my mouth, I rushed to the tent entrance. Sure enough the place was swarming with trolls and witches wearing the Met’s Magic and Murder Squads’ hi-vis yellow waistcoats. The cavalry had arrived.

My knees almost buckled with relief.

And right in the centre of the yellow-waistcoated mass was the solid, ruddy-coloured bulk of a black-haired troll in a pristine white shirt and black trousers, organising the rescue. (Acting) Detective Inspector Hugh Munro. Hugh would take care of everyone. I trusted him with my life. More, I trusted him with the lives of those I loved. I shouted, jumping up and down, waving my arms to catch his attention, then when he saw me I gave him a double thumbs-up to say I was okay, and held my hands up, fingers splayed. ‘Ten mins,’ I mouthed.

As he nodded, Gold Cat padded past me carrying the protesting gnome.

I grabbed her by her scruff. ‘Don’t forget our deal. I save both kits, you tell me how to undo the mating with Finn.’

Her lip curled, copper-coloured whiskers stiffening. Take stronger mate. Break mate-bond with satyr.

I rocked back on my heels, stunned. I had to mate with someone stronger to stop being mated to Finn? That wasn’t exactly a winning solution for me. Damn it. I’d imagined an invocation to the gods, or some sort of spell or ritual—

‘How do I take a stronger mate?’

Circle. Share flesh. His seed in you. Gold Cat’s tone suggested I was stupid not to know that. She tugged out of my hold and padded away to disappear into the darkness beneath the stage with the struggling gnome. I stared after her, thoughtful.

If all I needed was a bit of mutual cannibalism (ugh) and sex with someone more powerful than Finn, well, that probably gave me the option of a good ten per cent of London’s fae as a starter. Not that I had any intention of going down the ‘another mate’ route. But at least the answer wasn’t one of those Herculean tasks. In fact, if I ignored the whole ick factor, it actually seemed way too easy an out.

Something to investigate later, once everyone was safe. And Malik had his soul back.

I rolled my shoulders and turned back to where he lay on the stone circle.

Dropping to my knees, I placed my palm on his chest. Despite his heart not beating, and his skin hard and cold like stone, not living flesh, he didn’t seem like a vamp who’d been drained dry, but more as if he were in his daylight sleep. But the tent was painted in his blood. So never mind what he looked like, or the stingy couple of mouthfuls Bastien had dripped into him, which even with his Autarch’s power would no more quench a vamp’s thirst than two drops of rain in a drought, it was always possible Malik would wake to full bloodlust. Not a particularly reassuring thought, but I wanted him to have his soul back.

Though really, it wasn’t like I didn’t have plenty of blood to spare. Thanks to my time in Between , I hadn’t donated for two nights. Nor had I sated my body’s need for vamp venom with blood-fruit. With my sidhe metabolism, that was like a week to a human and the 3V addiction rioting in my cells was near enough at its ideal. My venom levels not so low for the craving to be vital, and my blood levels high enough that losing two or three pints wasn’t going to do anything more than treat both of us to a good time.

Anticipation speeding my pulse, I positioned Janan’s silver point over his heart—

Malik’s eyes flew open, power flamed hot in his pupils, and his hand clamped round my wrist. ‘No.’

Malik’s order snapped around my mind like a net. I resisted automatically. The net tightened, then broke and shredded to nothing. I jolted in surprise and the blade’s point pierced his flesh.

He groaned as if in agony, then too fast for me to counter, I was on my back, arms pinned above my head, his legs straddling my thighs, his body atop mine, all four of his fangs fully out, his eyes black and opaque with no hint of recognition in them.

My childhood training kicked in and I forced myself to lie still, concentrating on slowing my thudding heart; struggling with a vamp gets them too excited, makes them more likely to rip your throat out by mistake.

After a long perilous moment, he gave a slow blink. ‘Genevieve?’

I frowned at the question in his voice. If he was lucid enough to ask, he shouldn’t need to. ‘Yes.’

His nostrils flared and the reason clicked in my mind. Damn vamp supersenses. As Mad Max and Bastien had both oh, so helpfully pointed out, I smelled of more than just me. And damn Bastien. I had a sudden inkling the sadistic prick had deliberately given Malik just enough blood to get him up and reacting instead of thinking. Malik either sensed I wasn’t totally me, thanks to Gold Cat’s recent residence, or Finn’s scent on me had triggered his territorial instincts. Neither of which was good.

‘It’s okay,’ I said, keeping my voice calm, despite the anxious knot in my gut. ‘I’m not possessed or anything.’ I released my bracelet, hearing the quiet chink of charms. ‘See, I’m still wearing the cross.’

He gave another slow blink, nostrils flaring again. ‘The scent of fae and blackberries clings to you.’ A mix of accusation and anger lit fire in his pupils.

‘I can explain,’ I said quickly, not that I particularly wanted to right now, nor was I sure an explanation would work . . . hungry/territorial vamps aren’t too big on listening. I held my breath, flinching as a sudden gust of wind buffeted the tent, flapping the entrance wide for a moment then, as it ruffled my hair and cooled the sweat prickling my skin, Malik visibly reached for control. His needle-sharp venom fangs retracted, the tension in his muscles relaxed and the flames in his pupils flickered out, leaving behind a sea of anguish and concern.

‘Explain?’ A concerned line furrowed his brows. ‘Are you hurt, Genevieve?’

I frowned. ‘No. I’m fine.’

The furrow deepened. ‘Have you been forced against your wishes?’

‘What? No, of course not.’ Surely he knew Finn would never do that.

Desolation flickered in his eyes, spearing an odd grief through my heart. ‘You were willing, then,’ he murmured, his face blanking to his usual enigmatic mask. He glanced at where he pinned my wrists and his grip loosened as he suddenly seemed to realise he’d been holding me captive. ‘My apologies.’ His tone was as remote as if we were strangers. And then vamp-quick he was gone, leaving me scowling in disbelief up at the peaked roof of the tent.