Suzanne McLeod - The Shifting Price of Prey

I expected the penthouse to be the ubiquitous luxury hotel suite. Instead it was a smallish function room, albeit still luxurious with varnished woods, brown-on-beige décor, and art large enough to be a talking point but bland enough not to offend.

The room had a post-party feel: the huge art-deco-style lights recessed into the sloping ceiling were dimmed to almost nothing, chairs were stacked along one wall, and the four tables in the room – all of them round and each large enough to hold at least a full coven of thirteen witches (though I doubted the hotel ever seated thirteen, even witches; some superstitions just won’t die) – were draped in white cloths, holding only a domed centrepiece of rose heads— the same dark crimson colour as the one Malik had sent with the ring.

Malik was at the far end, looking out of the windows that stretched from one side of the room to the other. I vaguely registered the lit-up pods of the London Eye, glowing deep blue against the night sky, as I strode towards him, Rosa’s ring clenched in my fist.

I slowed as I neared. His hair had grown. It had been buzz-cut last time I’d seen him, now it was pulled back and bound in a queue that cut a silky black line down his white shirt to his shoulder blades.

Briefly I wondered how he’d got it to grow that long in the last couple of months, then any curiosity was eclipsed by fury.

‘I am not Rosa!’ I yelled. ‘I don’t want her fucking ring or her magic flowers!’ I threw the ring at his head. It missed, chinking loudly off the window—

He snatched it out of the air. And turned.

Shock stripped away my anger. He was beautiful, his face all perfect lines and angles, his part-Asian heritage shaping his black eyes, but his forehead was marked. Branded. With delta, the fourth letter of the Greek alphabet, in the lower case: δ. The brand was delicate rather than disfiguring, and gave him an almost mystical air. I looked : it emanated with low-level power and some sort of Veiling spell. I forced my sight past the Veil, and the brand turned from matt black to a pulsing painful red.

My stomach heaved. ‘Why haven’t you healed it?’ I demanded.

‘Genevieve.’ His eyes darkened with grim mockery. ‘The correct greeting of blood-property to their master should carry more reverence. An offer of the throat is ideal, a wrist acceptable, a deferential falling to your knees the bare minimum.’

An image flashed in my mind of me on my knees before him; what I was doing took deference to a whole other level. Lust spiralled within me like a tornado and slick heat bloomed between my thighs.

I dropped my backpack to the floor with an incensed thud. ‘I am not your blood-property, Malik.’

He moved faster than I could track and was behind me, one steel-hard arm clamping my arms and chest, trapping me against him, his other hand thrust in my hair, yanking my head back to expose my throat.

I yelped in shock before snapping my mouth shut. My heart pounded, flooding adrenalin through my veins, urging me to flight or fight. Instead I froze, my childhood training kicking in: struggling over-excites vamps, and over-excited vamps, even one as normally übercontrolled as Malik, are more likely to forget whatever fucking infuriating game they’re playing and tear your throat out.

‘You are my blood, Genevieve.’ His breath seared along my pulse. ‘As such there are expectations on both of us.’

My mind stuttered as his words penetrated. Had I missed something: like maybe we weren’t alone? I pinged my inner radar. But all I could sense was Malik . . .

His dark spice scent wove around me like smoke, his lips cool against my skin, a certain part of him pressing hard against my arse. Damn, it wasn’t just the blood-sucker in him that was excited. Though to be honest, blood and sex are two sides of the same coin with vamps.

‘You didn’t expect anything before.’ I kept my voice quiet and calm.

‘Before you had not admitted yourself such,’ he said. ‘In writing.’

It took me a couple of seconds, then . . . Crap. I had. Last Hallowe’en. As part of my ‘blackmail’, I’d given another letter to the witches. It had been the carrot to go with my stick. That letter gave Malik dispensation for any unspecified crimes he may or may not have committed (so long as he had Hugh’s agreement) against any witch, past, present and future, in exchange for his property – a.k.a. me/my blood – used in a spell. My ‘admission’ seemed to have changed something. Leaving me vulnerable. My pulse sped faster.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, keeping my annoyance at myself out of my voice. ‘In hindsight that was a stupid idea.’ For me, anyway.

He didn’t react. Not an indrawn breath or a muscle moved. He’d shut down. His lungs not working, his heart not beating. Which was a sign, hopefully, that he was getting himself under control. I had an urge to swallow. I stifled it. Waiting. Hardly breathing myself. Then after a long drawn-out silence, I opened my mouth to apologise again.

‘Shh.’ He stopped me. ‘I am not fully myself. I need—’ He broke off. ‘It may aid me if you would calm your pulse. I find my thirst for you is greater than I anticipated.’

At the self-disgust in his voice, a suspicion slithered into my mind like one of Asclepius’ snakes. Maybe this wasn’t his game, but someone else’s. Like the Autarch’s. He had to be the one who’d branded Malik; no one else would have the power.

Angry resolve, rather than the usual panic, filled me. I concentrated on counting, slowing my pulse.

What felt like aeons later, Malik’s grip on my hair lessened, allowing me to lower my chin a few millimetres, and ease the painfully stretched tendons in my neck. My gaze caught on our reflection in the windows in front of us. Malik was fully vamped out— pupils flaring red with flame, lips drawn back in a silent snarl, canines and needle-thin venom fangs white and sharp. The brand on his forehead now pulsed dirty silver in my sight.

My stunned eyes met his grim ones in the glass. ‘It’s doing something to you. If I remove the spell, will it stop it?’

‘It marks me as his. As the Ancient Greeks used to mark their slaves.’

Bastard Autarch. ‘You’re not Greek,’ I said flatly. ‘And neither is he. And I don’t get how that’s even relevant.’

‘You are right. We are not Greek. But the symbol is understood by those who need to see it. I am Oligarch, but all know that I took the position without his knowledge or permission. He has asserted his authority. It is necessary to maintain the status quo.’

Great. This was some sort of political vamp crap. ‘So keep the brand,’ I said. ‘What about the spell?’

‘The spell?’

‘Vamps can’t see magic. So what’s the point?’

His hand spasmed, tightening his hold on my hair. ‘It is for his personal entertainment.’

Sadistic psycho. ‘What’s it doing to you?’

He was silent, a dark weight at my back.

‘C’mon, Malik. It’s doing something, or he’s doing something through it. You’re not usually so volatile.’

‘Volatile?’ He yanked my head back again. ‘Volatile is for the undisciplined, Genevieve.’

‘If you keep doing that,’ I croaked, ‘you’re going to break my neck. I’d be happier not wearing a brace for however long it takes to heal.’

‘My apologies.’ His voice was contrite.

‘Okay,’ I said slowly, trying to think of an out. ‘So we’ve both said we’re sorry. How about you let me go and we’ll talk about it?’

‘I find myself unable to do that. It is taking all of my . . . discipline to hold you like this and not feed.’