Suzanne McLeod - The Shifting Price of Prey

Right. Well, maybe taking my blood would help. After all, what was a drink between friends? And Malik was my friend, despite the current stand-off. ‘So feed,’ I said.

‘No. I am too . . . volatile.’

Underneath his attempt at dry amusement, I could taste his fear, like bitter aloes mixed with rancid blood. Fear of losing control, and of hurting me. Not that I wanted either of those things to happen either, but hey, the other options – standing here until inevitably the sun came up or his disciplined restraint gave way – weren’t cutting it either.

‘Look,’ I said, frustration making me sharp, ‘I haven’t donated yet so I’ve got plenty of blood.’ My usual donation was a pint into a blood-bag; a daily necessity thanks to the 3V infection turbo-boosting my red cell production. But hey, Malik could probably take a good three, even four pints before things got too iffy. ‘If you get too carried away then you can heal me. And, I’m not human, remember. There’s no way you can pass your curse on to me, if that’s worrying you.’

‘It is a tempting offer, Genevieve. Thank you. But no.’

Stubborn vamp. Sometimes his phobia about his curse made him even more paranoid than me. ‘So what’s the plan, then?’

‘The plan?’

‘Yes. The plan to get out of this.’

There was a long silence. ‘I find it impossible to marshal my thoughts.’ The confusion in his voice was raw, as if he’d suddenly woken in a frightening place. ‘I do not have any plan.’

I’d have sighed, if his arm around me had let me take a deep breath. Not working out what needed to happen next wasn’t like him. Had to be an effect of whatever the Autarch’s spell was doing to mess with Malik’s mind.

Well, I had an easy way to sort that, whether he wanted me to or not. Except I’d left my turkey baster down in the square; not that I thought Malik, or rather the Autarch controlling Malik, would let me take the turkey baster to his forehead. I choked back the slightly hysterical laughter at the image that thought conjured.

Next option was absorbing the spell; definitely not a good idea with who knew what side-effects the magic would sic me with. Much better to get rid of the spell totally, which meant I’d have to crack it. Preferably not while it was on Malik. He’d heal the smashed-watermelon effect it would have on his skull, but I needed to talk to him tonight, not in three or five or however many weeks’ time. So I needed to call the spell off of him and tag it to something else first. Something I could destroy without too much damage.

I stared up at the painted ceiling and visualised what the room contained. There wasn’t much to choose from. Windows, pillars, paintings, stacked chairs, tables and . . . Got it!

I focused on the spell. Or at least I tried to, but the damn thing kept slipping away from me as if I was trying to hold water in a sieve. I needed to physically touch it.

‘Um, any chance we can change positions here?’ I asked. ‘Like, face each other?’

‘Why?’

‘This isn’t exactly comfortable.’

‘I do not think a change of position is wise.’

Because he wanted to sink his fangs into me. And going by the way a certain part of his body was still pressing into my back, he wanted to sink something else into me too . . . Which might be enough to distract him from the bloodsucking bit.

Recalling the image he’d flashed in my mind of me on my knees before him, I closed my eyes, took a moment to get my thoughts in order, then, hoping the visual communication went two ways, started sending mental pictures.

A shudder travelled through him. ‘What are you doing, Genevieve?’

Giving you ideas, hopefully.

His arm around me loosened slightly.

Yes! I sent more images to his mind—

His hand plunged into the V of my shirt, yanking it open violently enough that I saw a button hit the ceiling above us. He shoved my shirt aside, roughly cupping my lace-covered breasts. I moaned loudly, pushing back and wiggling encouragingly against his thick length. He growled, driving his hips into me as he ripped away my bra, knuckles grazing my nipples. They tightened in response, then I bit back a scream as he pulled on one, rolling the sensitive point between his demanding fingers, the pain/pleasure arrowing straight to my core. Liquid heat filled me making me wish that this was for real.

Reluctantly, I reminded myself it wasn’t. This wasn’t about my fantasies, but about distracting Malik to get at that spell.

As his hand continued to map my body, making me yearn for more, I forced aside the distraction, letting my magic rise as I sent more images. He obliged, feverishly tearing the zipper on my trousers, shoving them down my hips so they pooled around my ankles. I kicked them off, thankful they were loose and as the golden glow of my power surrounded us, I slowly reached up to grasp his queue—

He ripped off my briefs, jerking me off my feet, his firm hold on my hair the only thing keeping me upright. Heart thudding, I sent another picture, praying this would work like the others as I tugged persuasively on his queue. Finally, he released me and I almost sagged with relief as he slid gracefully down to fall to his knees before me. I looked at him gazing up at me and my heart stuttered. The flames in his pupils were feathered with gold. I’d almost caught him in my Glamour.

My plan had worked better than I’d believed possible.

For a second I revelled in his worship . . . then, half-regretful, I blocked it.

Now for the next part.

I bent, using his queue to tug his head back and slapped my hand over the brand on his forehead. The magic in the spell felt slippery, like soft jelly. I grabbed it, panicking as it threatened to ooze out of my fingers. I gave it a small experimental pull; the body of the spell lifted away from Malik, but a forest of thin trailing threads – tentacles? – was still embedded inside his brain.

Eww , the thing was like some sort of horrible jellyfish.

Then some of the legs pulled out of him on their own, flicking round to sting my wrist. Intense pain shot up my arm and my hand jerked open. The spell disengaged, burrowing back inside Malik’s skull and disappearing. A pained grunt escaped his mouth, red flames eclipsing the gold in his pupils. He snarled, lips peeling away from his fangs as he readied to strike.

Crap. I was losing him.

I clasped his face, digging my fingers into his temples, frantically pouring my magic into him as I shouted more images into his mind. He growled low in his throat; the flames in his eyes flickered red, gold, red and then disappeared totally as his pupils, irises and whites all turned a brilliant gold. I stared transfixed as bloody tears ran down his face, and power rose around us like a red-gold mist. I bent lower, needing to place my lips on his, to drink down all that power, to take it into myself until it filled the hollow place inside me. But before our mouths touched, his cool hands touched my hips, slid up to my waist and, as he stood, he lifted me up—

And I flew back through the air to land with a jarring thud on the nearest table.

The pain and the heavy perfume of the roses next to my face brought me back to my senses. I stared at the ceiling, trembling as I pushed away the horrific thought that I’d been ready to consume Malik’s . . . what? Power? Soul? And gave thanks that he at least was still following the script of images I’d shoved into his head.

Hands manacled my ankles.

Now to get rid of that torturous spell.

I looked at him. He stood at the table edge staring adoringly at me from golden orbs.

He’d lost his shirt. I gaped. Not so much at his broad shoulders, or his lean, hard chest with its silky triangle of black hair, but . . .