Suzanne McLeod - The Shifting Price of Prey

Anger washed over me. How could the stupid man worry about diplomatic status when a woman and kid were missing?

The ambassador shook his head. ‘The President would agree with me. We must—’

‘No.’ Henchman One cut him off again, his tone soft. ‘We must not.’

I scowled at the defeated slump of the ambassador’s shoulders, thinking it was a damn shame Hugh couldn’t just pull them all in for questioning, without Henchman One the ambassador seemed like he’d be more talkative.

The ambassador bowed his head in a stiff goodbye aimed at no one in particular, turned and walked towards the exit. Henchman One followed, striding with silent contained steps, almost as if he were stalking him instead of following him. The sight pricked goosebumps over my skin; despite his regretful stance, there was something off about him, and the other two. As they trailed past us, the nearest one’s kurta caught a gust of wind. The reek of butchered meat and wet fur intensified, drawing my attention to near his knees. Marring the green silk there, was a tiny pattern of rust-coloured spots.

Blood splatter.

‘The blood wasn’t human,’ Hugh said thoughtfully, when they’d gone and I told him about it. ‘Are you sure, Genny?’

‘Positive. But I’m not sure what the blood belongs to. I know the scent’s familiar, but I can’t quite place it.’ I frowned, frustrated. ‘The place reeks to high heaven, so it’s skewing my perceptions.’

‘Reeks?’

‘I’m having a sensitive nose day.’

Hugh frowned. ‘That’s not normal for you, is it?’

I pulled a disgusted face. ‘No, I think it’s a side-effect of something I drank.’

‘Anything I should know about, Genny?’

Hugh wasn’t a fan of vamps, especially where I was concerned, but I briefly told him I’d hurt myself and Mad Max had offered to heal me. And that a side-effect of that healing seemed to have upped my sense of smell. ‘Still, hopefully it will wear off soon,’ I finished. ‘And at least it helped me find a clue.’

Grim fissures bracketed Hugh’s mouth. ‘Yes. Their insistence on their diplomatic status seems out of place in this situation, and makes things difficult for all of us.’

‘You mean suspicious,’ I said drily, then added, ‘not to mention spooky with them hiding behind those mirrored sunglasses.’

Hugh pulled out his notepad and a large troll-sized pen. ‘Spooky in what way?’

‘Like they wanted a piece of me, or something. Course that might just be because I’m sidhe.’ I looked at Hugh and Mary. ‘Unless anyone else feels the same?’

She shook her head. ‘Not me, sorry.’

‘Ask around in a bit, sergeant,’ Hugh said, making a note.

‘Will do, sir.’

‘Maybe it was just me then.’ I shrugged. ‘And I got the definite impression the ambassador wanted to tell you more, but they weren’t interested in letting him talk.’

‘Your impression’s right, Genny,’ Hugh rumbled. ‘Though the ambassador did appear to be genuinely concerned for his wife and child.’

‘Yeah,’ I agreed. ‘He seemed upset when I said the place was clear of magic. Though that didn’t come as a surprise to you and Mary, did it?’

‘It didn’t. It was the main reason I asked you here. Mary has a theory about it.’ He gave her a nod.

‘The place isn’t just clean of magic,’ she said, ‘it looks like it’s got a flat sheen to it. I was sure I’d seen it somewhere before. So I had a chat to a couple of the beat WPCs, and we worked out what it was. It looks the same as when you do the magical clean-up after the pixies in Trafalgar Square.’

I blinked. ‘It does?’

Mary nodded.

I squinted round. It really didn’t look like anything to me, other than clean of magic, but then not everyone sees magic the same way.

Hugh laid a gentle hand on my shoulder. ‘We think it could mean there’s another sidhe involved. Which is why I wanted you to see for yourself.’

Anxiety itched down my spine. The last time another sidhe had come to London I’d ended up on the run for murder. Of course, Witch-bitch Helen Crane had been in charge then, not Hugh. But—

‘To be honest, Hugh, another sidhe hanging around isn’t too likely. The gates to the Fair Lands are still sealed shut and the fae aren’t taking any chances where Clíona’ – a.k.a. my not-so-dear sidhe queen grandmother – ‘is concerned. They don’t want her getting her hands back on the Fertility pendant.’

‘But it could be possible?’ Hugh insisted.

‘I suppose so,’ I admitted. ‘Tavish would know for certain. I can ask him, if he’s around.’ I explained about Tavish going AWOL last night.

‘I’d appreciate it, Genny.’

I flipped open my phone, turned towards the windows to shade the screen from the sun, then stopped as I saw the tigers had appeared from their hiding place. They were both lying down, mouths slightly open in the hot sunshine, eyes half closed, obviously relaxed. Had something frightened them away? Something to do with the kidnap? Or was this their normal routine? As I wondered, I realised that now, unlike the unnatural silence when I’d first arrived, I could hear the background noise of animals out in the zoo. As if, like the tigers, the animals had emerged from wherever they’d been hiding. Maybe that eerie quiet had been due to whatever magic had been used to kidnap the victims.

‘Hugh?’

He looked up from his notepad. ‘Yes?’

I told him my thoughts. His ruddy face creased with interest. ‘I’ll have someone look into it. No stone unturned is always a good motto.’

I rolled my eyes at his usual mountain troll pun, then called Tavish and got his voicemail. Again. Damn. If the kelpie didn’t answer soon I was going to go round and bang on his door. I left another message, filled Hugh in, gave a statement and grabbed a lift in one of the police vans adapted for trolls back to Spellcrackers.

Where Katie told me the pixie apocalypse had hit London.

I hauled myself on to the huge bronze lion – one of the four in Trafalgar Square – and straddled its back haunches. The metal beneath my legs was still hot from the summer sun, despite it being early evening and the lion in shade. Sitting there, with the musical sound of the square’s fountains in the background, was almost enough to send me to sleep. Especially after the exhausting day I’d had.

The damn pixies hadn’t left another statue unmoved.

The eagle on top of the RAF monument on Victoria Embankment had taken up dive-bombing the glass-topped pleasure boats on the Thames, leaving scratches on their plastic roofs; the gold wolf’s head fountain at the Aldgate pump had been howling randomly at passers-by, resulting in one man being taken to hospital with a suspected heart attack; the griffin at Temple Bar had become an intermittent flame-thrower, leaving scorch marks on nearby buildings; the sphinx at Cleopatra’s Needle had whispered childish riddles, smacking down a heavy clawed paw whether the answers were right or wrong; Eros in Piccadilly had targeted passing double-decker buses with badly shot arrows, luckily managing to miss anything alive; and so my day had gone.

In fact, the only statues that didn’t seem to be hit by the pixie apocalypse were the pixies’ usual targets: the lions here in the square.

Apparently they’d only been two of the little blighters here all day. I’d nabbed the first quickly – it was asleep in the cat carrier ready to get shipped back to Cornwall – and now I was after the last one. Which was currently doing standing back-flips on the lion’s head, to the delight of the tourists below.

I eyed the pixie, wondering how much trouble it was going to be as I adjusted my elbow-length gloves. Made of supple swamp-dragon leather they were thick enough to protect from the pixies’ bites, but the leather’s spongy texture didn’t damage the pixies’ chitinous teeth (the problem with cowhide). I gave the gloves a good sniff, checking the honey scent of the Pix-Nap cream smeared on them was still strong enough to attract the pixie’s attention.