Suzanne McLeod - The Shifting Price of Prey

I curled my fingers around the Power Nap patch, sweat licking fear down my spine. The sparse crowd should’ve made it easy to find Freya and Mad Max, but there was no sign of them. I upped the focus on my inner radar . . . three witches; two somewhere near the column, and another further away, behind and to my right – Mary. And a weird ping towards the far corner of the square . . . I frowned trying to work out . . . but it was gone before I could ID it. And I still couldn’t sense hair or hide of Freya or Mad Max.

I phoned Freya, but again it went straight to voicemail. I snapped the phone shut, wanting to scream or hurl it at someone, anyone— Instead, I took a steadying breath and continued scanning the square. Damn. There was nothing out of the ordinary, nothing, no one for me to find, or fight, or extract info from. Time to go knock – figuratively, anyway – on Freya’s door.

I jogged down the steps angling towards the left fountain.

‘ Ciao, bella ,’ a male’s voice called from my right. ‘ Io sono qui. ’

I almost dismissed the loud and mostly unintelligible voice – no one with nefarious deeds on their agenda was going to draw attention by calling out ‘Hello, beautiful’ and whatever the rest was – but some instinct made me turn. The male was about ten feet away. Adrenalin hit, hyping my senses. In one long second I took him in. Black curly hair, cut short to his head; vivid green eyes, hard and watchful despite the wide grin on his olive-skinned face; tight jeans, open-necked shirt displaying thick black chest hair; his arms outstretched, a bunch of red roses, tied with ribbon, gripped in one hand – the picture of the stereotypical Latin lover enthusiastically greeting his girlfriend – and looking enough like the dead male in Malik’s snow-plateau memory to be a relative. Latin lover had to be the male werewolf I’d glimpsed at the mosque.

And in the hand not carrying the roses, glinting gold in my sight , Werewolf Guy was holding some sort of ready-to-go spell.

High-pitched barks, followed by low ominous growls, came from my left.

My pulse sped as out the corner of my eye I saw two dogs jump out of the fountain: a smallish fluff of silver and grey fur – Freya in her Norwegian elkhound shape – closely followed by Mad Max’s giant white-haired Irish wolfhound.

Of course, now they turn up.

Werewolf Guy changed course towards the dogs, drawing back his arm to throw the glinting gold spell.

Not at my niece, you don’t!

‘Hey,’ I yelled, willing time to stop and freeze around him. Almost predictably, my cool new vamp power didn’t put in an appearance. Brute force it is, then. I charged, catching heads turning in the crowd, along with Werewolf Guy’s startled expression. At the last moment before I barrelled into him, I ducked and shoved my shoulder into his stomach. He doubled over with a grunt, air whooshing out his mouth. I clamped my arms round his thighs, heaved and flung him over my back; for all I’m small for a sidhe, I’m way stronger than most humans. I whirled to find Werewolf Guy jumping lightly to his feet as he came out of a roll, still holding the roses— and the spell. Crap. He’d recovered acrobatic quick. Not that I truly thought it would be that easy.

Cameras flashed, and a few tourists clapped, obviously thinking we were some sort of street show.

He grinned, showing crooked but definitely human teeth, and swivelled back towards the dogs. The Irish wolfhound had the smaller, fluffy dog by the scruff, dragging her back towards the fountain. Werewolf Guy raised his arm. Determined bastard! I threw myself at him and slapped my palm, with its Power Nap patch, against his in a parody of a high five. Purple sparked as the spell activated. His eyes met mine, triumph gleaming in their vivid green for a second, before they rolled up inside his head and he crumpled. Shit. I’d got him— But not before he’d thrown his own spell.

Stomach churning, knowing I was too late, I jerked round to see a coin glinting gold as it spun through the air.

Straight at its target. The dogs.

In a blur of vamp-related speed, the Irish wolfhound grabbed the elkhound by the scruff and flung the smaller dog out of danger. She yelped as she landed in the middle of the fountain, disappearing in a cascade of displaced water. Then in almost in the same motion, the Irish wolfhound launched up, mouth open, and caught the gold coin. He dropped to all four paws with an audible thud, and froze, head hanging unnaturally still.

Mad Max and I stared at each other, less than ten feet apart.

Waiting . . .

I didn’t like him. He was a twisted selfish vamp who had no compunction about using anything or anyone in whatever way it suited his purpose, and he certainly didn’t worry about who might or might not end up hurt. And I definitely didn’t trust him. For the exact same reasons. But despite the fact he’d tried, on more than one occasion, to use my friends as ‘hostages’ to force me to give him my blood (Mad Max wasn’t the sort to even think of straight-out asking), he’d done it for the sake of Freya’s mother, Ana, and for Freya herself. Which even now didn’t make me feel overly charitable towards him, nor did the fact that he was sort of family. Nonetheless, I still found myself wanting the spell to not do whatever it was supposed to do, to him.

Which currently looked like . . .

Nothing.

He spat the coin out.

It hit the pavement with a tinkling sound, rolled in a wobbly semi-circle then fell on its side.

I looked . Whatever magic it had, it was gone.

The Irish wolfhound sunk to his haunches, pink tongue lolling in a manic doggy grin, diamond-encrusted dog-tags catching the sun. Well, that was a bleedin’ anticlimax, wasn’t it, Cousin? Mad Max said in my head. Thought things might get a tad more exciting than that.

Fury, along with a rush of relief, swept over me. I shot a quick glance at Werewolf Guy – still clutching his roses, but now snoring away – then snagged the coin, strode over and grabbed the Irish wolfhound by his throat.

‘If whatever fucking idiot scheme this is,’ I ground out, ‘hurts even one hair on Freya’s head, I’ll remove your balls with a blunt blade and wear them as earrings as I scatter your ashes on the Thames.’

Promises, promises, Cousin, he drawled. If I didn’t know you better, I’d almost believe you meant it.

I squeezed harder, almost choking him. ‘Believe it! Now what’s going on?’

Oh, stop getting your knickers in a twist, love, this one’s nothing to do with me. The dog licked his nose, nonchalantly. ‘It’s down to you and your friend, the Turk.

‘Malik? What’s the hell’s he—’

A sharp bark cut me off, and I found myself sprayed with water. I released Mad Max, swiped at my eyes, and glared down at a soaking wet Freya as she finished off her shake. ‘You need to go back home, pup.’ I pointed at the fountain. ‘Where it’s safe.’

She shoved her wet doggy self between me and the Irish wolfhound, and curled her lips in a snarl.

I tapped her on the nose. ‘Don’t you take that attitude with me, pup. You know he’s not supposed to be visiting you, so he’s in the wrong here, never mind he’s your granddad—’

‘Genny!’

I turned my head to see Mary, her hand pressed to her side as if she had a stitch, staring down at Werewolf Guy in dismay. He was twitching as if he were a statue the pixies had tried to animate. I grimaced. It looked like the Power Nap patch, or something, was disagreeing with him.

I pointed at Freya. ‘Get her back home,’ I ordered in a low voice to Mad Max. ‘Make sure she stays there, and later, you and I are going to have a long chat.’