Suzanne McLeod - The Shifting Price of Prey

Sincerity rang in his voice, telling me he meant every word. A bubble of happy excitement expanded in me. Finn backing me, and backing down as boss, didn’t mean I’d win, but it meant I could fight with a clear conscience, knowing that I wasn’t taking anything from him. Only— ‘What about you? What will you do?’

‘Work for you, of course.’ He laughed like it was a joke, though his words held a serious note.

I blinked, astonished. ‘You’d want to work for me?’

‘Gods, Gen, I’d be happy to.’

I let that idea sink in. We were friends, we made a great team and we’d always had a lot of fun working together. Okay, so it would be different if I was the boss, not Finn. But there was no reason why it couldn’t work . . . my happy bubble deflated . . . except of course, there was. Malik for one. And Finn’s evil ex, the Witch-bitch Helen Crane. She might be stuck in the Fair Lands, but she hated me enough that I doubted I’d seen the last of her.

Finn seemed to read my mind. ‘Gen, I know you’re upset about Helen, but that’s over. And if you’re thinking the sucker’s going to be a problem, then he doesn’t have to be. I know about last night. But I want us to be together and I hope we can sort things out.’

I nearly dropped the phone in the fountain. He knew about me and Malik, and he still thought we could sort things out? Never mind how the hell did Finn know— Tavish! ‘Tavish had no right to tell you.’

‘He didn’t, Gen. Sylvia told me.’

‘Sylvia?’ I said, even more betrayed that she’d gossiped about me. We were supposed to be friends. ‘She had no right, either.’

‘Hell’s thorns, Gen.’ Finn’s exasperation boiled up again. ‘It’s not like it’s a secret; all the dryads are talking about what happened on the boating lake last night.’

Crap. I’d forgotten about the trees on the island. They’d have had a ringside seat, literally, and now it would be all over London. Even if Sylvia hadn’t told Finn, someone would’ve given him a blow-by-blow account soon enough. I wanted to crawl under a stone somewhere and hide. Not that I regretted what had happened with Malik, or wouldn’t do exactly the same again (though obviously somewhere way more private), but hell, why couldn’t the damn dryads gossip about anyone else for a change? Not to mention Finn was taking what happened with Malik awfully well, but then I had chucked Finn out for playing happy families with the Witch-bitch Helen, so maybe he knew he didn’t have a jealous leg to stand on. Not that I wanted him to be jealous. Still, I hated that he’d found out like that. And I needed to tell him that things between us couldn’t be sorted out. Not the way he wanted anyway. Only that wasn’t the sort of discussion for a phone call.

‘Finn, look, I think we should meet up later. Once I’ve finished here.’

‘Sylvia was worried about you,’ he replied, as if I hadn’t spoken. ‘The trees said it was pretty violent, and with Ricou not around she needed someone to reassure her that the sucker hadn’t hurt you.’ He stopped, then said hesitantly, ‘Did he hurt you, Gen?’

‘What? No, of course not.’

‘Sylvia said she wasn’t sure, she’d asked you, and you told her not to worry,’ he went on earnestly. ‘I know he can order you around, Gen. If you can’t tell me, there’s ways of getting round it. Just say something, like, oh, he’s a bad client. You don’t have to protect him.’

Damn it. This was why he was taking things so well; he’d cast Malik as the bad guy, me the damsel in distress and himself as the white knight riding to my rescue. Typical. ‘Finn,’ I said, trying to keep the irritation out of my voice. ‘I’m not protecting Malik. He didn’t force me to do’ – the magic pricked at me, stopping me from lying – ‘what you think.’

Silence. Then, almost as if to himself, he said, ‘Sylvia told me the trees said there was some accident and the sucker forced you to drink his blood. But that was all.’ A pause as he obviously worked things out. ‘Did something more happen, Gen? Something that he didn’t force you to do?’

Yes, a lot more. But I thought you knew that. My chest constricted at the pain in his voice. Shit. I bent over, hugging myself. Way to put your foot in it, Gen! And what the hell was I supposed to say now?

I took a fortifying breath. ‘I’m sorry, Finn,’ I said quietly, ‘it was . . . he was . . . I didn’t mean for you to find out like that. I was going to tell you when you got back.’

Another, longer silence. Finally: ‘You’re working with the police on something to do with those kidnappings, aren’t you?’ He’d changed the subject. I didn’t know whether to be relieved, or cry. I scrubbed my face. ‘Yeah.’

‘Right. I’ll hold the fort here until you’re done.’ His brisk businesslike tone came out harsher than usual. ‘We can talk about this then.’

Crap. Not a subject change, just a postponement. Only I’d made my choice, and never mind Malik was an idiot, I wasn’t going to change my mind. Finn needed to know that. ‘No—’

The phone cut out.

I stared at it, warring between heartsick I’d hurt him and annoyed, both at him and myself.

A hand waved in front of my face. ‘Earth to Genny!’

I looked up to find Mary smiling quizzically at me. ‘What?’

‘We’re going scrying, remember? For your Cousin Maxim? You get to come along for the ride.’

‘Oh, yeah. Sorry.’

‘C’mon, then,’ she said, and as I followed her to Dessa and her police car, she told me the plan. It sounded like we were going to be driving in ever-expanding circles around Trafalgar Square until they got a hit. All I had to do was sit back and enjoy the ride.

I slide into the back of the car – which was like an oven after being parked in the blazing summer sun – and, as Dessa pulled out into the slow-moving traffic, stifled a yawn. Damn, looked like my restless night, thanks to the Morpheus Memory Aided nightmares, was starting to catch up with me. A nap would be good. Only I had a lot to try to make sense of. I leaned my head back on the seat, thoughts of Mad Max, werewolves, kidnap victims, gossiping dryads, Finn and Malik spinning like dervishes in my mind . . .

Malik/I strode through the twists and turns of wide shaded corridors, his/my hand on the sabre’s hilt, pantaloons ballooning about our legs, the tall headdress on our head an odd but familiar weight. Our slippered feet marched purposely past the ornately arched and curtained doorways, behind which flowed the constant murmur of female voices. The guards – plump, ebony-skinned eunuchs – bowed their heads, murmuring soft-voiced greetings.

‘Abd al-Malik’ – Servant of the King – ‘welcome.’

I slipped further into Malik’s dream/memory, acknowledging them, accepting their respect, but not stopping as the dream/memory drew me along its path.

Soon I halted at the entrance to a small courtyard garden. Gleaming mosaics patterned the courtyard’s walls in a geometric design that spoke of the Middle East, fan-shaped palms cast welcome shade, a breeze carried exotic floral scents and the quiet splash of the corner fountain was a soft relaxing music. Above, the sky stretched an endless blue, a blazing sun throwing down a fierce midday heat.

In the centre of the courtyard sat a woman in her mid-twenties swathed in layers of jewel-encrusted fabric, topped with a short embroidered waistcoat. Her glossy brunette hair cascaded in was to her hips from beneath a fez-style hat atop a headscarf, also encrusted with its own fortune in gems, as she tended to the black-haired baby girl lying on the colourful rug in front of her. The baby was in the middle of being changed, arms waving, legs kicking free, giggling as her mother tickled gentle fingers over her tummy. Sitting on the rug close to them was another child: a solemn-looking girl of about six, her hair the same glossy black as the baby’s, dressed in a miniature version of the mother’s bright, jewel-covered outfit. The girl cradled a doll in her arms, rocking it back and forth, her mouth murmuring a quiet lullaby.