Suzanne McLeod - The Shifting Price of Prey

Malik al-Khan. London’s Oligarch and my ‘owner/protector’ . . . according to the vamps’ icky ‘property’ database, anyway. What our relationship actually was . . . was complicated and confusing, and needed working out. Not just between us, but in my own head. And in my heart—

I halted my thoughts before they strayed any further into that particular emotional minefield. This wasn’t the time or place. Still, I couldn’t quite stop the eager leap of anticipation at having a reason to contact Malik . . . I snagged my phone, and, getting his voicemail, left a brief message for him to call me. That done, I put my phone away. As I took a steadying breath, noticed the ginger tom was crouched on the edge of the desk, hackles raised, gaze fixed on the window.

Peering round the edge of the sash window was a dark-haired figure, tall and broad enough to be male, his face in shadow.

For a moment my panic-induced paranoia screamed, the Autarch , then my sensible, prosaic head took over: the watcher was more likely to be a poacher casing the gnome’s joint for his magical valuables.

The male jerked out of sight, and I rushed to the window.

The house’s small front garden had once been a grassed square with shrubs around the outside, but the plants were now choked and overgrown, the grass knee-high with weeds. But, despite the jungle, there really was nowhere for anyone to hide. And other than one of the gnome’s cats disappearing into the bushes, the garden was empty. As was the road in both directions as far as I could see, and the open grassy space of the Primrose Hill park opposite.

Crap. I’d missed him—

A human couldn’t disappear that fast.

I sent my Spidey senses searching for any Others nearby, but all I picked up was the gnome at the back of the house . . . I closed my eyes and concentrated . . . There , distant enough that they had to be a good few houses away, the ping of a vamp—

Fuck. Maybe my first guess had been right, and the peeping tom/poacher was the Autarch.

Except, even with the sunset starting to paint the sky red and orange, it was still too bright and therefore too dangerous for any vamp to be out – Apollo’s crispy critter look is never a healthy choice for a sucker – so the vamp was probably just a local waking up. Although, my paranoia reminded me, while I’d never heard of any vamp having the ability to walk around during the day, that didn’t necessarily mean it wasn’t possible. And a daywalking Autarch had starred in not a few of my nightmares over the years.

I shuddered at that scarily uncomfortable thought and gave the empty garden a last once over, mentally filing ‘Autarch is stalker is Emperor’ for later discussion with Malik. We were going to have a lot to talk about.

I packed my stuff up and woke the sleeping gnome (eventually, though it took a cast-iron frying pan bouncing off his head; I’d be lying if I said I didn’t find that satisfying) with the bad news that he’d have to wait a couple more days for his dead garden fairy licences (despite the lack of evidence, I’d decided to play it safe), and that he might have a poacher problem. Which, since something had punched out the cat flap in his back door – the kelpie? Could he shapeshift that small? – had the gnome shoving me out of his house in frenzied alarm so he could fix it and reinforce his Wards.

Outside, I perched on the gnome’s low garden wall. As I waited for my lift, thoughts of trapped fertility, tarot cards, disappearing kelpies, peeping toms and daywalking Autarchs circled my mind like the gnome’s anxious cats. My shoulders started to itch with the feeling I was being watched. I smoothed my thumb over the emerald ring on my right hand, and the large square-cut gem, guarded by baguette-cut rubies, warmed with a tingle of magic. The ring’s mediaeval gold setting was ugly and heavy, but that was its only downside. I took a quick scan, double-checking the road was still empty (not wanting to panic any bystanders), and clenched my fist.

A ball of green dragonfire erupted from the ring, and a sword sprang into my palm. A Roman gladius. Just over two feet in length, its two-edged blade a mix of steel and silver tapering to a sharp point. The sword was made for cutting, slashing or stabbing. And on the blade was an engraving of a dragon crouching along with the sword’s name: Ascalon. The sword was blessed and bespelled and would cleave through anyone, other than an innocent, killing them instantly.

Ascalon had been a present, of sorts, from an old flame a couple of months ago; he’d taught me to use it as a teenager, and since he’d given it to me, his current girlfriend – a fencing teacher and fitness instructor – had insisted on sparring with me thrice weekly (read beating me into the ground) to bring my sword-skills back up to scratch. Not that I minded; the sword was more than useful, and it came in the super-handy, concealed carry-size.

I lifted the sword in a warning salute to whatever/whoever was causing my ‘being-watched’ itch (be it just my paranoia or something more) then let the sword slip back into the ring, loving the fact I finally had a weapon I could take anywhere, and unlike the flick-knife I once carried, one that wouldn’t get me into trouble with human law. Even better, the ring came with its own See-Me-Not spell and would only work for me.

Maybe I should show the gnome the sword, next time he grabbed my arse.

Yeah, that would make him keep his filthy hands to himself. I grinned and let my paranoia relax slightly, breathing in the scent of a night-blooming jasmine and admiring the view of London’s skyline, its lights sparkling against the darkening sky. A warm summer breeze lifted the sweaty hair at my nape and brought me the faint sounds of bells, whistles and the rhythmic clank of machinery mixed with excited shouts and screams: the 24/7 fairground was in full money-making swing at the nearby Carnival Fantastique in Regent’s Park.

Rumour has it the Carnival, which descends on London every year in the week leading up to the Summer Solstice, was given the Regent’s Park pitch in the early eighteen hundreds after some shenanigans between the Prince Regent and the then Carnival Ringmaster, a triton (said to be immortalised in the fountain in Queen Mary’s Garden). Which may be true. But despite its initial colourful royal patronage, now the Carnival has to apply to the Department for Culture, Media and Sport for all the relevant exhibition permits exactly like any other temporary show. Something I knew about in more detail than I ever wanted, since Spellcrackers (thanks to the company’s Witches’ Council associations) had won the contract to provide magical security for the Carnival. Tedious permit details aside, it was a solid high-profile contract and good for business.

The throaty roar of a motorbike drowned out my musings along with the Carnival’s distant noise.

The bike rode up the centre of the quiet road like a modern-day knight on a mechanical charger, and rolled to a showy stop in front of me. The tall, lean rider, dressed in black bike leathers and heavy boots despite the summer heat, silenced the engine, kicked the stand down with casual skill and turned a black-helmeted head my way, face a pale blur behind the dark smoke of the visor.

My lift had arrived.

I raised my hand in greeting. The bike rider dipped her head and removed her helmet in one smooth continuous movement. Lifting her gaze to mine, she hit me with a stunning smile and whisked her swathe of shining blonde hair round in a practised flip worthy of any hair product advert.

Katie: part-time Spellcrackers receptionist (and my occasional taxi service), soon to be full-time student dancer, and the nearest thing to a kid sister I have.