Suzanne McLeod - The Shifting Price of Prey

Icy betrayal slid into my heart. I tried to ignore it, but the voice in my mind said the bastard was speaking truth, that Malik hadn’t saved me out of an altruistic sense of honour, but because it was all part of whatever game he and the Autarch were playing at that time. And were still playing now. If the psycho was right.

Briefly, I closed my eyes, breathed in the scent of smouldering leaves, and remembered this was my fantasy, dragged from my subconscious by the Wishing Web. Was this what I feared deep down? That Malik’s interest in me was all part of some psychotic blood-sucker’s plan? That I was just a pawn? That even though I’d accepted a relationship with him, wanted him, I didn’t trust him? If so then I was seriously messed up about him. Though, if I thought about it logically, nothing about this fantasy made sense. I wanted to kill Bastien. I always had. If it hadn’t been for the feelings of panic and terror that overwhelmed me at fourteen I’d have searched him out in his daytime sleep and, instead of running away, I’d have killed him then.

So, why wasn’t I trying to kill him right now? With the sword, my bare hands, or whatever, instead of discussing the ins and outs of plots that might not exist, and worrying that my psyche, when it came to Malik, was really fucked up. Either this Wishing Web was more sophisticated than most, or something stank. And it wasn’t the burned . . . meat ?

No, not meat, but flesh.

My eyes snapped open.

There was a figure on the grass between us, on its back, arms and legs outstretched, the hot sunshine beating down on it. Twelve silver-dipped daggers had been driven through the figure’s wrists, ankles, forearms, calves, biceps and thighs. The blades all missed bone, but sliced through the thickest part of the figure’s muscles. I could tell because the figure looked like one of those anatomical drawings, the ones where the skin’s been stripped to reveal what’s underneath. Except the bodies in those drawings don’t look like over-cooked meat. They don’t smell like it, either. Their eyes don’t roll in their sockets as they look at you. And they don’t have a full set of vamp fangs: two sharper canines either side of the needle-thin venom fangs.

‘Genevieve.’

And they never speak.

Malik?

‘As you can see, my lovely princess, Malik even took your place to ensure I was distracted while you made your escape.’ Bastien smiled like the cat that got the cream.

My stomach heaved, and I lunged away as I doubled over, vomiting on to the grass, and thankfully not on . . . was it really Malik? Had the sadistic prick done this to him back then?

I heaved again. Forced myself to stop, wiping my mouth on my sleeve. I pushed to my feet, reaching in the same motion for the sword I’d dropped—

It was gone.

The Autarch was grinning. A wide fang-filled grin that asked if I’d got the joke yet.

I did. The Autarch was here. In this tent. Controlling what illusions the Wishing Web put out, maybe even adding to them, if that was one of his vamp powers. That realisation settled me. I didn’t care how or why, or that most vamps couldn’t go out in daylight, just that now I’d have a chance at the psycho. The other sword might be gone, but I clenched my hand; I still had my ace up my sleeve, or rather, ring on my finger. Ascalon.

‘So your fantasy is watching me puke my guts out,’ I said flatly. ‘Can’t say I’m impressed by your imagination.’

He flung his arms wide. ‘This is not imagination but another cherished memory, my princess.’

Well, that answered the question of whether the sadistic prick had made Malik suffer . . . He had. I clamped down on my desire to run the psychotic monster through. First I needed to find out what he wanted. Because this was the reason for the phone call telling me ‘my dog’ was at the Carnival. To get me here, to Bastien. The only thing that didn’t mesh with that scenario was Mad Max’s kidnap and subsequent escape, presumably, from the Emperor’s werewolves. That suggested some sort of pact between Bastien and the Emperor . . . Or the werewolves. Which was more likely, since Bastien and Dilek a.k.a. Fur Jacket Girl were apparently brother and sister. And, if Bastien’s words to me in the Dreamscape were anything to go on, he wanted me to save him, Dilek and Malik too, from the Emperor. Bastien was no doubt going to tell me his ‘save us’ plan next. Though whatever the plan was I seriously doubted it was going to have my best interests at heart.

Time to cut through the bullshit.

‘So,’ I said, ‘you and your pet dog have got me here. What’s the deal?’

He threw his head back and gave a fang-filled laugh. ‘You are delightful. Naïve, but delightful, my princess, if you think I’m the one with the plan.’

‘What the hell does that mean?’

‘I see I shall have to spell it out,’ he said. ‘I am the Autarch. I have a certain mercurial reputation, well deserved and well maintained.’ He pointed down at Malik— no, not Malik, just an illusion . ‘When he deprived me of the enjoyment of your body, your blood and your death – in all eyes but his, mine and yours – my subjects would have considered me weak if I had not vented my anger on someone. Malik insisted it be him and no one else. Personally, I always prefer someone else; his constant need for atonement detracts from my own pleasure.’ He gave me a look as if to say, ‘Poor me, no one cares what I want, I have to suffer so.’ I grimaced in disgust. ‘But if terror no longer fills my subjects’ hearts and minds as their thoughts turn to me, they would soon plot for my messy demise.’ He shrugged. ‘And we cannot allow that.’

‘Fine. I get the politics. You’re not the one with the plans. Malik is. You’re the figurehead and he’s the power behind the throne. The kingmaker. Isn’t that what you’re trying to tell me?’

He tilted his head, considering. ‘Kingmaker?’ A happy, if scary, smile spread across his young-looking face. ‘Yes. This is true. I was a prince. Malik made me his king. Remind him of that, my sidhe, next time you speak to him.’

I shook my head, not believing him. ‘Why the fuck would Malik make you king? If he was that powerful, he could make himself king.’

He arched a sceptical brow. ‘With his curse?’

I gritted my teeth. ‘What’s his curse got to do with it?’

‘My princess, do you really think that vampires anywhere would accept a revenant, someone who could turn into a bloodthirsty mindless corpse at any moment, as their liege lord?’

‘They accepted a psychotic, murdering bastard like you.’

‘Those that lived did, yes,’ he agreed prosaically. ‘Those that Challenged me to my face died horribly. As did those that plotted behind my back.’ He threw his arms out with a flourish and gave a low bow. ‘You see before you the magician’s assistant, my princess. The pretty distraction to divert the eye. No one sees my loyal shadow coming, not until the darkness takes them.’ He grinned. ‘You see, I am not the only psychotic, murdering bastard.’

Was it true? Was Malik the one in control? Or was Bastien still playing games, trying to make me think that? But why? What did it gain him, to make me distrust Malik? Or was that it? Was Bastien trying to drive a wedge between us? But again, why? Especially after he’d seemed so disappointed we hadn’t had sex. I swallowed back bile at the memory of how the bastard had violated me, and tightened my fist around Ascalon’s ring. And what the hell did it all have to do with the Emperor? Though really, second-guessing Bastien was a waste of time; he was the type to sell his own mother, so anything coming out of his mouth was suspect. Time to poke back.