Suzanne McLeod - The Shifting Price of Prey

‘Any time, Genny, you know that.’ Hugh returned my smile, then his face hardened. ‘But as soon as this involves more than some personal issues between you and Malik al-Khan, then let me know. And we’ll deal with it together.’

‘Okay, thanks, Hugh,’ I said, happy and even more grateful to know he had my back, as always. ‘I will.’ I grabbed another water – damn sun was like a furnace, even sitting in the shade – and half-drained it in a couple of gulps.

‘You’re drinking a lot, Genny,’ Hugh said, ‘are you sure you’re feeling—’ An owl hoot interrupted him; his phone. He checked the screen, shook his head – not Tavish then – and stood up, walking off as he starting speaking.

I frowned at the water, thinking I was drinking a lot, as Constable Lamber, his mottled beige head dusty, ambled over.

‘Hello, Genny.’ He smiled showing teeth worn down from chomping on too many butter pebbles. ‘I just got back from HOPE. That cambion chappy asked me to give you something, said it was important. I should run it by the guv first, but he’s busy, and ’spect you’ll tell him anyway.’ He held out a card.

Tarot card number four.

My heart thudded as I took the tarot card. ‘Thanks. I will. Tell the DI, that is,’ I told Lamber, frantically fishing my small flick-knife from my backpack as he ambled away. I cut my finger and offered it to the card, giving it the usual spiel as its little mouth started sucking up my blood.

The image appeared. A woman. I stared at her, stunned. She was beautiful with huge, thickly lashed dark eyes, pale skin, perfect features and glossy, brunette waves down to her waist. Shpresa, the woman from Malik’s memory, his favourite Ikbal. Her face was so impressed on my mind I’d have recognised her even without the tiny black crescent inked at the corner of her lush mouth.

Shpresa sat on a red velvet throne, wearing a long white gown dotted with spots of crimson, a spiky crown of twelve stars atop her shining hair, and holding a silver dagger in one hand. Her other hand rested on her hugely pregnant belly. At her feet reclined a grey-brown wolf, and around her throne stretched a field of snowdrops, their delicate white flowers nodding as if in a gentle breeze, scattered with the odd crimson rose.

A distant part of me registered this card was the Empress. That she was holding the knife Janan, the Bonder of Souls; that the wolf at her feet was a werewolf, judging by its green human eyes, and the white snowdrops with the crimson roses matched her gown and echoed the ‘blood on snow’ motif the tarot cards had punted before in the Moon tarot card. The blood on snow in Malik’s first two dream/memories. And the rose petals on my bed.

The little mouth stopped sucking. Still I stared, my mind spinning with suspicion.

‘C’mon, luvie. We ain’t got all day, y’know.’

The card’s crotchety voice jerked me into action. ‘Tell me how to find that which is lost, and how to join that which is sundered, to release the fae’s fertility from the pendant and restore it back to them as it was before it was taken.’

The Empress gave me a sad smile. ‘He knows! He will tell you! For a price! The beasts are coming! They come for you! He seeks Janan, Beloved of Malak al-Maut! To use!’

‘I know all that,’ I said, frowning. ‘What else can you tell me?’

‘The Emperor is here.’

Duh. Like that was news. ‘Where is here?’

‘You must save my children.’ A single tear dropped down the Empress’s cheek.

Her children were Bastien and his sister Dilek, a.k.a. Fur Jacket Girl werewolf. And she wanted me to save them. Well, colour me surprised. Though to be fair, the card could be referring to London’s fae as her children. They were, after all, the whole focus of my question. And despite the Empress looking like Malik’s Ikbal , she was the symbol of fertility, sexuality and motherhood, as shown by her obvious pregnancy. Playing it safe, I asked, ‘Who are your children?’

‘You must save them.’ Another tear joined the first as she comforted her beachball-like belly. ‘Even the unworthy.’ The tears became a torrent and the card disintegrated into a soggy mess that vanished into the ether.

Even the unworthy? There were some among the dryads I considered unworthy, but hell, she was laying it on a bit too thick. And the whole ‘save my kids’ was way too coincidental coming right after Bastien. Looked like the psycho vamp did have a direct line to the tarot cards.

I phoned Tavish.

This time he answered.

‘I’ve had another card,’ I said, too aggravated to ask why he’d ignored my other calls, and told him about it, Malik’s dream/memory and Bastien’s ‘visits’, repeated my message that the psycho vamp had said he’d sent some sort of Trojan Horse ‘gift’ and laid out how the tarot cards were basically sending the same message as Bastien: I had to save him. Finally, I finished with, ‘Oh, and guess what? Bastien can astral-project. Does that make him the sort of like-minded spirit that the tarot card can talk to, or not?’

‘Doesnae make much odds if it does, doll,’ Tavish replied, sounding tired. ‘The cards are sidhe made. The card’s spirit has to give a true reading. If she says the vampires are part of it then they are, even if we dinna ken how.’

‘Wanna bet she knows, and is holding out on me?’

‘Och, doll, ’tis possible. But ’twill nae be much. And truthfully, ’tis the Autarch’s gift that’s concerning me now. ’Tis an audio book of Homer’s Odyssey —’

Excitement swirled through me. ‘The Trojan Horse thing. ‘Close enough. What’s it say?’

‘Well, that’s the problem, doll. I’ve tried listening to it, but all it gives me is a log-in page with the username “Genevieve Nataliya Zakharinova” and then asks for a password. I ken that’s your given name, so I tried your date of birth and a few other things, but I havenae managed to find it as yet.’

Fuck. What was the point— Of course, that’s why the psychotic prick was harping on about our wedding date. ‘The password’s my fourteenth birthday.’ I rattled it off, holding my breath until I heard Tavish’s slightly disgusted snort. ‘Is that it?’

‘Aye . . .’ he trailed off and I listened impatiently to the clacking of computer keys. Then they stopped.

C’mon then, tell me. I gritted my teeth to contain my impatience.

A sigh came over the phone, half satisfaction, half irritation. ‘’Tis full access to the Forum Mirabilis’ website.’

‘And?’

Silence. Then, ‘’Tis police business and too much for the phone, doll. Tell Hugh Munro I’ll send what he needs over with Finn.’ He said a quick goodbye and rung off.

Finn was at Tavish’s? I blinked at the phone, stunned. Then my pulse started a nervous tattoo. Finn was coming here! And I wasn’t sure I wanted to see him so soon after our earlier conversation. I grabbed another water, drained it dry in a few anxious gulps. I didn’t want to discuss the ins and outs of our friendship, or answer questions about Malik. Not when I was feeling raw from Bastien’s snide digs. And what the hell was Finn doing at Tavish’s anyway?

I told myself to suck it up; Finn was bringing much needed info about the Emperor. And as Hugh was off the phone, I brought him up to speed.

When I’d finished, Hugh filled me in on his own phone call.

‘That was HOPE. They think we’ve identified the contents of the cambion’s cauldron,’ he said, anxious dust puffing from his headridge. ‘One of the WPCs thought it smelled like it was the herbal mix the witches use at their fertility rites, so the tech-bods at HOPE have done a rush check. It’s similar, though with some unusual additives’ – he flipped his notebook open – ‘ambergris, horny goat weed, cantharides, and powdered garden fairy, to name the easily identifiable ones.’