Suzanne McLeod - The Bitter Seed of Magic

‘Genevieve! Look at me!’

I blinked at the sharp order, and fixed my gaze back on Malik. The bridge solidified. I blew out a relieved breath and lowered my arms.

‘The more recognisable the landscape is to you,’ he said, ‘the less likelihood there is of your subconscious invading the dream. It allows for a continuing illusion of reality.’

Right. No more staring at the view. Unless … ‘So, there’s no other reason for being here other than it’s somewhere I know?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘The faeling who died this morning was found in Dead Man’s Hole.’ I waved in the direction of the Tower, careful not to look. ‘She had corvid blood, possibly raven.’

‘Ah. I did not know the faeling’s heritage. No, I am sorry, Genevieve. I chose here because it is one of two public places that you frequent on a regular basis, and where you wear your eye-catching outfit.’

I plucked at the T-shirt. ‘Trafalgar Square being the other?’

‘Yes, but it is normally too populated a place to use as a dreamscape. The lack of people would make your subconscious uneasy, and it would try to compensate. I have no desire for our conversation to be held while you attempt to corral pixies, entertaining as that might be.’

Entertaining for him and everyone else, maybe. And he was right, I chased enough of the mischievous little fiends in my real life job without adding them to my dreams. I sighed and gave Malik a resigned look. ‘I suppose I shouldn’t really be surprised you’ve been spying on me.’ After all, everyone else was. Maybe I could charge a fee?

‘Then you will be surprised.’ Amusement glinted in his eyes. ‘There were thirty-four videos of your energetic interactions with the pixies on YouTube, last I looked. There are fewer of you dealing with the problems here, but the bridge management are particularly vigilant at updating their blog when it comes to any interruption in service.’ He smiled fully, and I caught a glimpse of fang. ‘I have no need to spy on you when the general public are happy to do the task for me.’

I was surprised—not by the YouTube vids; that was old news—but by Malik being web-savvy. For some reason his enthusiastic acceptance of modern technology hit me as out of character. Then I remembered he and Tavish were friends and co-conspirators. And Tavish is a top geek for hire; rumour has it he even contracts for the Ministry of Defence. Maybe Tavish’s geekery was catching, along with his magical expertise.

‘And of course, there’s this other little surprise.’ I held my left arm up again, rattling the charms on my newest accessory. ‘I can guess what four of the spells are for; care to enlighten me about the sword, the cross and the egg? Oh, and the beads?’

He inclined his head, an elegant acknowledgement. ‘The beads are time, they span a month each. The egg is to contain the sorcerer’s soul. The cross is protection from the demon.’

I frowned: twelve beads meant twelve months, which made sense, what with Clíona’s year-and-a-day time limit and the fact that five of the beads were clear of magic. The egg had to be why the sorcerer’s soul hadn’t caused me any problems so far—and now Angel/The Mother had removed the soul, it no longer would, thank the goddess. And that explained why the egg was crackled, like old china. A cross as a shield symbol was pretty standard, although it would have to have been infused with the faith of someone who believed for it to work. Not that that was too difficult, as most churches would provide one, for a suitable donation.

‘And the sword is to sever your tie with Rosa,’ Malik continued, all trace of amusement gone now, ‘should she attempt to reactivate the spell you share.’

Shit. I rocked back on my heels at this mini-bombshell. Rosa was a vampire, and the spell we shared linked us together magically. It had allowed me to unwittingly borrow her body whenever I’d used it— unwittingly , because I’d thought the spell was a bespoke Glamour spell, one I’d used as a disguise on my ‘faeling rescue missions’. It had turned out to be much more. Vamps’ souls are magically bound to their bodies as part of the Gift—hence their near-immortality—and it usually takes the removal of the heart or head, or total destruction of the body (usually by fire or daylight, or a combination, depending on how old the vamp is) to kill them and release the soul (which then goes straight to Hell, or its equivalent, according to most human religions; personally, I wouldn’t want to guess). But the spell had trapped Rosa’s soul, leaving her body functioning but vacant. When I’d found out the truth, I’d resolved never to use the spell again. And then Rosa had been lost in the Thames at Hallowe’en, and the spell tattoo on my body had gradually faded until it was now almost gone. I’d assumed she was too.

Worry tied a knot in my gut. ‘Are you saying she could come back?’

‘No, not after this length of time,’ he said. ‘The sword is a precaution only, in case she was found and her soul somehow restored.’ He studied the water a hundred and forty-odd feet below us, and a tendril of his grief, twisted with guilt and anger, soured my own euphoric relief. The emotions felt like mesma , but he didn’t seem to be projecting them intentionally; it was more as if I was picking up an echo. It wasn’t something I’d experienced before. I shivered and hugged myself, uneasy. Was it part of the whole conscious dream thing? But I didn’t ask, not wanting to intrude.

Finally, the emotional echo died and I moved to him and touched his arm gently. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. And I was, for him, not for her. He’d loved Rosa; he’d been the one to give her the Gift. But Rosa was better off gone. I’d inadvertently lived some of her thoughts, her memories and desires, both as a human and a vamp—it wasn’t an experience I ever wanted to repeat.

He turned and looked at my hand, staring at it, apparently uncomprehendingly, for a moment, then raised his eyes to meet mine. They were opaque and unreadable. ‘Rosa truly died a long time ago,’ he said with no inflection in his voice. ‘Now her soul will be at peace.’

‘Losing someone you love is—’ My throat closed. I lifted my hand to Grace’s pentacle, but in a movement almost too fast to see, he caught my hand and held it. ‘Thank you …’ He paused, then continued, ‘Thank you for your sympathy, Genevieve.’

I nodded. ‘You’re welcome.’

He raised my hand and pressed a kiss to my fingers. A spark of magic ignited, like a golden ember from a smouldering fire, as his lips graced my skin. My pulse leapt and my grief disappeared as my body flooded with anticipation and desire. I swallowed, tasting the sweetness of Turkish Delight, and heat curled inside me. His pale fingers gripped mine, the crushing pain muting to pleasure as his eyes darkened and filled with predatory speculation, and something else I couldn’t name. My clothes felt too hot and too tight, my breasts heavy, my nipples aching as they pushed against the thin T-shirt. An insistent need throbbed between my legs, and at the curve of my neck where he’d once bitten me.

He lifted his head, scenting me, his pupils incandescent with fiery hunger, and fear slid adrenalin into my veins, hyping the lust already lacing my blood. I froze, willing my errant pulse to slow, and concentrated on not wresting my hand from his hold. It might be a dream, but it felt real enough, and he was still a vamp. You don’t struggle with vamps, it gets them too excited. And right now I was excited enough for both of us.

We stood like statues on the high walkway, the rays of the dying sun turning us golden, and the silence and tension coiled between us until I wanted to scream, to lash out at him— To offer him my body and my throat.