Suzanne McLeod - The Bitter Seed of Magic

I snorted. ‘You’re the only sucker who’s got an invite, remember, so don’t bother—’

‘You have been giving your blood to Darius,’ he interrupted, a flare of anger lighting in his dark pupils, ‘therefore, you have also given him an open invitation. He is young and easily manipulated; and you have already seen how one more powerful has made use of him to gain access to you.’

I laughed—it wasn’t a happy sound—and pulled open the bedside drawer. I grabbed one of the empty blood bags and slapped it down on the bed between us. ‘ This is how Darius gets my blood, and he pays for every single bag—a token amount, admittedly, but it’s the principle that counts—and what’s more, he’s in credit for the next six months. Blood paid for or stolen can’t be used against you: I learned that lesson from you. Now get out.’

He settled back against the pillows again. ‘I will leave at dawn, Genevieve. Not before. The bed is big enough for both of us to lie comfortably.’

I glared at him, my hands clenched in anger and frustration. London wasn’t big enough right now, never mind my bed! But there was no way I could physically throw him out. I wanted to scream, to shove a sharp blade through his cold, arrogant, currently unbeating heart, and then I wanted to empty the other two bottles of vodka in my fridge until I couldn’t remember his name, let alone his pale, perfect face …

I dumped the bottle on the floor, swung my legs off the side and stood, immediately regretting moving so quickly as my battered body objected. I grabbed my pillows and thought about sleeping in the living room, but damn it, this was my bed, and I was lying in it, whether he was there or not. Carefully, I crawled under the sheet, giving him my back and keeping as far away from him as possible. As my head sank into the soft pillows, I couldn’t hold back a relieved sigh.

‘Genevieve, I can heal you …’

‘No,’ I said, not caring if I sounded sulky or sullen, ‘I don’t want to be healed. So don’t touch me, or speak to me, or use your mind-mojo on me, and I’d be prefer it if you didn’t breathe either.’ Not that it would make much difference to him whether he did or not. ‘I don’t want you here.’

‘I am truly sorry, Genevieve,’ he said, regret slipping round me like a gentle summer breeze.

‘If you were truly sorry,’ I said, forcing the words past the anger, and yes, hurt, constricting my throat, ‘you’d tell me why you’re hooked up with Tavish, why I’m such a valuable asset, and what’s going on with Tavish, and with Mad Max, and what it’s all got to do with the curse. Oh, and you’d tell me what’s up with you and the Autarch too.’

I stared fixedly at my bedroom’s blank white wall until it went out of focus, waiting for an answer that didn’t come, nursing my anger. Malik might think I was a valuable asset now, but he wasn’t going to for much longer. I fell asleep determined to find a way to stop him running my life. Whatever it took.

Tap, tap. Tap, tap. Tap, tap.

The noise beat insistently inside my head and I turned over, trying to get away from it. Instead, I came face to face with Malik’s dark, staring eyes.

I blinked, then realised three things almost simultaneously:

Malik had somehow missed leaving before dawn, and was now in his ‘dead for the day’ state.

A thin sliver of sunlight was hitting the bed like a laser-beam, and it was inches from his bare foot.

And something huge and black was perched outside my window, tapping on the glass with a very large and very sharp beak.

My pulse speeding with apprehension, I leapt up—

—and a swooshing sound thundered in my ears as the black thing flew through the window, knocked me flying, and crash-landed almost on top of m e.

Feathers.

My mouth was full of feathers. I spluttered and spat them out, scrabbling at my mouth with my hands while something cawed loudly and indignantly next to my ear. There was a panicked flapping of wings as it moved, and a huge raven stared down at me from alien blue eyes, its long, grey, very sharp beak only inches away from my throat.

Was it the Morrígan?

The raven started to grow, and within seconds the monstrous bird was looming over me, blocking any escape. Keeping a wary eye on that beak, I scrambled backwards and wedged myself in between the bedside table and the wall.

The raven gave another loud caw—

—and exploded in a snow-storm of black feathers that spun and fell through the air, dissipating into the ether before they reached the wooden floor. Instead of a raven, there stood a naked man. His mouth opened as he let out one last impassioned caw , then he collapsed, shaking, onto his hands and knees, his head hanging down, his wheat-gold hair feathering out over the floor.

‘Goddess,’ he gasped hoarsely, ‘that hurt.’ Then he curled into a ball, moaning.

Okay. So not the Morrígan.

And not much of a threat either, judging by the moaning, which sounded a bit excessive, like he was putting it on. I unwedged myself from my corner, hauled myself up and ignored the moaning naked guy in favour of Malik.

The sunlight might be weak, but if it hit him, it could cause a serious problem. I kept a wary eye on Mr Moaning Raven as I skirted past him and yanked open the wardrobe. Malik’s long leather coat was hanging neatly next to my own leather jacket, just as I’d known it would be. At least the neat-freak vamp was predictable in that area anyway. I grabbed them both, and flung the coat over Malik’s top half and my jacket over his feet. It wasn’t perfect, but I was pretty sure he was old enough that it would protect him for now.

Then I turned to give my newest uninvited visitor the once-over.

His back view was well worth looking at: broad shoulders narrowing to a taut butt, long, lean-muscled legs, and all covered in tanned skin sprinkled with fine golden hairs that glinted in the weak morning light. A twining tattoo encircled his left ankle, climbed up his calf and twisted around his thigh. It was a complicated pattern of stylised feathers and glyphs, none of which I recognised. The tattoo itself was etched in gold ink that was barely noticeable against his skin tone. A scattering of small diamonds were sprinkled along the tattoo and melded into his skin. When I looked , the tattoo and gems glowed with enough power to fill the room with golden magic, hotter than the summer sun.

I’d bet my last liquorice torpedo that the naked man in my bedroom was the raven who’d been following me: but was he a messenger from the Morrígan, or something to do with the dead raven faeling, or both?

Not that he was looking particularly competent for a messenger.

Of course, there was another reason he could be here. I could’ve snagged myself another hopeful suitor like Sylvia. Damn fertility curse.

‘You know,’ I said, raising my voice slightly to be heard over his moans, and prodding his shoulder with my toe, ‘turning up naked in a girl’s bedroom isn’t the relationship starter it’s cracked up to be. Not to mention that the naiads have already tried it … unsuccessfully, I might add. Oh, and if you’re thinking of it as a fast track to courting me, you can think again. It takes more than pretty looks to get me into bed.’

He stopped moaning and lifted his head to peer at me over his bent arm. He looked about my own age. His face was every bit as pretty as the rest of him: high, angled cheekbones, sharp jaw, straight patrician nose and large indigo eyes with slitted cat-like pupils that gleamed more red than black as they twinkled at me.

I stared at him, shocked. He was sidhe.