Suzanne McLeod - The Bitter Seed of Magic

‘I think you’re maligning my good character here, my lady.’ He rested his chin on his arm, regarding me quizzically. ‘After all, I did just rescue you. But I’m prepared to forgive you for’—he grinned—‘a drink. Don’t suppose you’d care to pass me the vodka there, would you?’

I blinked at him. ‘What?’

‘Saving damsels in distress from going up in flames with unconscious vamps is thirsty work. There’s the shifting, that takes its toll, even without flying through your window while not physically breaking it. Then I did have to stretch your Ward a bit, but seeing as it was already partially cracked , I didn’t think you’d mind. I think I deserve a drink after all that, don’t you?’ He winked mischievously, his grin widening to show straight white human teeth. ‘Oh, and pass me a pillow, will you? I can’t quite manage clothes yet, and I’d hate to stun you speechless with the rest of my pretty looks.’

‘It’s not your looks,’ I said slowly, tossing a pillow at him in bemusement. ‘It’s your eyes.’

‘Ah, I forgot.’ He closed them, muttered something under his breath, then opened them. The indigo irises were the same, but the pupils were now round black and human. ‘Is that better?’

Oddly, it was. ‘Um … yes. Who are you?’

He sprang to his feet, clutching the pillow strategically in front of him, then did an odd bird-like hop towards me. He stopped and shook his head in irritation. ‘Sorry, takes a while to get rid of the mannerisms. The name’s Jack, my lady. Pleased to meet you, at last.’ He held out his hand, an expectant look on his face, as if I should know who he was even if I didn’t know him .

‘At last?’ I echoed questioningly.

‘Ah, she hasn’t told you.’ He dipped his head, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment, which made him look a good few years younger than the mid-twenties I’d originally guessed. ‘Well, that puts the hawk among the pigeons, doesn’t it? About that drink …’

Not a suitor, then: a messenger, as I’d previously thought.

I handed him the vodka bottle from the bedside table. It was still a third full. ‘Who hasn’t told me what?’ I offered him a glass.

He did a little dancing jiggle with the vodka and the pillow, managed to get the top off without losing his modesty, then, ignoring the glass, he tipped the bottle up, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he drank, and he continued drinking until the bottle was empty.

‘Good stuff, this’—he checked the label—‘Cristall. I’ll have to get some. Thanks, my lady.’

‘No problem,’ I said, giving him an expectant look. ‘Okay, Dutch courage time over, Jack, back to the question: who hasn’t told—?’

A loud knock on my bedroom door and a voice interrupted us. ‘Genny?’ Sylvia called. ‘Are you all right in there? I can hear talking—’

Damn. I’d forgotten about her. Again. ‘I’m fine, Sylvia—’

The door opened.

‘Ah, look, I’ve really got to go.’ Jack shoved the pillow and empty bottle at me, catching me by surprise and knocking me back onto the bed. I rolled onto my side out of his way as he launched himself at the window. His body concertinaed, folding back in on itself as he sprouted glossy black feathers and shifted into the huge raven. The bird flapped his wings once, the backdraught blowing my hair back from my face, then he flew straight through the glass as if it wasn’t there and soared away into the sky.

‘Gosh! Nice arse!’ Sylvia exclaimed from the doorway. She smiled at me. ‘Whoever was that?’

‘That was Jack, apparently.’ I pressed my lips together, frustrated he’d got away before he’d given me an answer to my question. Who was she— the Morrígan?—and what hadn’t she told me?

‘So where did Jack fly in from then?’ Sylvia gave me a teasing grin, then peered round me at the leather-coat-covered Malik lying on the bed. ‘Gosh, you look like you’ve had an interesting night.’

‘Something like that,’ I said wryly. ‘Sorry, but I’m not really in the mood to talk about it, though.’

‘Okay,’ she agreed cheerfully, ‘if you change your mind, I’m here.’

I blinked at her easy acceptance, then feeling a prick of guilt, I also apologised for siccing her with the Security Stingers and running out on her offer of dinner.

But she surprised me again, accepting my apology with another smile, just as easily as she’d taken Malik’s presence in my bed. I guessed her night spent sucking up the blood from my floorboards hadn’t only repaired her Glamour—her white fifties-style dress and silver sandals were positively glowing—but left her as happy as— well, as a dryad who’d spent the night sucking up blood.

‘Don’t supposed you’ve heard of, or met Jack the raven before now, have you?’ I asked. ‘When he first appeared his eyes were like mine.’ I waved a hand at my face. ‘Except his were this indigo colour.’

‘He was one of the sidhe?’ She clapped her hands and did a little twirl. ‘How exciting!’

‘So you don’t know him, then?’ I asked again, hoping that since Jack could change his eyes, that there was always the possibility she’d know him as something different from a sidhe.

‘Umm …’ She tapped her cycle helmet, her nails making a little drumming tune as she stared into space. ‘No, sorry, Jack the raven doesn’t ring any bells.’ She gave me a wide smile, then said, ‘Now, I bet you’re hungry, Genny. How about breakfast? I’ll just borrow your mirror first—a girl’s got to look after herself, hasn’t she?’

‘Works for me,’ I said, hiding my disappointment she didn’t know Jack and stepping out the way so she could use the long mirror on my wardrobe.

She whistled and rustled as she pruned her scalp, vanished her excess twigs, called a fluffy pink mohair cardigan and repaired the broken strap on her pink cycle helmet. Then she cleaned up her snowfall of petals, repaired the holes in my floorboards by blowing them a kiss, and declared herself ready for breakfast. After a quick look at the contents of my fridge—two bottles of Cristall and nothing else—she cheerfully agreed to go to the Rosy Lea Café to get it. Even more amazingly, she equally cheerfully helped me move my heavy wardrobe in front of my bedroom window, a feat I’d never have managed on my own. I might be stronger than a normal human, but Sylvia had the edge on me. The wardrobe was oak, and as soon as she grasped one side and flattened her ‘Hello, boys!’ cleavage against it, the wardrobe almost moved itself.

I didn’t ask.

I just thanked her gratefully, and told her breakfast was my treat.

After Sylvia had gone, I looked thoughtfully down at Malik where he lay on the bed, his black eyes staring sightlessly upwards. In spite of my temporary shielding measures, the narrow beam of sun had caught Malik’s right foot and a diagonal wound now striped his flesh. The wound wasn’t bleeding; it looked more like someone had branded him with a red-hot poker, burning down to the bone, leaving the sides charred and crispy.

Maybe I’d missed an opportunity there.

Throwing the coats over him had been one of those instinctive things: vampire plus sun equals needs protection . But protecting him wasn’t going to stop him running my life. Maybe what I should’ve done, instead of covering him up, was had Sylvia help me throw him out onto the flat roof outside the window and left him to fry for the day. And I could’ve chopped his head from his body while I was at it, chopping him irrevocably out of my life.

Damn tyrannical vamp.

But however dictatorial, annoying—and let’s not forget secretive—Malik was, I couldn’t do it, my conscience and my heart wouldn’t let me. Not only that, it wasn’t the practical option: without him as Oligarch there’d be no one to protect London’s fae and faelings from the rest of the vamps. We’d end up with Open-Fang Night on anyone fae, and the results wouldn’t be pretty.