Suzanne McLeod - The Bitter Seed of Magic

‘So, I need to find a way to neutralise you, without actually dragging your oh-so-gorgeous, damned arrogant arse out to be barbecued,’ I told him through gritted teeth. ‘But for now, I think you’d be better somewhere less flammable.’

I dragged in the thick silk rug that usually covered my living room floor, then leaning over him, I grasped his arm and pulled him towards me. He rolled easily and limply, and with a quick tug I had him off the bed. He landed with a heavy thud on the rug.

‘Sorry,’ I muttered unrepentantly as I straightened his arms and legs and tugged the rug over him. Grunting with exertion, I managed to roll him up, Cleopatra-style, then I sat on the floor, bracing myself against the wall, and shoved the rug with my feet until it was tucked under the bed.

I hauled myself up, wiped my sweaty forehead and grimaced. The rug was added insurance against the daylight. If he got a few bruises along the way, well, it was only what he deserved.

‘Right.’ I dusted off my hands. ‘Annoying vamp temporarily disposed off: check. Time for a shower and clothes before Sylvia gets back.’

I tugged off my vest top and sleep shorts and caught my reflection in the wardrobe mirror. Not a pretty sight. The mass of purple bruising centred on my midriff didn’t look—or feel—any better, nor did the rest of the multicoloured patches that decorated my arms and legs. But while I might be bruised and battered, I had things to do. I needed to buy a new Ward—Malik couldn’t be left unprotected, however much the angry part of me might want to—but I couldn’t afford a Ward and a Healing spell. I decided a couple of aspirins and a handful of blood-fruit to up my venom levels—I had a brief relieved thought that even after Darius’ attack last night, when he’d venom-stuck me, I didn’t seem to be suffering any ill-effects—and I’d live for another day.

I looked , and ran my fingers over Tavish’s handprint spell where it sat low down on my stomach; it hadn’t changed. It was obviously to do with the fertility curse—but hey, right now everything and anything was to do with the fertility curse—but since it wasn’t active yet, that didn’t tell me what it was going to do. Maybe Finn would know, once we got round to talking today. I wondered again what had been so important that he hadn’t wanted to chat last night, although with what had happened, Finn not being around had turned out for the best. If he’d been here when Malik had brought me home injured, he’d probably have tried to stake—or rather, stick his horns in—the arrogant vamp. But Tavish’s spell gave me a good enough excuse to phone Finn and hurry up our chat. Plus, there was my job, or lack of it, at Spellcrackers, and our relationship, whatever it was, to sort out. I fished my phone from my jacket, hesitated, and took the coward’s way out and texted him instead.

Can we meet soon, please?

I stared as the little envelope symbol winged off on its way, then stared some more as if that would get me an immediate reply, before telling myself to get on with more sensible things, like checking my emails … which consisted of a load of the usual ‘ no, I really don’t want whatever it is you’re selling ’ spam, and one from Hugh saying he’d was looking into my queries about the missing faelings, the Morrígan, Ana and the other stuff, and he’d get back to me.

‘At least someone’s trying to help me,’ I said loudly, nudging the carpeted Malik with my foot (not that I thought he could hear me, but it made me feel better). I picked up Grace’s pentacle from my bedside table, found another chain in one of the drawers to replace the broken one, and clasped it round my neck as I went over my day’s to-visit list.

There was the chat with Finn, hopefully. There was the visit Victoria Harrier, my lawyer, had arranged with the ravens at the Tower of London. And then there was the other visit Victoria had arranged, with her very pregnant daughter-in-law, Ana, to chat about babies and 3V and vamps and curses. I wasn’t looking forward to it, as even without Ana being a past, and possibly present and future, victim of the curse, the whole idea of talking to a faeling whose grandmother was a royal sidhe princess (which Angel was, however nutty she also was), and whose great-grandmother was a sidhe queen, filled my stomach with oddly nervous butterflies.

And that gave me another more immediate problem: what on earth was I supposed to wear that would be suitable for a meeting with the ravens, a faeling who had royal sidhe blood, and a serious chat with my ex-boss to sort out both the personal and working sides of our relationship, all the while trying to deal with matchmaking magic. In the end I decided on smart, but casual, with just a slight touch of sexy: a green top of silk and lace, black velvet jeans and killer-heel boots.

‘And then tonight,’ I said, bending down and giving the evil eye to Malik in the rolled-up carpet under my bed, ‘I’m going back to Sucker Town and find out what’s going on with Fyodor, Mad Max, Darius and my blood, and what they all have to do with the curse, and you are not going to stop me.’

Sylvia turned up with breakfast. Only she wasn’t alone.

Johnny Depp was with her.

My mouth dropped open.

‘Ta da!’ She spread her arms wide. ‘Look who I found.’

Johnny Depp was with her! And he was dressed in his Captain Jack Sparrow pirate costume!

‘Hello, luv.’ He chucked me under the chin and made a high clicking noise. ‘How’s your ship sailing?’

I narrowed my eyes. That clicking was familiar. Damn, he wasn’t Johnny Depp but Fishface, a naiad—and the clicking was just him laughing.

‘Don’t tell me,’ I said, trying to remember his real name, ‘you’re here to court me.’

‘Got it in one, luv.’ He strolled in trailing the scent of ozone, and stood in the centre of my living room under my amber-and copper-beaded chandelier. He did a three-sixty as he admired the place—not that there was much to admire, but hey, he grinned and looked captivated enough that I almost wondered if he were thinking of moving in—

Half a dozen of the chandelier’s glass beads popped above him. His grinning mouth split into a yawn, his cheeks spread until thick fluted fins flared out to either side, his long pirate dreads morphed into a tall, spiny headcrest that tangled with the lower beads, and his costume disappeared, leaving him standing naked in all his scaly pale grey double glory.

I blinked. A six-foot-tall-in-his-webbed-clawed-feet naked naiad wasn’t the sort of sight you wanted to see before breakfast. Or brunch. Or anytime, really.

‘He really knows how to use both of them,’ Sylvia whispered in my ear. ‘He’s a virtual god once you get him between the sheets.’ She squeezed my arm. ‘Don’t mention I said so, though, his head’s big enough as it is.’ She patted my butt. ‘I love your outfit too, Genny. You look fabulous .’

‘Ri- ight ,’ I said, wondering whether she’d just given me a personal recommendation, an invitation, or a ‘keep off my property’ warning.

A large folded towel appeared in Sylvia’s hand and she walked up to him and slapped it affectionately on his chest. ‘You still haven’t got the hang of Glamour yet, have you, Ricou?’ She gave me a look that said ‘he’s a lovable idiot really’, and sashayed into the kitchen area where she deposited a large takeaway bag and started unpacking it.

Ricou. Fishface ’ s real name was Ricou.

Ricou gave the towel a disgruntled look—it was bright pink and decorated with white cherry-tree blossoms—then wrapped it round his waist and secured it with the end of his whip-like tail. He stuck his webbed clawed hands on his hips and looked up at the beads. The membrane flickered over the black orbs of his eyes. ‘Nice Reveal spells, luv, you get them off old Gillie on the market?’