Suzanne McLeod - The Bitter Seed of Magic

More tourists cast curious looks our way as we drove past Tower Hill, where they used to carry out public executions—a cheerful thought while riding in the back of a police van. Of course, nowadays executions are carried out in the remote wilds of Dartmoor, with random members of the public invited to attend. As we passed by the War Memorial, a large raven perched on one corner caught my eye. Was it Jack? And if it was, was Jack the same raven Sylvia had seen flying through the Tower entrance; the one she’d thought had flown into Between? Hard to know really, as one raven looks pretty much like another from thirty feet away.

Then there was the other mystery: if the gate had opened into Between , had Victoria Harrier really been trying to kidnap me? And if she had, then why? And there was Sylvia’s other strange comment, about Ana spitting on the Old Donn’s remains. Why would Sylvia say that when fae don’t have remains? We fade , literally: our bodies disappear when we die. Was Sylvia just being metaphorical, or was the Old Donn not as dead as everyone kept telling me? And what did it all have to do with the curse?

Magic tingled over my skin as the WPC finished up whatever spell she was casting. I turned round and studied her: black hair in a neat bun, attractive face and full, plump lips that looked like they’d just been kissed, in spite of the determined way she kept them pressed together. After a moment I recognised her: Constable Martin, the WPC who’d been guarding the crime scene yesterday, at Dead Man’s Hole, the disused mortuary under Tower Bridge, where the dead raven faeling had been found.

She had a small glass globe about the size of a tangerine cradled in both hands. It swirled pink, shot through with fainter threads of red. I looked , checking out the globe’s magic, but the colours didn’t change, so whatever spell was inside, it was keyed for anyone to use, an advantage for trolls with their lack of magical abilities. As we all watched, the colour drained out of the globe, leaving it full of misty grey clouds. ‘Okay, Sarge.’ Constable Martin tucked the globe away. ‘We’re clear.’ She caught my eye and gave me a suggestion of a smile. ‘Anti-Surveillance Ball. It monitors for Remote Listening spells. You just can’t trust the press nowadays.’

‘Neat,’ I said, impressed, then looked at Hugh. ‘So, what’s with the dramatic police pick-up then?’

‘We had an anonymous tip, that you were in danger,’ Hugh said quietly.

I narrowed my eyes. ‘What sort of danger was I supposed to be in?’

‘They weren’t specific,’ Hugh said.

‘Who are they ?’

‘The tip was anonymous , Genny.’

‘C’mon, Hugh, I’m not stupid! Anonymous tips don’t have you turning out half the force’—okay, a bit of an exaggeration, but three vans?—‘otherwise you’d be spending all your time chasing your own tails.’

‘Our source was anonymous,’ Hugh rebuked me quietly; ‘we’re not even sure if it’s male or female. But whoever it is, is a trusted informant in another case—the one involving the dead faeling yesterday. But, before we get into that, Genny, I want to know what you were doing at the Tower.’

‘Going to visit the Raven Master and the ravens, to see what I could find out about the dead faeling,’ I said, giving him an odd look. ‘Like who she was, for a start.’

Hugh frowned, deep fissures creasing his forehead. ‘We already know who she was: Sally Redman.’ He fished his notebook out and flipped a couple of pages. ‘She was nineteen last August, her mother is the landlady of the Rose and Punchbowl, a pub in Whitechapel. The father’s name is Grog. He left the Tower back in 1981, took up residence at the pub, but disappeared a few years after Sally was born. The ravens at the Tower haven’t seen or heard from Sally for at least three years, nor do they want to. She’s been working in various clubs in Soho and they disapprove. All that information was in the report your solicitor removed from my desk.’

‘It wasn’t in the report I saw,’ I said drily, thinking Hugh was being uncommonly free with his info in front of his WPC sidekick. I gave him my own news. ‘Sylvia thinks my lawyer just tried to kidnap me, and Finn too.’ I paused, considering, ‘Although Finn wasn’t supposed to be in the car with me, so he was possibly just in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

Hugh just nodded as if I’d confirmed something, but Constable Martin leaned forward, excitement animating her face. ‘Are you saying Victoria Harrier tried to kidnap you?’

‘According to the others, yes.’

‘Check into it, will you, Constable?’ Hugh said. ‘See if there is any connection.’

‘Yes, Sarge.’ She dug out her phone and started tapping the screen.

I was beginning to feel like I was majorly out of the loop. ‘Connection to what?’ I asked.

Hugh’s mouth flattened into a hard line. ‘Another girl has been found dead, Genny. The circumstances are similar to yesterday. I’d appreciate it if you could take a look and tell me what you can.’

Damn. ‘Another faeling?’

‘We’re there now,’ he said, looking out through the van’s windscreen, ‘so you can see for yourself.’

The van braked, juddering to a halt and I looked past Hugh’s bulk to see where we were. Back at Dead Man’s Hole.

Dead Man’s Hole, the old disused mortuary under Tower Bridge, was seeing way more use than anyone wanted. The place wasn’t much changed from my last visit. The river slapped against the dock outside, and cast watery reflections over the Victorian glazed-brick interior. Half a dozen uniforms—all witches—stood around the walls of the large cave-like room, and in between them were fat white candles that flickered and cast them into shadow. Spirals of thick smoke rose up to collect under the dome of the curved ceiling. My nostrils flared; underneath the heavy, waxy candle smell and the astringent scent of sage, I caught that same sweet, thick and slightly rotten smell from my previous visit. Then I realised it wasn’t just nudging my memory from before, but was also reminding me of the maple syrup on Sylvia’s breakfast pancakes. Strange, but then I’d never liked the stuff. And with a mounting sense of déjà vu, I followed Hugh to the large white sand and salt circle drawn in the centre of the cave-like room.

In the centre of the circle was the new victim. Unlike Sally Redman, the dead raven faeling, this girl was lying spreadeagled on her back, and naked. She also looked younger, maybe fifteen or sixteen years old. I wanted to cover her up and give her back her dignity, but that wouldn’t help find who’d done this to her. It wouldn’t make them pay. I pressed my lips together and studied her. Inside the circle drawn by the police was another one, marked out in red chalk, and inside that was a red chalk pentagram. She’d been laid out with some precision on top of the pentagram, her head to one of the five points, her limbs spread out towards the other four. Around the inner pentagon formed by the crossing of the lines were more red chalkmarks, half-obscured by her body: a joined chain of five rings. My heart lurched with dismay as I made them out, and instinctively I touched Grace’s pentacle at my throat.

I looked up at Hugh and murmured, ‘The pentacle drawn underneath her matches mine.’

He nodded. ‘I recognised the design, Genny. It could be a coincidence, but I doubt it. Someone wants you involved—or implicated.’

I swiped away a couple of tears. Damn it, I really needed to find out why I kept crying and sort it—soon. ‘Is it possible someone’s using the girls to try and crack the curse? Or that they want you to think that I am?’