Suzanne McLeod - The Sweet Scent of Blood

‘I hope there isn’t a problem, Sergeant.’ Banner sounded earnest as he looked from one to the other. ‘My minister assured me that the police wouldn’t have any issue with a goblin guard.’

‘No, not a problem at all.’ Reddish dust puffed into the air above Hugh’s head, his embarrassment even more obvious. ‘Young Jeremiah here is an adopted member of my tribe. He was just saying... hello.’

Hmm. If that was the case, what was Hugh getting all dusted about?

‘That’s great.’ Banner gave us all a wide smile, still not noticing when the goblin flinched again. ‘It’s always nice to bump into old friends, isn’t it?’

Fine crevices creased across Hugh’s forehead as he frowned. ‘You’re right, Mr Banner. Old friends are always a welcome sight. Please feel free to wait here as long as you want, you and Jeremiah both.’ He looked down at me. ‘Genny, why don’t you come through to the office.’

I stifled a sigh. It wasn’t a request.

As I followed him along the corridor, I eyed the precisely ironed crease down the middle of his white shirt, which was tucked neatly into the belted waistband of his black trousers. He didn’t look much different in plain clothes, or any older than when I’d first met him ten years ago. Trolls usually lived a few centuries, and I’d worked out that Hugh must be around ninety-odd, for all that he looked half that age.

He stopped, held the office door open for me. I breathed in the familiar fresh smell of ozone that was Hugh and safety. ‘How are things?’

‘Fine, Genny.’ A large, gentle hand touched my shoulder.

‘I heard about the new boss.’ I briefly patted his arm. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘So am I,’ he rumbled. ‘But Detective Inspector Crane has an exemplary track record, and I’m happy to be working with her.’

I smiled at his diplomatic answer. ‘You’d have made a great Inspector, Hugh.’

‘Just wasn’t the right time for me, Genny. The DI’s a powerful witch, got a lot of experience here and in Europe; she’s just what the team needs.’

And even though she’s a witch, she’s still human, I added silently. Hugh might have been the first troll to make Detective Sergeant, four years previously, but he was still a troll. Life sucks sometimes, and not just for vampires.

I walked into the empty open-plan office and headed for Hugh’s L-shaped desk. It was easy enough to find—his was the only one clear of all but the essentials: a pile of paper coasters in a pink granite holder, three of the overlarge ballpoint pens manufactured for a troll’s fingers, and an electronic photo frame, currently showing a summer landscape of his mountain. Next to a tidy stack of files, his computer screen flashed a screensaver of the same view, this one taken in lightly falling snow.

Smiling, I asked, ‘So what’s with the goblin and you?’

‘Grandmother was concerned about some of the newer goblins being brought into London.’ He pointed me to his ‘guest’ chair as he sat down. ‘She asked me to be their Ardathair , that’s sort of a pastoral figurehead.’

‘That’s good, isn’t it?’ I frowned at his troubled face.

‘Sit down, Genny.’ Hugh placed his hands flat on the desk. ‘There’s something more important we need to talk about.’

So much for the catch-up. I dropped my bag on the floor, but instead of sitting immediately, I retreated to the water dispenser in the corner. ‘Did you want some, Hugh?’

‘What do you think you’re doing, Genny?’

Getting some water , I wanted to say as I filled the white plastic cup, but I heard the concern in his voice under the reproach, so I didn’t. ‘Hugh, it’s no big deal.’ I carried the water back to his desk. ‘I look at the victim, check her out for spells and let my client know if I find any.’ I sat down. ‘Job done.’

The cracks across Hugh’s forehead deepened. ‘There’s nothing to find. The standard tests for magic were all clear.’ He straightened one of his pens. ‘Then when Mr Hinkley brought up his concerns, Inspector Crane put a circle up herself and repeated them, and did some others. She even got an independent witch from another coven to confirm her findings.’ He gave me a level look. ‘No magic. Nothing.’

‘So that’s what I’ll tell him.’ I gave Hugh a small smile. ‘Once I’ve seen for myself.’

‘Genny, I shouldn’t be telling you this’—he pressed his index finger against his lips—‘but the most recent bites match the boyfriend’s dental mould.’

‘What about the blood counts?’

‘High levels of V1 and V2 as expected, VM3 present but inactive.’

I nodded. Vampire Venom and Virus—3V—isn’t exactly what the name suggests; the scientist who discovered the different components back in the seventies was a fanatical Souler. He identified the clear fluid injected by a vampire’s small retractable fangs as a combination of hormones and proteins, only he decided it made more sense to promote it as a poisonous virulent disease, and back then the Department of Health agreed with him.

The Venom—V1—part is the initial ‘infection’. It boosts production of the red blood cells and addicts the victim, which makes for the ideal blood-slave—lots of hot thick blood on tap, and someone who is dying (literally, on occasion) to have a vamp sink fangs into them. As the infection builds, V1 mutates into V2, and the morphogens alter the DNA, upping the slave’s immune system to the point that every other disease is killed off. It’s a great health benefit—that’s if the slave manages to survive the side-effects of the 3V itself. VM3 is the trigger for the Gift, the marker that the original scientist never found.

But then, he couldn’t see magic, and VM3 is the magic part of the equation.

The high levels of V1 and V2 made sense. Melissa not only worked for vampires, but dated one too. But with VM3 still being dormant . . . I frowned, that meant Melissa’s death had nothing to do with a botched Gifting.

Something else Hugh had said caught my attention. ‘Recent bites?’ I asked.

‘The pathologist reports that she had multiple bites, inflicted over an extended period of time. He thinks he’s narrowed it down to four, maybe five, regular partners. But only the boyfriend matched the bite wounds made in the last week.’

‘He must’ve overdosed her on V1.’ I pursed my lips. ‘Still, at least she’d have been too hyped-up to know much about it, so what killed her—a stroke or a heart attack?’

‘The victim died of blood loss, Genny,’ Hugh rumbled. ‘Almost drained dry was how the pathologist put it.’

What Hugh was saying didn’t tally with Alan Hinkley’s tale of true love between Bobby, aka Mr October, and Melissa. Draining someone infected with 3V would be almost impossible for just one vampire. They just couldn’t ingest that amount of blood fast enough—unless it was deliberate.

‘Shit,’ I muttered, ‘the sucker must’ve gorged himself.’

‘Exactly,’ Hugh sighed. ‘Case solved. Except for the father, who just can’t accept what’s happened.’

Damn.

‘Maybe the father just needs to hear it from someone else.’ I took a sip of water. ‘Someone not connected with the police. I mean, it wasn’t that long ago that his son would’ve been staked and burned almost as soon as you’d nabbed him, is it?’

Hugh’s expression turned disapproving. ‘Vampires have the same legal rights as any other human, Genny. They have had for the last fifteen-odd years, since the High Court ruled—’

‘Yeah, I know,’ I interrupted. ‘So once the injunction’s lifted, there’s no harm me looking , is there?’

His mouth turned down as he picked up a file. ‘Genny, getting involved with this is not right for you.’