Suzanne McLeod - The Sweet Scent of Blood

‘Bad, bad brownie,’ I muttered. I tried again, upping my concentration. This time the magic stretched and separated and I let it drift back into the ether.

The job at the swish Kensington bistro was supposed to be an easy one, but thanks to Alan Hinkley’s request for help, my mind kept asking questions I didn’t have the answers for—like what the fuck was Siobhan’s brother up to? And was the request really from him? Or had Bobby, aka Roberto, aka Mr October, discovered a secret he shouldn’t and decided to use the knowledge for himself? I looked towards my phone, but it wasn’t coming up with any answers either. I’d left it near the front door, a safe distance away from the magic, and despite all the messages I’d sent it was disappointingly silent. So failing any sort of reprieve, I was meeting Alan later, at the morgue.

I turned back to the restaurant and made my way through the tables. The air-conditioning hummed like an anxious bee, and gave the place a chilled, cave-like feel. I suppressed a shiver. Low level light makes the spells easier to see , and Finn, my co-worker—and future boss, if the rumours were true—had shut the blinds before I’d arrived. I’d have preferred the sunshine.

Gripping the edge of a marble table, I crouched, checking for any tell-tell glows along the floor. Nothing. The black and white tiles were clear. No more magic-induced slips or spell-trapped mice running backwards in frantic circles.

A quick scan of the ornate plastered ceiling revealed no magic lurking in the shadows. I sighed, relieved. The glass-fronted counter running the length of one wall was empty too, no elaborate cream-filled cakes, no hip-expanding pastries, and no lingering nasty leftovers. Hexed or otherwise.

The door to the kitchen swung open, breaking my concentration again, and Finn sauntered through. ‘Hell’s thorns, that kitchen’s a mess.’ He stuck his hands in his trouser pockets. ‘Manager reckons it’s a grouchy customer dropping a spell instead of a tip, at least that’s what the brownie’s told him.’ He shook his head. ‘And he believes her.’

I ignored the stupid little leap of pleasure inside me at the sight of him— so not going there, not when there’s no point —and said, ‘Why not? The restaurant’s a family business; the brownie’s probably been with them for decades... although it’s odd she’d cause this much trouble.’ I tapped my fingers against the table. ‘Unless it’s the manager who’s got her all miffed and just doesn’t want to admit it.’

Finn shrugged, then lifted his arms above his head and stretched gracefully.

Every time I see Finn, I try hard not to imagine him with his trousers off. I blame his horns, the office gossip, and my rebellious libido. Finn is a lesser fae, a satyr; his great-greatwhatevers were worshipped by the Greeks as one of their gods, Pan, the half-goat, half-man one. Finn’s butt looks normal when he’s dressed, with not even a hint of a tail or furry thighs, and there’s never been a single confirmed rumour to the contrary in all of the three months he’d been with Spellcrackers. Even so, my mind just keeps on—

‘How’re you doing in here, Gen?’ He rubbed one of his horns. They’re the colour of dried bracken, sharp and stand a good inch above his wavy blond hair. Add in his poster-boy good looks and Finn should’ve been an ad-man’s wet dream—only the horns mean he doesn’t look human enough to sell products to the masses. He had to be wearing a glamour-spell to alter his appearance, but so far I hadn’t managed to see past it.

‘ Cracked everything except the coffee machine,’ I said.

‘I could do with a hand in the kitchen when you’ve finished,’ he said with a suggestive grin, ‘if you’re willing?’

In answer I gave him the look I’d been giving him for the last few weeks, ever since he’d started hitting on me—a half-amused, half-tolerant smile that told him no way did I take his flirting seriously—and then turned my back on him smothering a sigh.

Lifting the counter-top, I focused on the machine. The industrial-sized contraption glowed bright enough to cast a sickly orange glare up the wall. The levers were the worst. Of course, it would take only a second to crack it rather than tease it apart, but true spellcracking involved blasting the magic—and that also blasted apart whatever the magic was attached to. Collateral damage isn’t an option—customers tend to object—so instead I pinched the spell and started to unravel it. Hot steam jetted over my hands and along my arms. Shit. Suppressing a whimper, I shook my hands to get rid of the sensation. The pain was real but the steam wasn’t, so there’d be no burns, just the nasty release of power.

‘Ouch. That’s gotta hurt.’ Finn’s tone was sympathetic. ‘But that’s what happens when you take it too fast.’

I snorted. ‘Like I don’t know that.’

He grinned. ‘’Course you do, but hey, this is one seriously cranky brownie. Glad it’s not me she’s pissed off with.’

Gingerly, I poked at the spell. ‘Sounds like you’re talking from experience.’

‘Oh yeah, a whole month’s worth.’ He winced at the memory. ‘Whenever I opened a honey jar, a bee flew out and stung me. Everything I ate tasted burnt, and she hid every single one of my left socks.’

‘There’s no such thing as a left sock,’ I pointed out, delicately unpicking more of the spell. ‘They’re all the same.’

He laughed. ‘’Course there is! It’s obvious, you always put your right sock on first, so the missing one’s got to be the left one.’

‘Ha ha.’ The magic shredded into tiny filaments under my fingers and finally dissipated. ‘So, were you just your usual self or did you do something in particular to annoy her?’

His shoulders lifted in a careless shrug. ‘Can’t remember now; think it was probably her witch more than the brownie I actually upset.’

Of course, there had to be a witch involved, didn’t there? The witches at Spellcrackers had descended on Finn like excited kids playing pass-the-parcel, each of them grabbing to be the next one to unwrap the present when the music stopped. And Finn seemed to be enjoying the party, amazingly keeping everyone happy with his equal-opportunity flirting. I’d been invited to play, but it wasn’t an invitation I felt able to accept.

Not that I wasn’t attracted. I was, and then some. And there was the whole fae thing going on, which meant the magic was always trying to nudge us together, just to add to the complications. No, my problem was that Finn was almost too appealing. More and more I just wanted to sink my teeth into him, and that was so not a good idea. So I swallowed down the disappointment instead and tried hard to keep him at a distance.

He gently touched my hand where the spell had phantom-burnt me. ‘Want to talk about what’s bothering you?’

I looked up, surprised at the concern in his eyes. ‘It’s nothing. ’

‘Yeah? You’re usually much more careful with the magic.’

He was right. I was. ‘Bad morning,’ I said, ‘y’know—pixies, and then I managed to crack the crystal on my phone.’

‘Ah.’ He gave me a thoughtful look for a moment and then smiled. ‘Problem solved then. I just found a new crystal supplier on eBay. The initial quality’s good and the prices are reasonable. I’ll tell Toni to sort you one out as a trial.’

A pretty gift-horse yawned in front of me, but I ignored it in favour of having my distraction work. ‘That’s great,’ I said, ‘thanks.’

Finn dropped a casual arm round my shoulders. ‘Heard the latest gossip? Stella left early, supposedly for the Council meeting, but Toni thinks she’s got a fancy man.’ His breath warmed my hair. ‘Apparently he’s been on the phone three times this morning and wouldn’t give his name, just said Stella’d know who he was.’ The faint scent of blackberries curled around me. ‘But Toni says she’s sure she recognises his voice.’