Suzanne McLeod - The Sweet Scent of Blood

The Ancient One had said she’d keep them safe, that was the agreement. She’d decided I wasn’t going to be around long enough for her to get all her money, and had actually refused to take my word that I’d pay for the spell, every month, on the dot—which I had. And all this time I’d never known the Ancient Bitch had sold the opals to the Earl— shit . Did that mean the Earl knew about my Alter Vamp disguise? Had she told him that’s what the opals were security for, or had she just grabbed the opportunity to cash in? The Ancient Bitch was going to have some explaining to do. If I survived that long.

I opened the larger box, then swallowed hard. The Fabergé Egg nestled amongst the blue velvet. It wasn’t my father’s; his didn’t have sapphires on it ... But the egg meant that the Earl knew who my father was—who I was—and he wasn’t planning on selling me back to my prince, so long as I accepted his offer of protection. The note was pure blackmail, however nicely it was couched. Only—If he’d known about me all this time, why had he waited until now before making his move?

‘Genny?’ Hugh’s voice interrupted my thoughts. I’d almost forgotten he was there. ‘Isn’t that your necklace? The one I looked after for you when you were younger?’

‘Yes, it is.’ I took a deep breath. ‘And I want you to look after it again, please Hugh.’ I turned around, yanked open the fridge and took out the plastic container. It wasn’t big enough to hold the blue velvet box, so I wrapped the opals carefully in some kitchen roll and tucked them next to the soap, then snapped the plastic lid closed. ‘Keep it with all my other stuff.’ I held the box out to him. ‘Oh, and you’d better keep that too.’ I indicated the egg. ‘I’ll need to return it.’

‘Of course I’ll look after your things,’ he said, a small dust cloud puffing from his head ridge. He held up the Earl’s letter. ‘But—’

‘Look, I’ve got to go, Hugh. There’s someone I need to visit.’

‘Genny.’ His deep rumble made me stop. ‘I don’t know what you ran away from all those years ago, or what you need to do to finish this, but I do know it’s something to do with the vampires. And you’ve come too far to give in to them now.’

I gave him a rueful look. ‘Don’t worry, Hugh, I’m not going to give in.’ At least I hoped not. ‘I’ll be back before sunset. Tell Detective Inspector Crane I’ll take her up on the offer of a cell, because I think I’m going to need it.’

Then tomorrow I could sort out what I was going to do with my life.

The Bloody Shamrock was closed. In the daylight the door was pitted and scared, as if it had withstood an onslaught of Beater goblins. The neon cloverleaf was unlit, and it looked like no one was home, but when I concentrated, the faint trace of vampire snagged the edge of my radar. I hammered my fist on the door and gave it a kick for good measure. I turned and scanned along the street—Shaftesbury Avenue with its busy crowds was only twenty-odd feet away—but here was deserted. There wasn’t much call for day visitors, not when your main attractions were effectively dead. Or at least I hoped they still were.

I gave the door another hard thump.

There was the sound of bolts being drawn and the door opened slowly, revealing a thin slice of darkness. I shoved my shoulder against it and pushed my way into the building.

Mick stumbled away from me, a sullen look on his face. ‘What’d you do that for, Genny? I was gonna let you in.’

‘Yeah? Well maybe I wanted to make sure.’

His short red hair was mussed, like he’d just got out of bed—which I guessed he had going by the green silk boxers hanging off his narrow hipbones and the fluffy slippers that looked like he was wearing a couple of small furry barrels on his feet.

‘You don’t seem very surprised to see me,’ I pointed out. ‘Not going to ask me what I want or why I’m here?’

‘Fiona said you’d be coming.’ He hugged himself, hands clutching his arms, the suckers on his fingertips pulsing red. ‘She’s never wrong.’

‘Let’s not keep her waiting, then.’

He edged past me and re-bolted the door top and bottom, then said, ‘She’s upstairs.’

I followed him through the empty pub. His pale, freckled skin shone like a beacon as he picked his way through the spiky maze of upended chair legs. The place smelled of stale beer and blood. The combination made nausea roil in my stomach—or maybe that was just nerves.

He glanced back as he reached the stairs and I gave him a toothy smile.

‘Bumped into your boyfriend last night,’ I said, conversationally.

‘I know,’ Mick mumbled. His slippers made shushing sounds on the wooden treads. ‘He told me he saw you at the Blue Heart.’

‘He looked like he was getting all cosy with this blonde. You better watch that.’

‘It was business.’ He tried for couldn’t care less , but there was a stricken sound in his voice.

Shit. Now I felt like the bad-tempered faerie ... oh, wait, I was , but maybe Mick deserved it. Maybe. I’d never quite worked out if he’d set his sister, Siobhan, up as bait four years ago, or if she’d just ended up a victim because of his naïveté.

We walked past the semi-circular booths to the far wall of the gallery. It looked like a dead end, but Mick waved a hand above his head and there was a soft snick, and a section of the wall slid quietly aside.

Behind was a narrow hallway, with four heavy steel doors down one side. At the fourth, Mick stopped and waved again, then he turned and glowered at me. ‘I know you think I’m stupid for being with Seamus, especially after what happened with my sister.’ He stuck his bottom lip out. ‘Sometimes he has to do things that I don’t like. But we love each other. If you had ever felt like that about anyone, then you’d understand.’

He was right: I did think him stupid, and I didn’t understand—but then, I wasn’t the one in love, so I just shrugged and didn’t ask him the question that popped into my mind. Wasn’t love supposed to make him happy?

The steel door did its snick-and-slide thing.

The place was done up as an Edwardian lady’s boudoir. Painted plaster roses covered the ceiling, ivory-striped silk lined the walls, and long velvet drapes suggested there might be windows behind them, though I doubted it. A huge marble fireplace dominated one side; double doors opposite presumably led to the bedroom. Someone liked their little luxuries.

In the middle of all this finery Fiona reclined on a velvet chaise lounge, looking like a beautiful painting. Her white-blonde hair spiked above her large, luminous grey eyes, and a ruby necklace dripped into the deep V of her rose silk negligee.

‘You were right, it was her.’ Mick sidled past me and sat in front of her, legs bent to one side. ‘And she’s not happy.’

She rested a pink cotton-gloved hand on his freckled shoulder, gave it a squeeze, throwing me a resigned but slightly wary look. Her makeup was still perfect, but it didn’t hide the dark circles under her eyes or the map of ugly red veins that pulsed across her chest. She looked delicate and fragile, and nothing like a cold-blooded murderer.

I strode over the thick rose-coloured carpet towards her and stopped with my boots touching Mick’s legs. ‘Want to explain why you sent those two revenants to kill me last night?’

Mick shuffled his legs further back.

‘Ms Taylor’—Fiona’s fingers spasmed, digging into Mick’s freckled skin—‘sometimes I see things that distress me, and I have to try to alter the course of what might happen.’ Perspiration beaded her forehead.