Suzanne McLeod - The Sweet Scent of Blood

When I turned back to Finn his eyes were closed. I touched his cheek and his skin felt hot and clammy. I smiled as he opened his eyes.

‘Hugh?’ he whispered.

I glanced up at the nearest plasma screen. Rio had sunk her fangs deep into Hugh’s neck and was worrying at him like a rabid dog, but Hugh looked unconcerned. He’d trapped her in a bear hug, his thick muscled arms crushing her torso. I guessed that neither was gaining on the other, thanks to the Earl ‘keeping an eye on the situation’.

‘He’s holding his own just now,’ I said. ‘What about you?’

Finn gave me a tired wink. ‘Thought I’d hang around and catch the show. That bit was the best so far.’ A coughing fit shook his whole body

‘Can’t say I’m impressed.’ I leaned over him. The gem-studded shackles were held together by a short silver chain. ‘Let’s get you out of these.’

‘Not yet, Gen,’ he whispered.

I sat back sharply on my heels. ‘Why not?’

‘Stupid bitch didn’t realise ...’ He sucked in a wheezing breath, ‘the shackles are muting the spell.’

‘Got it,’ I said, understanding. I had to remove the spell first—the last thing I wanted was for Rio to be able to snag a last-minute magical power boost from Finn that would kill him and Hugh both.

I risked another look at the screens. Rio had Hugh face-down on the ground and was pummelling his head. I hoped the Earl’s attention wasn’t slipping. I pressed my lips together. Nothing I could do about it yet.

Now for the difficult bit.

The Earl might think removing the spell would be a piece of cake, but it was going to be more like trying to swallow the whole giant-sized gateau in one suffocating mouthful. I needed something to help the spell go down. The brownie’s magic should do the trick—if I could get it to come out and play. I rested my hand on Finn’s shoulder, wincing at the feverish heat of his skin—he certainly needed the comfort more than I did—and closed my eyes. Taking a deep breath, I conjured Agatha’s voice in my mind.

A brownie’s touch goes to them that needs it.

Pink and orange motes floated before my eyes. I pictured my kitchen, and the salt in its cardboard container. I started throwing the motes at the salt, splattering them like paint, focusing my will. C’mon ... come on ... It had to work. Focus , I told myself, chewing my lip as my stomach knotted ... There was a thud, and something stung against my legs. My eyes flew open.

The salt had arrived—but the container had split and the salt was spread like white sand across the blue-rubber floor. Still, I’d called it. I punched a fist in the air. One down, two to go.

I grabbed a large pinch of salt and held it to Finn’s mouth. ‘Open up,’ I told him gently, ‘it’ll help unstick the spell.’

He stuck his tongue out and I touched the salt to it. He shuddered and forced himself to swallow, pressing his lips tight together. I grimaced and hoped he wasn’t going to sick it up. I watched him for a moment, then gave him some more.

I stroked Finn’s arm and called the next thing I needed. My stash of liquorice torpedoes arrived without the plastic jar, raining down like enormous hundreds and thousands. I stuffed a handful in my mouth and sighed in relief as the sugar hit my system and made it easier to concentrate. Calling the vodka felt almost effortless after that. I even managed to land the bottle upright. I drank a scant mouthful, then gathered up more salt, poked it in the bottle and shook it up.

Finn watched me through half-closed eyes, a pinched, disgusted expression on his face.

I gave him a sympathetic look. ‘Think of it like a margarita without the lime.’

‘Hate margar—’ Another racking cough interrupted his complaint.

I ignored him and when it stopped, I tipped the bottle up and trickled the salty mixture into his mouth until it was gone.

The grey fog raged and boiled around Finn. It was making me queasy. What if I tried to take the spell and it didn’t work? I pressed my hands to my stomach, which felt like it was caught in a vice—Oh wait, I was still wearing the fucking corset! I yanked at the laces. Skin to skin was always better for magic anyway. I pulled the loosened corset down over my hips, taking the net skirt with it, and kicked the clothes away. The spell felt like greedy grabbing hands, wanting more, all the time. What if, rather than absorbing it, the spell consumed me instead?

‘I’m going to undo you, Finn.’ I clutched the silver keys, feeling them burn against my palm. ‘I don’t know what’ll happen when I call the spell.’

He moved his head slightly in agreement. Leaning over, I unlocked the shackles and pulled them apart, freeing him. I slung them out of the way. Finn groaned in pain and curled in on himself. For an instant I saw something black at the base of his spine. His tail? Then it was gone.

Moving carefully, I lay down behind him, gently spooning along his back. His heart beat fast and shallow against my breasts, the hair on his flanks was rough against my thighs, his shoulders clammy beneath my cheek. The smell of sour berries caught at the back of my throat and I swallowed back my tears.

This had to work.

I hugged him tight and called the magic.

The grey fog surged up and over me. I opened myself to it, inviting it in. It rushed through me, spiralling fast, whirling me into a vortex. I let go of Finn and rolled, over and over, spinning the grey with my body. Gold drops sparked, running like thin golden streams through the whirlpool, draining away at its centre. I poured more gold into the vortex and the streams turned to torrents. Gasping for breath, I stopped rolling, then threw myself into reverse, forcing the torrents to funnel up from where they flooded away. The whirlpool started to slow and the gold and grey bands coalesced and stretched into long sticky strands that set like a cage of cooling sugar ... and trapped the spell. I stopped rolling and lay there for a moment, my pulse speeding with anticipation and fear.

I shattered the cage.

The spell crumbled into dust that drifted sweet into the air and I floated on a golden haze. Tiny perfect black pearls of magic floated with me.

‘ Genny,’ Katie’s voice sounded urgent, ‘Gennny, pleeease wake up, you’ve got to wake up—’

Katie?

With the after-effects of the magic still wafting through my mind, I sat up, wobbled, squinted up at her. Mascara smudged across her cheeks, her hair hung in a messy ponytail, and her jeans and vest top were creased and dirty.

I frowned and rubbed my hands over my face.

Then I stared at the vampire gripping her arm. His own blond ponytail was much neater, his grin was full of fangs, and his frilly red shirt billowed in a nonexistent breeze. My heart tripped anxiously as I recognised him: the count, aka Red Poet, the leader of the fang-gang.

He looked at me. ‘Good, you’re awake. I am pleased it didn’t take you long to recover.’

‘You’re not the only one.’ I scrambled to my feet, my pulse thudding. ‘Only I have to admit to being disappointed that you didn’t get staked for real in the Théâtre du Grand-Guignol .’

‘Good,’ he laughed, ‘you have a sense of humour. Let’s see if you find this funny.’ He bent and kissed Katie on the forehead. She flinched and he laughed again. ‘Tell your friend what it is we want, child.’

‘I’m not a child,’ she sniffed.

Relief settled in me: she couldn’t be too badly hurt if she could still backchat him.

‘Talk, child.’ He shook her arm.