Suzanne McLeod - The Sweet Scent of Blood

Adrenalin and need shot through me. ‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’ I snarled, pushing my hand against his chest, feeling his heart thump beneath my palm.

‘Hell’s thorns, Gen, what d’you think I’m doing? That was a lot of juice you took.’ Hurt flickered on his face, then it was gone and he grinned. ‘I’m only trying to help you, my Lady.’

‘Fine. Well put me down. I can stand on my own, thank you.’ I glared at him. ‘And cut out the “my Lady” crap too.’

‘No problemo,’ he said cheerfully and placed me on my feet. I decided maybe I’d imagined his hurt look.

Ignoring him, I dusted myself down as best I could, trying to catch the odd thought I’d had, only it was quite gone.

A polite cough behind me made me turn. Agatha stood there, hands clasped primly in front of her, eyes staring somewhere past my knees. Holly hovered behind her, a green toothy grin spread across her face. At least someone was enjoying the show. Mr Manager had a slightly stunned expression on his face, but he must have been one of those humans who just take magic in their stride, or maybe blank it completely, as Finn cornered him easily enough with the paperwork.

‘Maself is glad thee came to our aid, Lady.’ Agatha twisted her fingers, but didn’t look up at me.

I crouched down. ‘I was pleased to aid you, Aggie.’ She looked up and I caught a glimpse of fear in her eyes. ‘Holly’s going to be fine.’ I patted her shoulder, but when she flinched, I realised I was the cause of her fear, not Holly.

Damn. Nothing like a magical exhibition to let you know your place in the world.

I told Finn I’d wait outside whilst he finished up with Mr Manager.

Standing on the hot pavement, staring at the clear blue of the sky, I let the heat of the day burn away the air-conditioned chill of the restaurant. The magic fizzed and churned restlessly inside me. I dug into my bag and pulled out three liquorice torpedoes, stuffed them into my mouth and crunched down hard, shuddering as the sugar hit my system. The magic ate it up—the sugar makes it easier to control—and I willed it into a sleepy calm.

The trees along the edge of the road rustled in the slight breeze as Finn strolled out and joined me. ‘Remind me not to take a brownie job again,’ he said, a hint of laughter in his voice.

‘If I remember right, you didn’t.’ I teased, but my heart wasn’t in it. ‘This was my job. You just came along for the fun of it.’

He stepped in front of me, close enough that I had to look up at him. ‘Not for fun, Gen.’ He traced a finger along my jaw, an intent, almost hopeful expression in his eyes. ‘To get to know you better.’

I dropped my gaze to the base of his neck, my mouth watered and I had to stifle the urge to place my lips on the smooth tanned skin that stretched over his pulse. Shit. The need was getting stronger, less easy to deny. And I didn’t know why. But why wasn’t the problem here. I took a step back, holding up my hands.

‘Not biting, Finn.’ Mentally I rolled my eyes at my own Freudian slip.

‘Speaking of biting, that was rather interesting, what you told the little faeling.’

‘What did I tell her?’

‘About how we fae taste to vampires.’ His eyes lit up. ‘Wonder what flavour you would be?’

‘I already told you, don’t wander. You’ll only get lost.’

‘Yeah, yeah.’ He looked at me speculatively. ‘Oranges, maybe,’ he mused.

‘Red hair? Oranges?’ I huffed, striding off. ‘You’ve got to be kidding. Soooo not original.’

Finn matched his pace to mine. ‘You’re right; oranges are much too ordinary. Umm, what would ... Figs maybe? Now they’re supposed to be sexy.’ Shaking his head, he slid an arm round my waist and pulled me to a stop, smiling. ‘Ah, got it—sweet, exotic, hard knobbly shell—gotta be passion fruit.’

I gave him my hard knobbly elbow in his ribs. It connected with a satisfying thud.

‘Speaking of food,’ Finn gasped as he bent double, ‘how about dinner?’

Only if he was on the menu . I shook my head. It wasn’t even a euphemism. I had a moment’s fantasy where I said yes: we went out, had fun, and I didn’t spend the evening wanting to rip into his throat. Then I sighed and came back to live in the real world. No way could I go out with him, or any other fae, not with 3V running riot through my veins. Being fae, Finn would feel its taint in me—if I let him get too close—then he’d run for the nearest faerie hill, not to mention I’d be out of a job.

He caught up with me. ‘C’mon Gen, you’ve got to stop torturing me like this.’ With a rueful smile he rubbed a hand over his stomach, then winked. ‘Or at least say yes, then you can do whatever you want with me.’

Way too enticing. ‘Finn, you’re a nice guy, but ...’ I trailed off as disappointment darkened his eyes, echoing my own silent regret, then I made myself carry on. ‘I’m sorry, but getting personal is not—’

A stiff wind hurled itself along the road, snatching the words from my mouth and rushing up through the branches above us.

Finn placed a finger on my lips, silencing me.

I moved back. ‘Look, I’m really not—’

‘Genny, it’s okay.’ He half-smiled. ‘I get that you’ve said no, but it’s not that.’ He waved an anxious hand at the road. ‘It’s the trees. I think they’re talking about you.’

Another gust whipped past us and the canopy of autumn leaves rustled almost like they were laughing.

I frowned and looked at Finn. ‘What are they saying?’

‘Hell’s thorns, Gen, how should I know? I never learned the language.’

Dusk coloured the sky like a purple bruise as I headed for my meeting with Alan Hinkley at Old Scotland Yard Police Station, the headquarters for the Metropolitan Police’s Magic and Murder Division. The bodies of vampire attacks, like Melissa’s, are contained in the specialised basement morgue ever since the mandatory fourteen-day waiting period came into force—just in case they spontaneously do the Lazarus thing. Old Scotland Yard is also the one-stop-cop-shop for vampires. Keeping a vamp incarcerated is difficult enough without adding humans into the mix. The only time it was tried—back in the eighties when the vamps were reclaiming their human rights—the riot lasted a week and a vampire ended up on an impromptu bonfire, together with a prison guard and three other inmates.

That the vampire was proved innocent, post-death—a tarnished silver lining or a kamikaze-inspired martyrdom, depending on your point of view—became the catalyst for all sorts of changes.

As I turned off Whitehall, leaving the noise of the traffic behind, a horse’s high-pitched whinny made me jump—Old Scotland Yard is also home to the Met’s horses—and I slowed, uneasy in the quiet. A tree rustled as I passed it. Was Finn right, were they talking about me? But why would they? Then the leaves of the next tree stirred and the air trembled in response. Goosebumps rose on my skin, even though the heat of the day hadn’t dissipated with the night and I looked up into the branches, but they were empty. I blew out a breath. Damn. I usually avoided being out after dark like this, trees or no trees. You never knew who you might bump into.

I lifted my bag over my head, settled the strap across my chest to free my hands and slowly walked under the archway that led to Old Scotland Yard. Alan Hinkley was waiting by the police station door. Along the pavement, the street lights created pockets of shadow. As I got closer, one shadow was darker, more solid than the others. My heart tripped and I stopped, staring into the blackness.