I scanned for anything magical. To either side were U-shaped plate-glass windows, looking out over the tiger enclosure. It was more sparse English woodland than dense jungle and, despite a covered area near the first window, presumably for the tigers to sleep in as it was padded with straw, the big cat stars of the show were nowhere to be seen.
But as my eyes adjusted to the dimness, there were plenty of people to make up for the lack of tigers. Four WPCs and three uniformed trolls were stationed at intervals along the corridor, while another troll – Constable Lamber, his mottled beige head a pale beacon against a tall, frothy-leaved potted plant – stood to attention behind four males. The marked similarity of three of them with their short black hair, dark-skinned faces and closed-off expressions made me wonder if they were related: brothers or cousins, maybe. And all three were wearing the same long kurta shirts in a deep green, with heavy gold embroidery down the front and sleeves, over loose white trousers with more gold thread around the ankles – standard Indian dress, albeit more formal than I usually saw in Southall, London’s ‘Little India’.
They stared back at me from behind opaque eighties-style aviator sunglasses.
Being stared at like I was a walking zoo exhibit is pretty much the norm for me as the only sidhe in London, and most of the time I don’t notice so much, but the men’s stares were predatory enough to raise the hair on my nape. I made a note to tell Hugh, and see if anyone else got strange vibes from them.
The fourth male was older; mid to late fifties going by the silver threading his black hair and the deep lines marking his brown-skinned face. Instead of the Indian dress the others were wearing he’d opted for city business style with a white shirt, grey hand-tailored suit and a less-than-sartorial orange and black striped tie. The look made him stand out, as did the anxious, haggard expression on his face. Had to be the ambassador.
‘Mr Bannajee,’ Hugh’s quiet voice confirmed. ‘With his Head of Security and his wife’s bodyguards.’
I nodded as the ambassador came forward and gave a small bow. ‘Lady Genevieve Taylor,’ he said, his accent pure public school English. ‘It is always a pleasure to greet one of the sidhe fae, even under such difficult circumstances as these.’
‘Nice to meet you too, Ambassador,’ I said, the polite small-talk feeling odd with his wife and kid missing. ‘I’m sorry about your family.’
‘I appreciate your concern. It is devastating that they have been taken.’ They were the right words, but his tone was the same, polite, which was weird considering his eyes had started darting around like he expected someone to jump out at him . . . Unless it was shock?
‘Ambassador,’ Hugh rumbled reassuringly. ‘As I explained, Lady Genevieve will inspect the crime scene here and then tell us what magic there is, or isn’t. Isn’t that right, Genny?’
‘I’ve already looked,’ I said slowly, thinking no one was going to like my answer.
‘So quickly?’ The ambassador’s gazed fixed on mine and he leaned forwards eagerly. Behind him the three cool-dude henchmen shifted to high alert.
I gave Hugh an enquiring look. Didn’t he want me to tell him what I’d found first?
He gave a barely perceptible nod. ‘Go ahead.’
Fine. I took a breath, catching that whiff of butchered meat and wet fur again under the stink of pine-scented cleaner, and said, ‘There’s nothing. No magic, no spells, not even a stray bit of wylde magic. The place has been scrubbed clean.’
Beside me neither Hugh nor Mary reacted, so my discovery was as they expected.
But the ambassador stared at me, his head half shaking, half nodding as if he couldn’t believe what I’d said. Finally he blurted, ‘Nothing?’
‘I’m sorry, Ambassador,’ I said.
‘But there must be something!’ Distress coloured his voice. ‘How else will we find—’
‘My apologies, Ambassador.’ Henchman One appeared at his elbow. ‘But we must take our leave now.’
The ambassador turned to him, launching into a low-voiced passionate tirade in a musical language I didn’t recognise.
Henchman One listened then stepped forward, his expression regretful, and spoke to Hugh. ‘Inspector, I believe we have helped you as much as we can. You know how to contact the ambassador should you hear any news of his wife and son.’
Hugh nodded, his frustration showing only in his slight frown. ‘I do, of course.’
‘You may choose to leave,’ the ambassador warned Henchman One, ‘but I will stay.’
‘Ambassador.’ Henchman One closed his eyes briefly, as if he didn’t want to deal with the man’s anguish. ‘I am sorry, but you may not pursue this further without permission from the President and the Prime Minister. I fear to do so would compromise our diplomatic status in this country. Please. We should leave now.’
Anger washed over me. How could the stupid man worry about diplomatic status when a woman and kid were missing?
The ambassador shook his head. ‘The President would agree with me. We must—’
‘No.’ Henchman One cut him off again, his tone soft. ‘We must not.’
I scowled at the defeated slump of the ambassador’s shoulders, thinking it was a damn shame Hugh couldn’t just pull them all in for questioning, without Henchman One the ambassador seemed like he’d be more talkative.
The ambassador bowed his head in a stiff goodbye aimed at no one in particular, turned and walked towards the exit. Henchman One followed, striding with silent contained steps, almost as if he were stalking him instead of following him. The sight pricked goosebumps over my skin; despite his regretful stance, there was something off about him, and the other two. As they trailed past us, the nearest one’s kurta caught a gust of wind. The reek of butchered meat and wet fur intensified, drawing my attention to near his knees. Marring the green silk there, was a tiny pattern of rust-coloured spots.
Blood splatter.
‘The blood wasn’t human,’ Hugh said thoughtfully, when they’d gone and I told him about it. ‘Are you sure, Genny?’
‘Positive. But I’m not sure what the blood belongs to. I know the scent’s familiar, but I can’t quite place it.’ I frowned, frustrated. ‘The place reeks to high heaven, so it’s skewing my perceptions.’
‘Reeks?’
‘I’m having a sensitive nose day.’
Hugh frowned. ‘That’s not normal for you, is it?’
I pulled a disgusted face. ‘No, I think it’s a side-effect of something I drank.’
‘Anything I should know about, Genny?’
Hugh wasn’t a fan of vamps, especially where I was concerned, but I briefly told him I’d hurt myself and Mad Max had offered to heal me. And that a side-effect of that healing seemed to have upped my sense of smell. ‘Still, hopefully it will wear off soon,’ I finished. ‘And at least it helped me find a clue.’
Grim fissures bracketed Hugh’s mouth. ‘Yes. Their insistence on their diplomatic status seems out of place in this situation, and makes things difficult for all of us.’
‘You mean suspicious,’ I said drily, then added, ‘not to mention spooky with them hiding behind those mirrored sunglasses.’
Hugh pulled out his notepad and a large troll-sized pen. ‘Spooky in what way?’
‘Like they wanted a piece of me, or something. Course that might just be because I’m sidhe.’ I looked at Hugh and Mary. ‘Unless anyone else feels the same?’
She shook her head. ‘Not me, sorry.’
‘Ask around in a bit, sergeant,’ Hugh said, making a note.
‘Will do, sir.’
‘Maybe it was just me then.’ I shrugged. ‘And I got the definite impression the ambassador wanted to tell you more, but they weren’t interested in letting him talk.’
‘Your impression’s right, Genny,’ Hugh rumbled. ‘Though the ambassador did appear to be genuinely concerned for his wife and child.’
‘Yeah,’ I agreed. ‘He seemed upset when I said the place was clear of magic. Though that didn�
�t come as a surprise to you and Mary, did it?’
‘It didn’t. It was the main reason I asked you here. Mary has a theory about it.’ He gave her a nod.
‘The place isn’t just clean of magic,’ she said, ‘it looks like it’s got a flat sheen to it. I was sure I’d seen it somewhere before. So I had a chat to a couple of the beat WPCs, and we worked out what it was. It looks the same as when you do the magical clean-up after the pixies in Trafalgar Square.’
I blinked. ‘It does?’
Mary nodded.
I squinted round. It really didn’t look like anything to me, other than clean of magic, but then not everyone sees magic the same way.
Hugh laid a gentle hand on my shoulder. ‘We think it could mean there’s another sidhe involved. Which is why I wanted you to see for yourself.’
Anxiety itched down my spine. The last time another sidhe had come to London I’d ended up on the run for murder. Of course, Witch-bitch Helen Crane had been in charge then, not Hugh. But—
‘To be honest, Hugh, another sidhe hanging around isn’t too likely. The gates to the Fair Lands are still sealed shut and the fae aren’t taking any chances where Clíona’ – a.k.a. my not-so-dear sidhe queen grandmother – ‘is concerned. They don’t want her getting her hands back on the Fertility pendant.’
‘But it could be possible?’ Hugh insisted.
‘I suppose so,’ I admitted. ‘Tavish would know for certain. I can ask him, if he’s around.’ I explained about Tavish going AWOL last night.
‘I’d appreciate it, Genny.’
I flipped open my phone, turned towards the windows to shade the screen from the sun, then stopped as I saw the tigers had appeared from their hiding place. They were both lying down, mouths slightly open in the hot sunshine, eyes half closed, obviously relaxed. Had something frightened them away? Something to do with the kidnap? Or was this their normal routine? As I wondered, I realised that now, unlike the unnatural silence when I’d first arrived, I could hear the background noise of animals out in the zoo. As if, like the tigers, the animals had emerged from wherever they’d been hiding. Maybe that eerie quiet had been due to whatever magic had been used to kidnap the victims.
‘Hugh?’
He looked up from his notepad. ‘Yes?’
I told him my thoughts. His ruddy face creased with interest. ‘I’ll have someone look into it. No stone unturned is always a good motto.’
I rolled my eyes at his usual mountain troll pun, then called Tavish and got his voicemail. Again. Damn. If the kelpie didn’t answer soon I was going to go round and bang on his door. I left another message, filled Hugh in, gave a statement and grabbed a lift in one of the police vans adapted for trolls back to Spellcrackers.
Where Katie told me the pixie apocalypse had hit London.
I hauled myself on to the huge bronze lion – one of the four in Trafalgar Square – and straddled its back haunches. The metal beneath my legs was still hot from the summer sun, despite it being early evening and the lion in shade. Sitting there, with the musical sound of the square’s fountains in the background, was almost enough to send me to sleep. Especially after the exhausting day I’d had.
The damn pixies hadn’t left another statue unmoved.
The eagle on top of the RAF monument on Victoria Embankment had taken up dive-bombing the glass-topped pleasure boats on the Thames, leaving scratches on their plastic roofs; the gold wolf’s head fountain at the Aldgate pump had been howling randomly at passers-by, resulting in one man being taken to hospital with a suspected heart attack; the griffin at Temple Bar had become an intermittent flame-thrower, leaving scorch marks on nearby buildings; the sphinx at Cleopatra’s Needle had whispered childish riddles, smacking down a heavy clawed paw whether the answers were right or wrong; Eros in Piccadilly had targeted passing double-decker buses with badly shot arrows, luckily managing to miss anything alive; and so my day had gone.
In fact, the only statues that didn’t seem to be hit by the pixie apocalypse were the pixies’ usual targets: the lions here in the square.
Apparently they’d only been two of the little blighters here all day. I’d nabbed the first quickly – it was asleep in the cat carrier ready to get shipped back to Cornwall – and now I was after the last one. Which was currently doing standing back-flips on the lion’s head, to the delight of the tourists below.
I eyed the pixie, wondering how much trouble it was going to be as I adjusted my elbow-length gloves. Made of supple swamp-dragon leather they were thick enough to protect from the pixies’ bites, but the leather’s spongy texture didn’t damage the pixies’ chitinous teeth (the problem with cowhide). I gave the gloves a good sniff, checking the honey scent of the Pix-Nap cream smeared on them was still strong enough to attract the pixie’s attention.
Thankfully the ‘sensitive nose’ I’d picked up from Mad Max’s blood had worn off by mid-afternoon. The sensory input had been relentless, distracting and, not a few times, disgusting to the point that eating had been out of the question. Mad Max must have a strong stomach, but then he was a vamp who turned into a dog so I guessed he was used to it.
Now, though, my nose seemed to have rebelled and I was having trouble smelling anything.
I rolled my shoulders and started inching along the lion’s back—
My phone vibrated, making my heart leap; it was late enough to be Malik.
I yanked a glove off, checked the display. Not Malik but Tavish.
‘Hey,’ I said, my disappointment washed away by relief that he was finally returning my calls. ‘I was about to send out a search party. What the hell happened to you?’
‘Och, doll, dinna fash yerself,’ he said in his soft burr. ‘I had a bit of sorting out to do, then I got a mite distracted by a body in the river.’
Tavish is a soul-taster. He long ago promised, under River Lore, not to Charm humans into the water but only to feed on those souls who die in the river, not that he feeds on the whole soul, only the sorrows, guilts and sins weighing it down. But the heavier the soul, the longer it takes, sometimes prolonging his victim’s dying for his own pleasure. Not that I had a problem when those souls were usually drug dealers or the like who were in the river by design, usually not their own. End up in the Thames with death staining your soul and all the kelpie’s promises are off. Whether you want to die or not, you’ve no choice but to ride into the depths with him if he finds you.
But that he’d been doing that now filled me with furious disbelief. ‘You’ve been off playing with your food while I’ve been worrying about your tarot cards and the fae’s fertility?’
‘Aye, well, it’s nae quite like that, doll. The body wasnae truly wanting to die.’ His voice held an odd note, not quite sadness; regret maybe, with an undertow of excitement. ‘Only ’twas a time afore my other self realised that.’
Did that mean he’d tasted an innocent’s soul? Someone who was in the river by accident? And broken his promise? But asking another fae that, or if they’d just taken someone to their death, isn’t the done thing. Not to mention, tragic as that might be, I was more interested in getting answers to my own questions.
‘Have you spoken to Hugh?’ I asked. ‘About the possibility of another sidhe being in London?’
‘Aye, doll. I chatted to him and the witch Mary Martin nae long ago. ’Tis nae possible, the gates are fully sealed.’ Relief flooded through me to such an extent that I realised I’d been more worried than I’d thought; the last thing I needed was any of my sidhe relatives turning up again. ‘But I’ve told him we’ll do a wee double-check on the gates, to be sure,’ Tavish added.
Right. Better safe than sorry. ‘Good. But you could’ve phoned and kept me in the loop,’ I grumped.
‘Aye, and so I am now, doll.’ He ignored my exasperated snort, saying, ‘And I’ve been doing a bit of checking. I’m thinking I’ve found your Emperor.’
My exasperation took a back seat. ‘I’ll bite.’
I heard the soft click-clack of h
is keyboard. ‘I’ve sent you a screenshot. Tell me what you ken.’
‘Okay.’ I scrolled through to my emails and viewed the attachment, which showed the same image as the Emperor tarot card had. A dark-haired, hawk-nosed male in his thirties wearing a purple toga and golden laurel-leaf crown, sitting on a golden throne, a golden eagle perched atop the Rod of Asclepius behind him. But instead of holding a silver dagger, this Emperor gripped a golden chain. On the end of the chain, reclining at the Emperor’s feet, were two large grey-brown wolves. ‘That’s him,’ I said. ‘But on the tarot card he was holding a silver dagger; he didn’t have the wolves.’
‘Nae wolves, doll. Werewolves.’
‘Werewolves? Really?’ Surprise mixed with trepidation flashed through me. And I had a sudden memory of Katie telling me she thought the flasher from last night was a werewolf. Fuck. ‘Are you sure the two wolves aren’t just animals?’
‘Aye, doll, I’m sure. I’m sending you some more photos.’
I brought the pictures up on my phone. The first showed a cropped close-up of one wolf’s eye; the second showed a front paw. The eye was human, a green iris with a starburst of hazel fanning out from the pupil. The paw was furry but, unlike a normal wolf’s paw, was prehensile with a short but definite opposable thumb. Two sure indicators of a werewolf in their animal form.
I almost asked Tavish if the pictures could’ve been ’shopped, then didn’t. The Emperor was a vamp. No way would a vamp falsely advertise having a couple of werewolves at his beck and call, not if he wanted to keep his blood cred. Of course, the fact that he had a couple of werewolves chained like pets meant he was probably pretty much at the top of the vamps’ blood-tree anyway.
Which was sort of reassuring in a way. If the Emperor was that überpowerful then the chances that he knew how to release the fae’s fertility from the pendant just rocketed up. Not that I hadn’t believed the cards, but a strange vamp knowing the solution to London’s fae’s fertility problem wouldn’t have been my first guess. No, my first had been the Autarch, my very own bloodsucking nightmare. One I might be getting reacquainted with soon, if Malik or his answering service ever returned my call about our date.
The Shifting Price of Prey [4] Page 11