I tidied up, jumped in a hot shower then emailed Hugh about my suspicions.
The Magic Mirror spell problems at Harrods: think I know what’s causing it. The lingerie fitting rooms are filled with promo leaflets for a posh plastic surgery clinic (link to website below). I think they’re probably tagged with some sort of Dissatisfaction or Envy hex to encourage new customers to the clinic. Could be worth checking out?
I pressed send then headed for the kitchen to make my Bloody Mary nightcap.
The glass of ice was still waiting for me; Sylvia had thoughtfully bespelled it to stop it melting. I opened the fridge and wrinkled my nose at the fishy reek of the two dead mackerel; having a naiad as a flatmate has its smelly downsides. At least Sylvia likes her food cooked. Though I couldn’t really talk, I thought, as I snagged the carton of lamb’s blood and poured a pint into a cocktail shaker. I added a healthy measure of vodka then stuck my hand in the empty cut glass bowl next to the sink.
The glyphs etched around the bowl glowed pink as it conjured some blood-fruit: the magical answer to controlling my 3V infection. The blood-fruit meant I didn’t have to rely on G-Zav – the human vamp junkies’ methadone – which doesn’t work too well for fae, or need to Get Fanged by a vamp to get my regular dose of vamp venom. The bowl and its never-ending supply was a reward from Clíona after I’d helped her out. Seeing as my queenly grandmother wasn’t my biggest fan, the paranoid part of me kept expecting her to take it back, or use it to poison me, even though that would effectively break the bargain we’d made. So far, she’d stuck to her word.
Usually I got cherries – the bowl had a thing for Sylvia (with the whole fruity connection they had, she and the bowl gossiped like a pair of silver birches) – or sometimes blackberries, though they’d been noticeably absent since the satyr had stopped writing. Occasionally the bowl produced something weird, like today’s offering. A fruit, painted silvery gold like all blood-fruit, appeared. It was vaguely pear-shaped, but too knobbly, so I doubted it actually was one.
I poked it and guessed. ‘A pear?’
‘This is not a pear, but a quince, sacred to Aphrodite’ – the bowl’s voice took on a conspiratorial tone – ‘and you know who she is, don’t you?’
‘Yep,’ I said flatly, ‘the Goddess of Love.’
‘And of beauty and sexuality,’ the bowl added smugly. ‘The quince is also the fruit of love, marriage and fertility,’ it finished archly.
Of course it was. ‘What’s it taste like?’
‘What else but paradise?’
Gods save me from magical artefacts and their lame sense of humour.
‘Thanks,’ I muttered, knowing from past experience that saying anything else would get me something disgusting next time, like crab apples. I chopped the quince, popped the pieces into a mincer, cranked the handle (not having electricity sucks) and added the pulp to the blood in the cocktail shaker. I shook, poured the Bloody Mary into the glass and added a good shake of chilli flakes. They’d help disguise the quince if it tasted foul. And, after that paradise quip, I fully expected it to.
I sipped. Under the chilli the blood tasted bitter and astringent. Figured.
I moved to the full-length mirror propped next to my bedroom door (I’d shifted it out of my bedroom to stop Sylvia, and her lack of boundaries, from bursting in every time she wanted to use it) and dropped my towel. Might as well check the Magic Mirror spell was truly kaput.
I stared at my reflection with apprehension. Malik’s rose-coloured bruises still marked the front of my body from my breasts down to the faint Celtic knot tattoo which sat low on my left hip, the remains of the spell that had let me borrow Rosa’s vamp body. It was now as dead as she was. If not for them, I thought I looked pretty good. My curves might be not be as generous as Sylvia’s but I was healthy and in proportion. Big boobs would look odd, I decided. Relief filled me. The nasty influence of the Magic Mirror spell was definitely gone.
I chugged the rest of the blood-fruit Mary down, and stepped back.
Something crunched under my foot.
It was the fortune cookie the old Chinese woman had given me. I’d stowed it in my backpack.
Gingerly, I picked it up. It crumbled in my hand and a blank tarot card zoomed out to hover in front of me.
Pulse speeding with excitement, and a little trepidation, I hurriedly set a Privacy spell (there was too much wood around and no way did I want any of Sylvia’s mother’s spies hearing about this), swapped the glass for a knife and slashed my index finger.
‘I offer my blood solely in exchange for the answer to my questions. No harm to me or mine,’ I said, and touched the tarot card.
The little mouth latched onto my blood with gusto. Still no pain, other than a tiny tickle.
‘Tell me how to find that which is lost, and how to join that which is sundered, to release the fae’s fertility from the pendant and restore it back to them as it was before it was taken,’ I asked, repeating my original question.
The mouth stopped sucking. ‘Eh, why’s everyone so blummin’ impatient,’ a crotchety voice grumbled. ‘Blimey, can’t ye let a body have a few moments to drink in peace?’
‘Um, sure,’ I said, not sure if the voice was male or female. ‘Sorry.’
‘So ye should be, girlie. So ye blummin’ should be. Now keep yer mouth shut till I’m done.’ The mouth latched back on and I watched as my blood turned the card red from the bottom up.
An image appeared on the card.
A blood-red moon hung between two Romo-Greco-style pillars, frowning down at a grey-brown wolf which was baying up at the moon, and a dog with a stick in its mouth. The ground was covered with snow, apart from a black-cinder path leading between the two beasts and into the distance. A nebulous dark shape was clawing its way onto the path from the crimson-coloured river running along the front of the card.
The Moon. Symbolising feelings of uncertainty, of being haunted by the past, and associated with dreams, fantasies and mysteries. Well, it got that right; my past was haunting me in the shape of the Autarch and the Fertility pendant; Malik had the dreams and fantasies nailed, and the Emperor was certainly a mystery. And if I needed any more convincing, the moon was shadowed by a black sickle shape, matching the black gem in Malik’s ring; the dog was a silvery-grey Irish wolfhound, like Mad Max in his doggy persona; and the wolf was a werewolf with distinctive green starburst-patterned human eyes. Which left the dark thing in the river. Wasn’t it supposed to be a crayfish? Though since it was meant to represent ‘fears that come out of the abyss’, the dark shape had it covered.
The card stopped sucking on my finger and I repeated my original question.
The wolf howled at the moon and leaped out of the card on to my arm. I tried not to flinch as its sharp prehensile paws dug into my flesh.
‘He knows! He will tell you! For a price!’
‘Is he the Emperor?’ I asked, double-checking.
‘Yes.’
‘Is the Emperor a vampire?’
‘Yes.’
Good to have what I knew confirmed. ‘Can you tell me where to find him?’
‘No.’
‘Can you tell me what price he wants?’
‘No.’
Figured. Rather than get a straight yes or no again, I risked an open question. ‘What can you tell me?’
‘They are coming.’
Informative. Not. ‘Who are they?’ I asked. ‘And why are they coming?’
‘They are the beasts. They come for you.’
My pulse sped. ‘Why do they come for me?’
The Irish wolfhound barked and dropped the stick he was holding, then jumped out of the card. Snapping at the wolf’s heels, the dog chased it back into the card. As the two hit the snowy scene the moon flashed bright as a halogen light and illuminated the shape that was clawing its way out of the river. It was a monstrous grey and black striped cat, bigger than both wolfhound and wolf.
As a pictorial manifestation of ‘fears that come
out of the abyss’, the cat had a crayfish beat hands down. It opened its jaws wide, showcasing huge sabre-tooth fangs, then shook itself, spraying bloody droplets over the snow-covered ground as well as the stick the dog had dropped— no, not a stick but a silver dagger, half-buried. It looked similar to the one the Emperor had been holding in the first tarot card, only now I could see some of the handle. It was carved twisted bone and eerily familiar—
The cat screamed and the card disintegrated into a mini snowstorm. The crimson-tinged flakes drifted down to melt like ice on my skin.
I stood stunned. I was pretty sure the dagger’s handle was carved from a unicorn’s horn. The last time I’d seen a dagger like that was during the demon attack at Hallowe’en. It couldn’t be the same knife; that one had gone to hell with the demon. But this one looked similar enough that I wondered if it had the same power— a Bonder of Souls.
Only, why would the tarot cards show it first with the Emperor, then with Mad Max’s doggy persona? And should I be more worried about the knife, or that the Emperor’s beasts were coming for me? Or maybe they were already here; Katie thought she’d seen a werewolf after all. And I’d been so fixed on the flasher/watcher/shapeshifter being the Autarch that I hadn’t believed her.
Damn it. Katie.
If the werewolf had been at the Primrose Hill park to sniff me out, then there was a good chance it had sniffed Katie out too. Tavish might say there was nothing in the old wives’ tale about werewolves chasing virgins, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t go after her to get at me.
I yanked my robe on and called Tavish.
He answered on the ninth ring and, almost jumping up and down with worry, I demanded, ‘Did you give Katie that werewolf-repelling perfume yet?’
‘Aye, course I did, doll. I sent it her right after we chatted. Sent some to you too, ’twill be in your fridge. Why?’
The anxious knot in my stomach relaxed slightly. Katie was safe; the perfume should keep the werewolves at bay. And the Ward on her necklace would protect her from almost anything else.
I said thanks and filled Tavish in on the Moon tarot card. ‘So,’ I finished, ‘I obviously need to watch out for werewolves, but what about the knife? Could it be another soul-bonding one? And if it is, why does he want it?’
‘Och, Soul Bonders are a rarity. The knife may be another thing entirely. ’Tis difficult to say why, doll, with only two cards revealed. ’Twill be easier to divine once the full reading is complete.’
‘So not helpful, Tavish.’
‘Aye, well, I told you searching out the answers takes time.’
‘What about the fact that the Emperor’s holding the knife in the first card, but the Irish wolfhound has it in this one? That’s got to mean something?’
‘Nae doubt it does, and the cards will tell you in time.’
He sounded preoccupied, but then I could hear his computers beeping and the clack of keys in the background. I tapped my foot, anxious. ‘Tavish, c’mon, they’re your cards. Give me something to work with here.’
‘Aye, but ’tis your reading. So ’tis catered to what’s in your mind and heart, nae mine.’
‘Okay, then how’s this for a theory.’ I closed my eyes, trying to fit the pieces together. ‘The werewolf on the card said the Emperor’s werewolves are coming for me. It felt like a threat, but what if it’s not? What if it’s just a heads up? I mean, when I asked the werewolf why the Emperor wanted me, the Irish wolfhound chased the werewolf off. And when I asked Malik about the Emperor last night, he started prevaricating, and he was under the Autarch’s influence.’
I leaned on the kitchen counter, head in my hand and clutched the phone closer. ‘So if we take it the Irish wolfhound, a.k.a. Mad Max, represents the Autarch, and the werewolf represents the Emperor, then the dog stopping the werewolf from telling me things could mean that the Autarch is trying to stop me from finding the Emperor.’
I blew out a breath, trying to ease the tension in my shoulders. ‘Maybe what the card’s really telling me is that the Emperor’s beasts are coming for me so we can do a deal, but that the Autarch is going to try to stop me meeting them. Which could mean the Autarch’s trying to prevent me from finding out how to release the fae’s fertility from the pendant.’
‘Hmph.’ The sound of Tavish’s fingers hitting keys quietened for a moment. ‘Nae sure the Autarch’s bothered about the fae’s fertility, doll. But stands to reason he won’t want you mixing with any outsider vampires, not when he’s always had a hankering for you himself. And I ken you said Malik does-nae think much of this Emperor, either. So my money’s on the card being a warning for you to take care about the Emperor, and also a warning to keep away from the Autarch and Malik al-Khan till this matter with the Emperor is done.’
Except I’d already agreed to Malik’s ‘date’ . . . if he ever phoned me back to arrange it. And the date wasn’t only to find out about the Emperor and the fae’s fertility. I needed to talk to Malik about us. To work out whatever our relationship was. And I needed to know the beautiful vamp was okay.
Of course, if I didn’t go on the ‘date’ I probably wouldn’t need to confront Bastien the psycho, or my phobia.
But then if Malik were in trouble, I’d be leaving him to the sadistic psycho’s not-so-tender mercies . . . something I wasn’t prepared to do.
I decided not to mention any of that to Tavish.
Instead, I said, ‘If I stay away from Malik, it makes it harder to find the Emperor. And I’d rather find him before his werewolves find me.’
‘Told you, doll.’ Tavish’s irritation came over the phone loud and clear. ‘’Twill nae take me long now I’ve found his website . . . as a matter of fact, I’m sending you another screenshot.’
I checked. The new shot of the Emperor looked the same as the last one except now below the Emperor, scrolling across the screen in Romanesque font, were the words: Forum Mirabilis.
‘Think it’s some sort of vamp chat room?’
‘I dinna ken yet, doll. Mirabilis means “Amazing”, or “Wondrous”,’ Tavish replied, his voice still distracted. ‘And there’s nae much that’s wondrous about a chatroom. Anyways, soon as I find it out, I’ll let you know.’
‘Okay, but there’s a couple of things worrying me. First up, why did the cards show a huge cat thing instead of a crayfish? That has to mean something?’
‘Hm, could be something or . . .’ A silence. ‘Could be you’re more scared of cats than crayfish?’
‘I’m not a troll, Tavish,’ I said drily, ‘and I couldn’t care one way or the other about crayfish.’
‘Well, the cards dinna always show the literal truth, she may be picking up on your subconscious fears and having herself a bit of fun—’
‘Fun!’
‘Aye, she’s a creative type, so maybe ’tis a subconscious thing from last you were scared—’
Which was ten seconds ago. When I thought of the Autarch. Which meant the thing crawling out the abyss should be a vamp.
‘—Or last saw a cat,’ Tavish finished.
‘The gnome’s,’ I said flatly. ‘The place was full of cats.’ And I’d thought of the Autarch there, too.
‘Och, well, there you go, doll. Something scared you there and the spirit’s matched it with the cats. Told you, she’s the creative type. And she can be a bit ornery at times, too’
An ornery creative type? Really? Dismay filled me. I’d rather have a pedantic-tell-it-like-it-is type answering my questions. A feeling that brought up my second, more important worry. ‘Are you sure the spirit in the tarot cards is trustworthy? That she can’t be compromised?’
He gave an exasperated snort. ‘Told you, doll. Those cards are sidhe-made.’
‘Sidhe can fudge the truth as well as anyone, Tavish. Seems weird that an out-of-town vamp, however powerful he is, who we’ve never heard of, knows how to release the fae’s fertility. I mean, what if it’s a big hoax, or some sort of trap? What if the card’s spirit is out there chatting to
this Emperor vamp, or to the Autarch, and they’re cooking all this up together?’
‘She’s a spirit. She cannae talk to the living unless it’s through the cards. Only others she can talk to is like-minded spirits.’
I stared blindly at my scowling reflection, unwilling to let my ‘Bastien’ paranoia go just yet. ‘She’s like a ghost then? So a vamp could’ve got a necromancer to talk to her?’
‘Nae, doll, she’s nae so much dead as disembodied and bound to the cards.’ Tavish sigh was mildly exasperated. ‘Told you, without the cards naeone can talk to her. And right now, there’s only you can talk to her anyhows, seeing as it’s your reading she’s doing.’
Hmm. ‘What are like-minded spirits?’
‘Just that. Another spirit bound to an item, same as your blood-fruit bowl. And afore you ask, t’only way they can chat is if they’re by one another and I have the cards here with me.’
‘I thought my bowl was a magical artefact?’
‘Aye, doll, ’tis that. It uses the power of the spirit bound to it to make it magical.’
Right. Made sense now I thought about it. ‘So how do the spirits get bound to an item?’
‘Och, maybe they upset someone, or make a bad bargain. There’s nae any way to ken.’
Nasty. And probably didn’t make for a happy spirit, which my blood-fruit bowl definitely was not; no wonder it was so snarky all the time. Only it wasn’t the bowl my paranoia was panicking about, but the spirit in the tarot cards. ‘So there’s no way she could be plotting with anyone else?’
‘Doll . . .’ Another silence while Tavish obviously gathered his patience. ‘Dinna fash yerself about it. Once the reading’s done then ’twill all become clear. And ’twill nae be long before I’m into the Emperor’s website. That’ll give us more to go on.’
The Shifting Price of Prey [4] Page 14