The Shifting Price of Prey [4]

by Suzanne McLeod

  I touched her arm. ‘No. We’re too close; the wrong people might hear it.’

  ‘Your call. But we won’t get past all this without it.’

  Crap. Dessa, with her flashing lights and siren, had got us this far in what had to be the longest fifteen minutes of my life. But Trafalgar Square was still half a mile away. I ran at least ten times that every morning; when I wasn’t hauled out to a crime scene. ‘I’ll run,’ I said, opening the car door. ‘You two catch up as soon as.’ I jumped out into the middle of the road, slammed the door, and started sprinting up the queue of stalled traffic; so much easier than trying to dodge the pedestrian jungle. Under the background noise of cars, buses and people, I heard Mary shouting something, then another door slammed and her pounding feet echoed mine.

  What felt like an aeon later, but was probably no more than two or three minutes, I slammed to a halt at the top of the stairs leading down from the north terrace of Trafalgar Square. I caught my breath, scanning the square. It wasn’t as crowded as I’d expected. But as always there were folk lounging on the rims of the fountains, some dangling their feet in the water. There was a queue for ice creams at the café. A crowd of tourists were taking photos of the pixies playing on the huge bonze lions . . . Automatically, I clocked their numbers: eight pixies, seven up from yesterday, and the lions were sparkling with pixie dust— a problem for another day . . . And another, smaller tourist group watched over by one of the square’s heritage wardens, were snapping pictures of the hawk used to keep the pigeons from the square; the bird was perched on the black and gold railing caging Nelson’s Column, and was eyeing the crowd with an imperious tilt to its head.

  I curled my fingers around the Power Nap patch, sweat licking fear down my spine. The sparse crowd should’ve made it easy to find Freya and Mad Max, but there was no sign of them. I upped the focus on my inner radar . . . three witches; two somewhere near the column, and another further away, behind and to my right – Mary. And a weird ping towards the far corner of the square . . . I frowned trying to work out . . . but it was gone before I could ID it. And I still couldn’t sense hair or hide of Freya or Mad Max.

  I phoned Freya, but again it went straight to voicemail. I snapped the phone shut, wanting to scream or hurl it at someone, anyone— Instead, I took a steadying breath and continued scanning the square. Damn. There was nothing out of the ordinary, nothing, no one for me to find, or fight, or extract info from. Time to go knock – figuratively, anyway – on Freya’s door.

  I jogged down the steps angling towards the left fountain.

  ‘Ciao, bella,’ a male’s voice called from my right. ‘Io sono qui.’

  I almost dismissed the loud and mostly unintelligible voice – no one with nefarious deeds on their agenda was going to draw attention by calling out ‘Hello, beautiful’ and whatever the rest was – but some instinct made me turn. The male was about ten feet away. Adrenalin hit, hyping my senses. In one long second I took him in. Black curly hair, cut short to his head; vivid green eyes, hard and watchful despite the wide grin on his olive-skinned face; tight jeans, open-necked shirt displaying thick black chest hair; his arms outstretched, a bunch of red roses, tied with ribbon, gripped in one hand – the picture of the stereotypical Latin lover enthusiastically greeting his girlfriend – and looking enough like the dead male in Malik’s snow-plateau memory to be a relative. Latin lover had to be the male werewolf I’d glimpsed at the mosque.

  And in the hand not carrying the roses, glinting gold in my sight, Werewolf Guy was holding some sort of ready-to-go spell.

  High-pitched barks, followed by low ominous growls, came from my left.

  My pulse sped as out the corner of my eye I saw two dogs jump out of the fountain: a smallish fluff of silver and grey fur – Freya in her Norwegian elkhound shape – closely followed by Mad Max’s giant white-haired Irish wolfhound.

  Of course, now they turn up.

  Werewolf Guy changed course towards the dogs, drawing back his arm to throw the glinting gold spell.

  Not at my niece, you don’t!

  ‘Hey,’ I yelled, willing time to stop and freeze around him. Almost predictably, my cool new vamp power didn’t put in an appearance. Brute force it is, then. I charged, catching heads turning in the crowd, along with Werewolf Guy’s startled expression. At the last moment before I barrelled into him, I ducked and shoved my shoulder into his stomach. He doubled over with a grunt, air whooshing out his mouth. I clamped my arms round his thighs, heaved and flung him over my back; for all I’m small for a sidhe, I’m way stronger than most humans. I whirled to find Werewolf Guy jumping lightly to his feet as he came out of a roll, still holding the roses— and the spell. Crap. He’d recovered acrobatic quick. Not that I truly thought it would be that easy.

  Cameras flashed, and a few tourists clapped, obviously thinking we were some sort of street show.

  He grinned, showing crooked but definitely human teeth, and swivelled back towards the dogs. The Irish wolfhound had the smaller, fluffy dog by the scruff, dragging her back towards the fountain. Werewolf Guy raised his arm. Determined bastard! I threw myself at him and slapped my palm, with its Power Nap patch, against his in a parody of a high five. Purple sparked as the spell activated. His eyes met mine, triumph gleaming in their vivid green for a second, before they rolled up inside his head and he crumpled. Shit. I’d got him— But not before he’d thrown his own spell.

  Stomach churning, knowing I was too late, I jerked round to see a coin glinting gold as it spun through the air.

  Straight at its target. The dogs.

  In a blur of vamp-related speed, the Irish wolfhound grabbed the elkhound by the scruff and flung the smaller dog out of danger. She yelped as she landed in the middle of the fountain, disappearing in a cascade of displaced water. Then in almost in the same motion, the Irish wolfhound launched up, mouth open, and caught the gold coin. He dropped to all four paws with an audible thud, and froze, head hanging unnaturally still.

  Mad Max and I stared at each other, less than ten feet apart.

  Waiting . . .

  I didn’t like him. He was a twisted selfish vamp who had no compunction about using anything or anyone in whatever way it suited his purpose, and he certainly didn’t worry about who might or might not end up hurt. And I definitely didn’t trust him. For the exact same reasons. But despite the fact he’d tried, on more than one occasion, to use my friends as ‘hostages’ to force me to give him my blood (Mad Max wasn’t the sort to even think of straight-out asking), he’d done it for the sake of Freya’s mother, Ana, and for Freya herself. Which even now didn’t make me feel overly charitable towards him, nor did the fact that he was sort of family. Nonetheless, I still found myself wanting the spell to not do whatever it was supposed to do, to him.

  Which currently looked like . . .

  Nothing.

  He spat the coin out.

  It hit the pavement with a tinkling sound, rolled in a wobbly semi-circle then fell on its side.

  I looked. Whatever magic it had, it was gone.

  The Irish wolfhound sunk to his haunches, pink tongue lolling in a manic doggy grin, diamond-encrusted dog-tags catching the sun. Well, that was a bleedin’ anticlimax, wasn’t it, Cousin? Mad Max said in my head. Thought things might get a tad more exciting than that.

  Fury, along with a rush of relief, swept over me. I shot a quick glance at Werewolf Guy – still clutching his roses, but now snoring away – then snagged the coin, strode over and grabbed the Irish wolfhound by his throat.

  ‘If whatever fucking idiot scheme this is,’ I ground out, ‘hurts even one hair on Freya’s head, I’ll remove your balls with a blunt blade and wear them as earrings as I scatter your ashes on the Thames.’

  Promises, promises, Cousin, he drawled. If I didn’t know you better, I’d almost believe you meant it.

  I squeezed harder, almost choking him. ‘Believe it! Now what’s going on?’

  Oh, stop getting your knickers in a twist, love, this on
e’s nothing to do with me. The dog licked his nose, nonchalantly. ‘It’s down to you and your friend, the Turk.

  ‘Malik? What’s the hell’s he—’

  A sharp bark cut me off, and I found myself sprayed with water. I released Mad Max, swiped at my eyes, and glared down at a soaking wet Freya as she finished off her shake. ‘You need to go back home, pup.’ I pointed at the fountain. ‘Where it’s safe.’

  She shoved her wet doggy self between me and the Irish wolfhound, and curled her lips in a snarl.

  I tapped her on the nose. ‘Don’t you take that attitude with me, pup. You know he’s not supposed to be visiting you, so he’s in the wrong here, never mind he’s your granddad—’

  ‘Genny!’

  I turned my head to see Mary, her hand pressed to her side as if she had a stitch, staring down at Werewolf Guy in dismay. He was twitching as if he were a statue the pixies had tried to animate. I grimaced. It looked like the Power Nap patch, or something, was disagreeing with him.

  I pointed at Freya. ‘Get her back home,’ I ordered in a low voice to Mad Max. ‘Make sure she stays there, and later, you and I are going to have a long chat.’

  Freya barked an obvious, ‘No!’

  ‘Yes!’ I told her.

  She growled— and Mad Max snatched her up by her scruff, threw her in the fountain again then trotted calmly after her.

  A round of applause from the crowd reminded me we had an audience. Damn. Next thing the paps will turn up, and I’ll be on the front pages again. At least the heritage wardens were keeping the rubberneckers out of the way.

  I jogged over to Mary as she lifted her radio. ‘I need a HOPE ambulance. Code six three one – unidentified magical casualty. Trafalgar Square. How long?’ It crackled unintelligibly. ‘’K, I’ll hang on.’ She pointed at the twitching werewolf. ‘What did you do to him?’

  ‘All I did was tag him with Dessa’s spell,’ I said. ‘He was fine a minute ago. Better tell the medics he’s a werewolf.’

  ‘Unidentified is clearer. That way they won’t make mistakes. Why’s he holding the roses?’

  ‘Camouflage?’

  ‘I meant,’ she said pointedly, ‘why is he still clutching them? He’s unconscious. He should’ve dropped them, shouldn’t he?’

  ‘Maybe. Or maybe it’s something to do with the spell’s side-effects.’ I bent to check him out.

  Mary grabbed me. ‘Leave him,’ she ordered. ‘Standard ops with un-ID’d spells. No touching the victim, and he needs to be in a circle. Here’ – she handed me a lump of green spell chalk from her pocket – ‘draw one. About eight feet across. At least he’s on stone, it’ll make it easier.’

  I started drawing a circle, crabwalking around the still twitching werewolf.

  ‘Cripes,’ she muttered, which was Mary’s answer to swearing with a precocious nine-year-old daughter. ‘I should never have let Dessa give you that spell. It’s got aconite in it. If he really is a werewolf, it could kill him.’

  Aconite? Oh, yeah, wolfsbane. I scowled. ‘He’s not a good guy, Mary.’

  She shot Werewolf Guy a frown. ‘We don’t know that, Genny.’

  I snorted. ‘He was throwing spells at my niece! And he helped kidnap three people. Good guys don’t do that.’

  ‘What spell?’

  ‘This!’ I stopped drawing and showed her the gold coin. It glinted in the sunlight.

  She peered at it. ‘There’s no spell.’

  ‘Not now. Mad Max sort of ate it.’ I glanced at where he was sitting next to the fountain like he was auditioning for Guard Dog of the Year, and getting not a few admiring looks from the crowd. There was no sign of Freya, so hopefully she was tucked up safe at home, in Between.

  ‘Max looks fine,’ Mary said. ‘Maybe you were mistak—’

  Werewolf Guy howled in pain, his twitches turning to jerks, and blood started leaking from his nostrils, mouth and ears. A horrified buzz came from the crowd, and I caught more of the inevitable camera flashes. Blood always brings out the ghouls. Werewolf Guy let out another howl, his spine arched, veins standing out like black cords in his neck. An answering screech came from above. The hawk, trained to scare the square’s pigeons. Werewolf Guy convulsed as if invisible hands were trying to tear him apart.

  ‘Finish the circle,’ Mary shouted. ‘Quick before he shifts.’

  I dragged the green chalk over the flagstones, only a foot to go . . . Time seemed to slow . . . Werewolf Guy’s eyes snapped open. He flung his arm out. They flew from his hand, scattering in a shower of red petals. The petals landed on the grey slabs, like the pools of blood staining the snow in Malik’s memories. Werewolf Guy smiled at me with victory in his eyes. Above me the sound of wings buffeted the air. Gut clenching, I looked up. The hawk hovered, a dark shadow against the clear summer sky. It opened its beak wide, screeching again as it vomited a stream of green magic. The magic twisted and twirled, morphing into a verdant jade serpent, fang-filled jaws hinging wide, as it arrowed straight for me. I raised my hand, focused, and called the magic snake, aiming to snatch it from the air—

  Something shoved me aside. The Irish wolfhound, wiry hair brushing my face as he leaped, snapped his jaws on the jade serpent. I stumbled, falling atop Werewolf Guy. For a moment he trapped me in his arms, holding me tight, then a flood of magic washed over me, spreading out over Trafalgar Square like the pressurised shockwave after an explosion. I glimpsed the hawk hovering; Mad Max shaking the serpent like a terrier with a rat—

  Mad Max, the hawk and Werewolf Guy all vanished.

  I sat on the stone edge of the left fountain, half-listening to the splash of water and the background rumble of traffic, as Mary, Dessa, and a dozen Peelers from the local police station finished taking statements. The Peelers had turned up a few minutes after it all went down, and along with the heritage wardens had managed to corral the majority of the bystanders into a makeshift witness waiting area, using the square’s café as their base. Even without the free tea/coffee/juice on offer, the majority were eager to hang around and recount everything exciting they’d seen.

  And what they’d seen, according to Mary, came with the usual add-ons of imagination and conjecture. Some thought the hawk was an eagle, or a vulture, or even a remote control toy; Werewolf Guy’s hair colour was everything from blond, through red, to his actual black; and the ‘dogs’ varied from ‘a brace o’ wee terriers’ to a pack of rabid wolves— that particular witness was currently getting the third degree.

  I was waiting to get my own third degree (as per Mary’s instructions) from Hugh. Waiting for Tavish to phone me back about the gold coin; I’d emailed him a set of pictures. And for Freya to shift from her doggy shape to human, which she was refusing to do. But most of all for Ana, Freya’s mum, to turn up.

  I reached down to Freya, lying sphinx-like by my feet, ears pricked forwards as she watched the square with an unwavering doggy stare, and ran my fingers through her thick silky fur. It had dried in the sunshine, and I could just make out the darker tint on the ends, all that was left from when she’d magically dyed her hair green a couple of months ago. Attention seeking, Ana had told me with a long-suffering sigh. Freya’s dad had left during the ToLA case, after discovering what his brother, the deranged baby-making wizard behind all the abductions, had been up to. Supposedly, it had all come as a big shock to Freya’s dad.

  Yep, and I was a goblin queen.

  Freya grumbled low in her throat, flattening both ears in a sulky ‘leave me alone’ gesture. I stopped petting her. Where the hell was her mum? School was nearly finished for the day, Ana wasn’t here waiting for her daughter to arrive home, and all my calls kept getting her voicemail. My paranoid imagination was running riot, involving Ana in various awful scenarios with the Emperor, his werewolves, Bastien, or more likely, giving birth on the Underground.

  I pushed my uneasy thoughts aside for another ten minutes until they hit critical, and dug Werewolf Guy’s gold coin in its clear plastic evidence bag out of my pocket (after
a ‘discussion’, Mary had agreed I could hang on to it until Hugh said otherwise). I turned it over, examining it for any clues I might have missed the last twenty times I’d looked at it. It was a little larger than a pound coin, had a golden eagle on one side, a man’s head crowned with a laurel wreath on the other and Romulus Augustus writ Roman-style around the coin’s circumference. It didn’t take a genius to add coin and Werewolf Guy together, and come up with the Emperor, even without the face on the coin looking like the picture on the Emperor’s website.

  Romulus Augustus was the last western Roman Emperor. His reign started on All Hallows’ Eve in 475 when he was around fifteen, and lasted for all of ten months, until he’d was deposed and shipped off to the Castel dell’Ovo on an island in the Gulf of Naples, from where he later ‘disappeared’ a.k.a. Accepted the Gift and became a vamp. Of course, Wikipedia didn’t mention the becoming a vamp bit. Or that the Emperor was Head Fang of Europe and Bastien’s master.

  Or that the Emperor’s werewolves had just dog/spell-napped Mad Max instead of me.

  ‘Idiot dog,’ I murmured, wondering again why the hell he’d pushed me aside.

  Freya nipped my ankle and regarded me out of accusing doggy eyes.

  ‘Not you, pup. Granddad Max.’

  She whimpered then tucked her head on to her front paws.

  I frowned down at her where she dozed in the sunshine, her black nose twitching occasionally. I could understand Mad Max sacrificing himself for his grandkid. But even with me donating my blood to Freya, there was no way I could see my self-seeking, use-anybody-and-don’t-give-a-fuck-who-gets-hurts cousin deciding to save me by playing snake-catching hero.

  Hugh’s huge figure cut out the sun. ‘Maxim’s actions appear to be out of character,’ he said, echoing my own thoughts.

  ‘Yep,’ I agreed, looking up at Hugh’s ruddy face, deeply creased with worry. Two major incidents in less than a week were taking their toll. ‘Anything more from the witnesses?’ I asked, though to be honest I didn’t expect there to be. If there had been Hugh would’ve been acting on it, not talking to me.