Wicked Magic (7 Wicked Tales Featuring Witches, Demons, Vampires, Fae, and More)

by Deanna Chase

  Ice-cold fear hits my stomach. I thought I’d done a good job checking for tails. Clearly I’m getting sloppy. This is a screw-up which could cost me dearly.

  Trying not to appear obvious, I swivel back to my screen and clear the history. Someone like Rogu3 could easily find out which sites I visited and what I searched for; I’m banking on the fact that few people are as skilled as him. Once I’m satisfied I’ve done the best job I can concealing my tracks, I head for the restroom.

  As soon as I enter, I realise I’ve made a mistake. It’s a tiny room with only one stall and the window is too small to squeeze through. I glance at the ceiling for old times’ sake but, even if I could clamber up inside it, it would be a stupid idea. I wouldn’t get anywhere fast and I’d end up stuck inside this building with someone who may very well want my head on a bloody platter. However, my follower is unlikely to know there’s no way out so I take my time, hovering at the sink.

  I’m correct in my assumption. After a few minutes, the restroom door opens and she enters. I give her the brief meaningless smile of a stranger and turn on the tap. Now she’s up close, I can tell she’s entirely human. She doesn’t seem like a copper so I have to assume she’s either working officially for one of the Families, which would be odd given her humanity, or she’s with Montserrat’s theoretically rogue bloodguzzlers. At least she doesn’t smell of rosewater.

  My plan is to confront her and find out who she is and what’s going on but, as she heads into the stall to maintain her cover of having a pee, I register the tell-tale bulge at her back in the mirror’s reflection. I’m not about to take any chances with anyone who has a gun. There are smarter ways to play this.

  I make sure the tap is on full blast so the gushing water will cover the sound of the opening door, then I quickly duck out and head for the library exit. As soon as I’m outside, I race across the road, dodging a couple of irritated drivers, then crouch down behind a parked vehicle opposite. If I stick my head up far enough, I have a clear line of sight towards the library doors. It takes her less than twenty seconds to appear and she’s less circumspect now, glancing up and down the street to work out where I’ve gone. I watch her, taking note of her panicked expression then, when she decides to turn right and head for the busy pedestrian precinct, I follow.

  I’m aware that I’m in a precarious position. She has no idea which direction I’ve gone in so she keeps twisting her head around to look for me. I have to veer in between people to stay hidden from her view. Once I dash into a shop when she stops in her tracks and turns towards me. I maintain a good distance from her but my situation is far from ideal. Any good tracker will never be alone; there could be a team which can switch places with her and avoid detection. I’m on my own although, as far as I can tell, so is she. I can’t help wondering if she’s O’Shea’s online Lucy.

  We continue like this for some time. There’s something about her twitchy attitude that confuses me. The fact she’s carrying a gun suggests she’s a professional. We’re in not in the United States of America, after all. It’s not easy to get hold of a weapon in this country, even in London, unless you’re connected. She’s not particularly well versed in the art of tailing though and that makes me think she’s more amateur than she should be.

  Eventually she seems to give up on me and stops in the middle of the street. I watch her from behind a bus shelter while she stares dejectedly at her feet. Then she turns round, makes her way down the steps to the Underground, and the darkness quickly swallows her up.

  I dash back across the street, narrowly avoiding being run over by a courier cyclist who has other things on his mind, and jog down after her. If she’s getting on a train, I’ll lose her.

  I hop over the turnstile, ignoring the shocked gasp from the commuters around me, and sprint forward. My heart sinks as I register two separate platforms: one for trains heading north and one for the southbound. I have a fifty-fifty shot of getting it right. I choose north and run down the next set of stairs. As soon as I hit the platform, I realise I’ve made the wrong decision. She’s standing across the tracks and her mouth opens wide as she spots me. I’m expecting her to pull out her gun and shoot.

  Instead, she continues to stare as a train trundles noisily into view, stopping on her side. I remain where I am. I have no hope of getting round to the southern platform in time to catch the same train. My view of her is blocked. Either she’s now scared that I’ve turned the tables on her and she’s going to get on the train and get as far away from me as she can, or she’s running back up the stairs in my direction. I have the feeling she’s not out to kill me unless she can possibly help it. If she were, she had the perfect opportunity in the library bathroom. It doesn’t mean she won’t threaten me with her gun, though.

  It takes an age for the train to leave. I keep one eye on it and the other on the staircase leading down to where I’m standing. When the train finally departs, I’m surprised. She’s still on the opposite platform, staring at me.

  ‘What do you want?’ I shout, trying to sound threatening.

  The few other people around me turn and gape. I ignore them. Even from this distance, I can tell she’s shaking.

  ‘I need to find Devlin,’ she calls back across the tracks.

  It takes me a moment to realise who she means. With O’Shea already in Montserrat custody, I can rule out that she’s working for them.

  ‘What do you want him for?’

  ‘They’ll kill me if I can’t find him.’

  ‘Who? Who will kill you?’

  ‘The vampires,’ she answers. There’s a hiss of shock combined with rubbernecker delight from the waiting passengers.

  ‘Which ones?’ I try not to sound as desperate as I feel.

  She shakes her head, aware of our growing audience.

  ‘Stay there,’ I yell. ‘I’m coming over.’ I glance at the people bouncing their eyes between me and her as if they’re at a championship tennis game. ‘Performance theatre,’ I mutter to them, before running to the other platform.

  She’s still there when I reach the other side. I walk slowly towards her. I don’t know who she is or how she’s involved in any of this but she’s obviously more spooked than I am. A train comes in, ridding the northern platform of our audience. When I reach her, I stop a few feet away and hold up my palms to indicate that I’m unarmed.

  ‘Are you Lucy?’ I ask.

  She looks startled and more than a little afraid. I nod, satisfied. That’s one mystery solved at least. It turns out I didn’t require Rogu3’s services after all.

  ‘Where’s Devlin?’ she asks, not acknowledging my question.

  ‘The Montserrat Family have got him,’ I tell her. I can give her that much information.

  It doesn’t appease her fears. ‘What? No, no, no, no, no, that’s bad.’

  I take a step towards her and she flinches. ‘Why, Lucy? Why is it bad?’

  ‘They needed the spell. If he tells anyone about it…’ Her voice drifts off and she wrings her hands.

  O’Shea’s little enhancement project. I wonder why it’s so important though right now I’m less concerned with motive than perpetrator. ‘Who are they?’

  ‘They made me contact him. They wanted the spell,’ she babbles. ‘They needed it.’

  I’m getting impatient; this much I already know. ‘Who are they?’ I repeat.

  ‘I don’t know!’ she yells. ‘They’re all involved with the Families though. Every single one of them.’

  I watch her carefully. She seems to be telling the truth. That means Montserrat was too but it doesn’t make me feel any more warm and fuzzy towards him.

  ‘No vampire has ever done that, Lucy. They obey the Head. It’s part of who they are.’

  ‘They are obeying their Head,’ she moans.

  I curse. ‘Which one? Is it Montserrat?’

  ‘No, you don’t get it.’

  ‘What? What don’t I get?’

  ‘There’s a new Family. A new Head. They’re
obeying her.’

  My eyes narrow. It actually makes sense. The vampires’ innate desire to follow the leader would still hold. None of the existing Heads would normally risk the fragile peace between the Families by stealing each other’s members. A new Head, however, might not feel the same sense of responsibility. I wonder if Montserrat realises this. He has to, otherwise he’d never believe that there were traitors. I don’t know why he wouldn’t tell me though.

  ‘Who’s the new Head?’ I keep my voice quiet and steady.

  She opens her mouth but whatever she says is swallowed in the roar of an oncoming train.

  ‘Pardon?’

  Out of nowhere, there’s a flash of movement that comes from behind me and launches itself towards her. I spring forward but it’s already too late. Her body is shoved directly into the path of the train. It happens so fast that I can do little more than stare aghast as her blood spatters across the platform and hits me in the face while she is dragged along the tracks. I’m dimly aware of screams and yells from the other people on the train and the platform.

  I look up and the vampire grins at me. He’s blond so obviously not Tam’s murderer. Not that that is going to help Lucy – or whoever she was. He lunges towards me with and I instinctively put up my hands to protect myself. There are several shouts from behind me. The vampire pulls back and gives me another grin that chills me to my core. ‘Another time,’ he hisses, before vaulting onto to the roof of the stationary train and disappearing down the other side.

  I’ve not even lowered my hands when someone from behind grabs my wrists and yanks them behind my back. In one swift, practised motion a plastic tie secures my hands.

  My captor leans in towards me. ‘You’re under arrest for murder.’

  Bugger.

  Chapter Twelve: The Cell

  I’m hauled away unceremoniously while an impossibly young looking copper reads me my rights. I’m about to protest my innocence when I think better about opening my big mouth in case I blab something I shouldn’t. As we pass the gaping commuters and the train with Lucy’s gruesome remains clinging to its front, I try to avert my eyes but I can’t stop myself from looking. I wish I hadn’t.

  Ten minutes later, I’m shoved into a small beige room complete with CCTV camera, what is obviously a two-way mirror mounted on one wall, and a small desk and chairs. The door is slammed shut and I’m left on my own. I kick the nearest chair and swear loudly. In the mirror I can see high points of colour on my cheeks. My hair is a dark, unruly mess of curls. I look like a mad woman. The sort of mad woman who would be capable of pushing someone under a train. I grit my teeth, use my foot to return the chair to a standing position and sit down. I’m not going to get anywhere if I lose my cool.

  It’s not long before I’m joined by two plainclothes police officers. The first one has a lined face, reflecting the many injustices in the world. He glances at me warily as he enters. His partner, a younger woman, smiles. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you every cliché of police work in the book, I think sardonically, from good cop, bad cop to old partner versus new copper. I just manage to avoid rolling my eyes.

  They sit down across from me.

  ‘Hello, Bo,’ says the woman. ‘I’m Sergeant Nicholls and this is Inspector Foxworthy. Do you know why you’re here?’

  I keep my mouth resolutely shut.

  Foxworthy opens a manila folder, placing a series of photos in front of me. There’s a shot of the façade of the Wiltshore Avenue hellhole, followed by several of the interior. Then there are technicolour displays of the room where O’Shea almost pegged it: the blood-spattered walls, the half-destroyed chair, a set of footprints.

  ‘Where did you bury his body?’

  I’m surprised and a little alarmed that they believe O’Shea is dead.

  ‘Bo,’ Nicholls coos, ‘we know Devlin O’Shea is no longer with us.’

  ‘And we know you killed him,’ interrupts Foxworthy. Nicholls shoots him an annoyed look; clearly these two have their routine down to a perfect art form.

  ‘What we don’t know,’ she continues, ‘is where his body is or why you did it. He was a lowlife, Bo, we know that.’ She ticks off her fingers. ‘Dealing in black magic, stealing, ripping off innocent people. He was scum. Let’s face it, the planet is better off without him.’

  All I can think is that I really hope he’s still alive. If Montserrat has killed him and disposed of his body then I’m well and truly up shit creek without a paddle.

  Foxworthy leans in. ‘Is that why you murdered him, Ms Blackman?’ He draws out the ‘Mizz’ until it sounds like an insult.

  ‘We wouldn’t blame you if you did,’ adds Nicholls, trying to appeal to my better nature. ‘His family will want to know where he is. They’ll still want to give him a decent burial. Most of them are human, Bo. Even if he was a bastard, they still care for him.’

  I’m interested in her line of questioning. Is she suggesting that his daemon relations don’t care for him? Or is she assuming that I killed him because he was a daemon and I’m a racist bitch?

  Foxworthy changes tack abruptly. ‘Who was the woman you threw off the tracks?’

  I stare at him. There must have been upwards of a dozen witnesses to the vampire, not to mention the footage from the security cameras.

  ‘You look surprised, Ms Blackman.’

  I forget my promise to myself to stay quiet. ‘It was a freaking vampire!’

  I receive a scornful look in return. ‘Why would a bloodguzzler kill someone by shoving them under a train? That would be a waste of good blood, don’t you think?’ He folds his arms. ‘Besides, we can’t prosecute vampires. But we can prosecute you.’

  It’d take less than two minutes of their time to find proof that I had nothing to do with Lucy’s murder. They obviously know this and they don’t care. Or they’re using the fact of her death to lure me into telling them about O’Shea. I gnaw at my lip. There’s more than enough evidence to prove I didn’t kill either Lucy or O’Shea. I wonder if they care.

  ‘Don’t you have anything to say?’

  ‘Come on, Bo,’ Nicholls urges, ‘just tell us what’s going on.’

  I could call my grandfather and get him to send someone round but I have a better idea. ‘I’d like a lawyer,’ I announce.

  Something flickers in Nicholls’ expression although Foxworthy remains impassive. ‘We can appoint someone for you,’ he says.

  I shake my head. ‘No. I have a lawyer.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘D’Argneau,’ I say calmly. ‘Harry D’Argneau.’

  I’m left cooling my heels while they make the call. I honestly have no idea whether D’Argneau will actually show or not. I rest my forehead on the table and close my eyes. Lucy’s horrified expression as she flies in midair into the path of the train replays itself in my head over and over again. Several times I have to force down rising bile. At some point Nicholls re-enters and leaves me a glass of water. I chug it down then continue to wait.

  With no clock in the room, and my watch removed with my other few personal possessions when I entered the station, I have no way of knowing what time it is when the door eventually re-opens. I look up and see D’Argneau striding in. I’d forgotten how good looking he is. He pauses for a moment, his eyes widening infinitesimally in what can only be an unfaked reaction to my presence. Then he quickly recovers and takes the chair vacated by Inspector Foxworthy.

  ‘You’re Bo Blackman?’ he asks.

  I nod.

  ‘I once met your…’

  ‘Grandfather. Yeah, whatever,’ I grunt.

  He takes out a notepad. ‘So, you’re being investigated on the count of two separate murders. That of Devlin O’Shea, an Agathos daemon, and an as-yet unnamed human woman.’

  I think of Rogu3. He’s probably discovered her true identity by now. There’s no way I’m going to tell D’Argneau about him, though. At the moment, even though I’m the one cuffed and being held in a police station, he’s one of my prime suspec
ts. I don’t care that he’s not a vampire, there’s no way he’s not involved.

  ‘Lucy,’ I say. ‘All I know is that she called herself Lucy. Check the surveillance cameras. She was pushed onto the tracks by a vampire.’

  The lawyer raises his eyebrows then scribbles something. ‘I’ll do that. How do you,’ he coughs, ‘sorry, how did you know her?’

  ‘She was following me.’

  ‘And the cameras will also attest to this.’

  Ah. Not exactly. ‘She was following me then I turned the tables and starting following her instead.’

  His eyebrows knit together. ‘I see.’

  It’s clear he doesn’t. ‘Look,’ I sigh, ‘check the cameras from the station and talk to the witnesses. I had nothing to do with her death.’

  ‘And the daemon?’

  ‘He’s not dead.’ I watch him carefully for his reaction.

  D’Argneau looks at me. I look back at him unwaveringly. I do hope Montserrat isn’t making a liar out of me.

  ‘Where is he?’

  I shrug. ‘Tied up.’ Most probably.

  ‘Okay. Is he likely to present himself at any point?’

  ‘Well, that’s difficult to say.’ My ear itches so I lift up one shoulder and rub it awkwardly. ‘You see, he’s still rather worried about losing his life. The firm I work for…’

  ‘Dire Straits,’ he interrupts. ‘The one in the news.’

  ‘Yes. And I’d like to point out I’m no more responsible for what happened there than for anything else.’ I direct this comment at the two-way mirror. Lawyer–client conversations are meant to be confidential but right now I don’t trust anything. ‘They tasked me with serving O’Shea with a summons. I found him half dead.’ I smile humourlessly. ‘The summons came from a barrister seconded to the Agathos court.’