The Bitter Seed of Magic s-3

by Suzanne McLeod

  My hand tightened on the backpack just in case. ‘So why did they run?’ I jerked my head towards the door the terrified vamps had gone through.

  The air wavered round her and for a second a pretty good likeness of Malik stood in her place. Then she was back to being herself again.

  ‘Impressive illusion,’ I said, and it was. ‘So, are you the new Head of Golden Blade blood?’

  ‘Not yet,’ she said, her sultry voice matching her sex-on-legs kick-ass red leather outfit.

  Ah, so the position was still up for grabs, which probably meant she needed Malik’s backing. Maybe she’d decided assisting me was the best way to get it? I waved towards her and Mad Max. ‘You know, the show’s wasted if you’re not going to help?’ I raised my voice in question.

  Moving almost too fast for me to see, she was standing in front of me, the sharp end of a bronze knife hovering steadily under my chin. I held my ground, ignoring my hitching pulse, and flicked a finger against the blade. ‘Nice toy,’ I said.

  She smiled, her full lips pulling back to showcase longer-than-normal fangs—another illusion—and the knife flew back and thudded into Mad Max’s chest, perfectly aligned next to its twin. He grunted. I looked around her at his face. The bricks had done their job: it was a battered, blood-covered mess, and when he stared back at me from between already swelling lids, surprisingly, he was very much aware, and oddly speculative.

  ‘The bronze knife in the heart,’ Francine purred, drawing my attention back to her, ‘she paralyse him. Stop his power.’

  ‘Good to know,’ I said, stepping past her and over Mad Max to look through the diamond-shaped window in door eleven. It was as bad as I’d hoped it wouldn’t be.

  The room was square, maybe twenty feet by twenty, and it looked like a hurricane had passed through recently. Broken bits of metal bed and shredded lumps of mattress littered the carpet, a wooden chest was overturned on its side, and the flat-screen on the wall was smashed.

  Darius was in the centre, at the eye of the storm.

  The eye-candy romance model with the drool-worthy six-pack was gone; instead, his body had shrunk back to bone. His stomach was concave above his jutting pelvis, and only a few wisps of hair straggled from his scalp. A raised map of blue-black veins corded his leathery-looking skin. He looked like he’d been left to starve. As I watched he twisted and turned from side to side in evident confusion, his lips curled back over all four of his fangs, his arms open wide, fingers clutching at empty space. Rissa and Viola were weaving around him in some sort of shifting pattern, their floating grey outfits and long white-grey hair fluttering as if blown by the wind. As I watched, one would flit past him, trailing a bloody wrist and snagging his attention, then as he lunged for her, the other would do the same, distracting him the other way, only they were moving so fast it looked as if there were more than just the two of them …

  ‘You’re doing something, aren’t you?’ I turned to Francine.

  ‘I make the illusion of many Moth. Darius do not think with his brain now, but with this.’ She tapped her corseted stomach. ‘The Moth, they bait him with the blood. He does not know which to eat next. It is a trick we use sometimes.’

  I turned back to the room and came face to face with Lucy, staring at me through the glass. Startled, I jumped back in fear as my old phobia hit; stupid to still be afraid of ghosts, even now. I forced myself back to the small window, swiping at my face as I realised I was doing the crying thing again. My chest constricted with sorrow as Lucy turned and walked straight through the others to the far wall, then stood and pointed down at her still body.

  Damn, damn, damn. Seeing her ghost didn’t necessarily mean Lucy was dead, or at least, not yet. I’d seen Sharon, Darius’ now-deceased girlfriend do the same thing. The Moth-girls’ ghosts—their souls or whatever you want to call it—can vacate their bodies on demand. It’s a sort of defence mechanism against pain, as having a vamp sink fangs into your carotid understandably hurts with a capital H.

  Why the Moth-girls sign up for it, rather than the standard venom hit, which is all about pleasure, is a total mystery.

  ‘We need to get in there,’ I said, still looking at Lucy’s body.

  ‘The door, she is sealed until sunrise,’ Francine said at my side. ‘She is on the time lock, precaution to stop the bloodlust spreading.’

  ‘Sunrise! Fuck, they’ll all be dead by then!’

  ‘Yes. The heart of Lucy is weak. I beat it for her, but I cannot for long. My power, she is lowering.’ She spoke calmly, as if the situation wasn’t a death sentence for the girls and for Darius—especially Darius, because even if he came back to his senses after draining the Moths, the vampires would rescind his Gift, not in public retribution for killing the girls—it was doubtful any of them had any family, or anyone to worry about them other than the other Moths; their bodies could and probably would just disappear. As would Darius’. No, they’d rescind his Gift because the Moths’ deaths would be unsanctioned killing. The vamps can’t afford not to control their own.

  Even if I did manage to save him now, unless one of them took him on, he was a dead vamp walking. I clenched my fists, desperation and guilt burning in my chest. I shouldn’t have encouraged him to stand on his own feet. More than that, I should’ve kept a closer eye on him.

  But crying over spilled milk—or rather, spilled blood—wasn’t helping anyone. I had to save the Moths first, and after that I could worry about Darius … except—

  I was all out of ideas.

  I looked at Francine. ‘So, what’s the plan?’ I asked.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  ‘The door, I can open her.’ Francine stared at me, her odd reflective eyes transparent like glass. ‘I make the illusion stay for the escape of the Moth. But Darius, he has the blood-lust, he cannot escape the room. I cannot control him, and I do not like to bring the final death to him.’

  Okay, good to know she didn’t want to kill him, for all her flat statements. But then, if he wasn’t rabid with bloodlust, she wouldn’t have to. So she was asking me to feed him—my blood would sate his bloodlust—but getting it into him without ending up as dinner was the problem. Unless …

  He was young enough that I could catch him in my Glamour—I’d done it before, after all. Once, muttered my cautionary voice, and the vamp was already restrained. I ignored it and asked, ‘Will you take his Oath, if the Moths survive?’

  ‘Darius …’ This time some emotion flickered in her gaze, then was gone. ‘I will accept his Oath, but only if he chooses. The force, she is not right.’

  I blinked: a democratic vampire?

  ‘Okay, leave Darius to me,’ I said with more confidence than I was feeling.

  ‘Good. Also, I ask the permission for the blood. For the power.’

  Of course she needed blood. Well, I was going to be opening a vein anyway, and it was all in a good cause—

  I grabbed my backpack and opened it. Miraculously, one of the three bags of blood I’d stuffed in it was still intact and I held it out to her as blood from the other bags dripped onto the carpet.

  Her nostrils flared, her eyes closing briefly, then she shook her head reluctantly. ‘Darius, he will need your blood.’ She pointed down at Mad Max. ‘His blood, I can take. With the permission of my liege.’

  Her liege was Malik, but he wasn’t here. The worry came back, and I didn’t know when—or if—he would arrive. ‘He’s not here?’ I made it a question.

  ‘We are to give you the help if you are in need.’ She smiled down at Mad Max, her long canines curving past her bottom lip, her strange, transparent eyes lighting with expectant predatory pleasure.

  ‘Ri-ight. I’m in need then.’ I waved at Mad Max. ‘You’ve got your liege’s permission.’

  In a blur almost too fast to see, she whirled into a crouch and fell upon his throat. He roared, his legs jerking uncontrollably, then the sound cut out and harsh slurping noises took its place. Old, dark blood sprayed over the lower walls of the co
rridor. Judging by her enthusiastic reaction, there was more to her snacking on Mad Max than just getting power.

  I shrugged out of my jacket, dropping it next to my backpack, and looked through the window at the Moths dancing round Darius, wondering how long it would take Francine to get her power up to speed—and also wondering how I was going to get close enough to Darius to touch him, let alone Glamour him, without getting my own throat ripped out first.

  Long minutes later, and I was still staring anxiously through the diamond-shaped window in the door. I tensed as Darius snagged Rissa’s wrist, jerking her out of the weaving dance, but then Viola swiped her own bloody wrist close to his mouth and Rissa slipped from his grasp.

  ‘C’mon, Francine,’ I muttered. She’d been slurping on Mad Max for a good five minutes now. Surely that was enough to get a power hit. ‘Hurry it up; he nearly caught her that time.’

  A soft hand brushed the hair back from my face, and I turned to find her standing next to me. Her pupils had vanished, leaving her eyes clear as glass and reflecting the overhead lights.

  ‘I am here,’ she murmured. Her tongue swiped out like a cat’s, catching a drop of blood at the corner of her mouth. She stepped closer, and wobbled on her heels. I grabbed for her, catching her arm and holding her steady. She laughed low and touched her forefinger to the pulse in my throat, sending a shiver of need into my body as the sensation of wings fluttered soft along my skin.

  Mesma. Damn vamp was using vamp mind-tricks on me! I knocked her hand away, angry. ‘You’re drunk,’ I said accusingly.

  ‘But yes, of course.’ She laughed again, pressed her finger to my chest this time and pushed. I staggered back. She turned to face the door, took a wide-legged stance, then punched her hand straight through the diamond-shaped window. Gripping the edges of the opening with both hands, she braced one boot against the door and pulled downwards. At first nothing happened, then the door groaned, the metal buckled and it fractured from the bottom V of the window opening. She yelled, a deep, guttural sound, and the muscles in her arms and back stood out in relief as she ripped the steel door down and pulled it apart like it was made of cardboard.

  ‘Fuck!’ I muttered, impressed.

  ‘The door, she is open.’ She doubled over, giggling, then as she tried to straighten, she tottered back and fell on her butt against the corridor wall. I rushed to help her, but she waved me away with both her hands. ‘The Moths,’ she whispered, then in a louder, crooning voice, she called, ‘Come, my pretties, fly to me. Fly, fly, flyyyy!’

  They came in a blur of grey silk and satin, ducking and spilling through the ripped steel door, breaking right and rushing past me along the corridor towards the door at the far end, trailing the scent of blood and liquorice and greasepaint behind them.

  I quickly crouched and peered into the room. Lucy’s ghost was huddled by her limp body while Darius still stumbled around, his hands grasping at the illusions of Moths floating past him. Apprehension prickled down my spine as I gripped the bag of blood in my hand. All I had to do was rush him, shove the bag in his face as a distraction, hopefully piercing it on his fangs, then thrust my magic into him.

  My turn to dance.

  I bent to duck through the torn door and a sharp pain sliced across my wrist. Flinching, I looked down to see blood welling and dripping from a three-inch cut along my inner arm, right along the vein. Francine swayed on all fours near me, a thin bronze dagger in her hand.

  ‘What the fuck was that for?’ I demanded.

  ‘The arm, hold her up in front.’ She showed me, clumsily tucking her own arm under her chin, almost toppling over as she did. ‘She will keep Darius from the throat.’

  I stifled my anger; she was trying to be helpful, even if it was the sort of help I could really do without. I swapped the bag of blood to my bleeding hand. Holding the bag and my blood-dripping wrist as a shield across my throat, I ducked into the room before she could think of anything else to help me with.

  Darius stopped, nostrils flaring, and fixed his gaze eerily on me, no longer interested in the illusionary Moths. Blood flushed the whites of his eyes; his irises and pupils were clouded, like cataracts. He was blinded by bloodlust, all his senses narrowed down to scent alone as he searched for the fresh blood he craved. I felt a tug on my consciousness as he automatically tried to mind-lock me and swatted it aside.

  One touch was all I needed to Glamour him. Skin to skin. Lucky he was naked; it gave me a lot of skin to choose from.

  I flipped the metaphysical switch inside me and let my magic flood out. A golden glow lit the room as if the sun was shining and small tendrils of power sprang like eager vines from my body, questing for someone to latch onto. Still holding the bag up in front of me, I aimed for his ankles—as far away from his fangs as I could get—and lunged towards him—

  He snarled and leapt at the same time, smashing me down onto the ground and knocking the air out of my lungs. My head banged off the floor as he pinned me, and pain sliced upwards through my left kidney. I seemed to have all the time in the world to look down and see the broken end of something black and metallic poking out of my diaphragm: a piece of the metal bed. And all the time to look up at Darius as he straddled my hips, to feel the panicked thud of my heart, to smell the honey-scent of my own blood, to see his skeletal face blurring as he yanked my head back and exposed my throat—

  But no time to raise my arm and the distracting bag of blood before he struck, his fangs piercing through skin, muscle and the arterial wall of my carotid—

  And the world exploded into a pain-filled haze of red and gold.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  He held Genny’s hand, gazing down at her as she lay sleeping. She was pretty, like sunshine in a jar, as his mum used to say. Happiness and relief filled him. Now Genny was here, everything would be all right; she’d sort it. All he had to do was hold her hand, stop her from leaving, and she’d sort it. He’d done something bad, but he hadn’t meant to, he’d just been so hungry. But he was a good boy. He’d always been a good boy …

  His thoughts stumbled back into his childhood again before he could stop them. He hated lying there night after night, listening for the thump of the front door closing as his mum went off to her night shift. He desperately wanted to shout for her not to go, not to leave him. Then he’d listen as the fridge door slammed, waiting until the second stair from the top creaked, until the landing light under his bedroom door snuffed out. Then he’d hear the click as the handle turned and the hinges whined …

  ‘Be a good boy now, Daryl lad,’ his step-da would say. ‘We don’t want to upset yer mum, don’t want anythin’ to ’appen to ’er, now, do we, lad? So just you be a good boy like yer promised.’

  … and he’d always been a good boy like he’d promised. He’d promised not to tell then, and he’d promised not to tell now. He always kept his promises.

  But now he’d done something bad to Genny. Sadness and loss squeezed his insides, making the hunger come back, then he gazed down at her, at her shining hand in his, and happiness filled him. She’d gone away for a while, but she was back now, and so long as he held her hand she’d wouldn’t leave again, and then she’d sort it.

  Sunshine in a jar.

  The thoughts and memory—Darius’ thoughts and memory, I realised after a while—kept going round and round in my head like they were on a children’s roundabout, and somewhere I was crying, for the little boy then, and for Darius now. I could feel the tears dripping down my face, but I couldn’t see anything past the blinding glow of my magic. I could feel his hand holding mine, except it felt odd, more like I was holding his hand, only that wasn’t right either, not when his hand felt small and limp and my much bigger hand enveloped it.

  ‘Darius?’

  I looked up as I heard his name and the magic dimmed. Francine ducked through the ripped doorway and came slowly into the room, placing one high-heeled boot in front of the other, watching me with a wary expression.

  I felt my
mouth smile at her, a wide beam, so happy to see her. She lifted her chin, such a tiny movement, and, oddly, I recognised that she was worried, and scared. I/Darius wanted to tell her it was all right, that now she and Genny were here, everything was going to be all right, but the words got confused with the thoughts in my head.

  He loved Francine, she was so small and sexy, and she’d looked after him even before he got the Gift, like Genny looked after him now. If Genny was sunlight in a jar, Francine was dark, dark chocolate. He’d missed her, missed the Moths … he’d done something bad, but he hadn’t meant to, he was a good boy, but he’d just been so hungry … but she was here now, and Genny was here, they’d sort things out, make things right.

  Sunshine and chocolate.

  * * *

  ‘Darius?’ Weirdly Francine sank to her knees in front of me and reached out to cup my face, brushing away my tears.

  ‘I’m holding her hand, just like I promised, Francine.’ I felt my lips shape the words, but it wasn’t my voice, wasn’t my thoughts behind them. The voice and thoughts belonged to Darius … and so did the mouth, and the eyes I was using. I looked down at my hand where I held his. I squeezed, and Darius’ hand squeezed, not mine. I lifted, and Darius’ hand lifted mine. My hand was the limp one, the one it felt like I was holding.

  Shit! I was in Darius’ body.

  I sand-bagged a rising tide of panic. This wasn’t so strange, was it? After all, I’d been in someone else’s body before. All I had to do was stay calm, work out how this had happened, and find a way back to my own body …

  Which hadn’t been in too good a condition last I saw. I squinted past the blinding golden glow of magic and saw myself: the jagged end of the pole was sticking out of my upper stomach, and the wet, gory mess of my throat looked like a wild animal—or a rabid vamp—had chowed down on it …