The Bitter Seed of Magic s-3

by Suzanne McLeod

  I didn’t tell him I wasn’t worried, or rather, I hadn’t been until I caught a glimpse of his own anxiety beneath the compassion. My heart gave a happy little lurch that he cared, and I flashed him a smile big enough to reassure both of us. ‘Hey, I’m hard to kill, remember? Not to mention I’ve got two goddesses on my case, so no doubt one of them is watching over me.’

  He gave me a long, pensive look, then nodded. ‘Good, then Francine will finish her preparations.’

  Francine stepped forward, jumped up and grabbed something hanging above. The something dropped down with a great clanking noise and turned out to be a thick, heavy chain with an odd leather-belt contraption on its end. The chain was attached to a pulley bolted into the ceiling.

  I started to wonder what on earth it was for, but almost immediately images flashed in my mind of naked bodies dangling down, the leather belt-thing strapped tightly around their ankles, then the images were quickly replaced by a wide expanse of blank white wall, and the knowledge that Darius was embarrassed and trying not to think about anything else.

  ‘Tell me you haven’t killed anyone with that,’ I demanded.

  ‘No!’ His answer blasted through me with enough shock and horror, along with a flash of something very definitely to do with sex, that I had absolutely no trouble believing him.

  Francine hunkered down at Mad Max’s feet and efficiently buckled the leather contraption—‘Ankle cuffs,’ Darius murmured from behind his white wall—around Mad Max’s legs, and started hoisting him up.

  ‘What’s she preparing him for?’ I asked, sincerely doubting Mad Max was being strung up for the usual reasons.

  ‘Your body is too depleted of blood for your heart to beat on its own,’ Malik explained. ‘You need a transfusion before you can be fully healed. Maxim is a suitable donor, but with his heart stopped by the knives, we will need gravity to aid the transfer.’

  I frowned, not thrilled about having Mad Max’s blood in my body. ‘Why can’t I have your blood at the same time as you heal me, like you did before?’

  ‘You need more blood than I can safely give you, Genevieve. Such quantity as you require would risk afflicting you with my curse.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said, puzzled, and not entirely understanding his worry. ‘But I’m not human, I’m sidhe. Your curse can’t affect me, because I can’t become a vampire. The magic doesn’t work that way.’

  ‘That would be true if you were full-blood sidhe,’ he said quietly, ‘but your father is a vampire.’

  ‘No, my father being a vampire is irrelevant,’ I said firmly. ‘Sidhe reproduction is different, so I am a full-blood sidhe—I’m like a clone of my mother; that’s how it works.’

  ‘I am not willing to take that gamble,’ Malik insisted, ‘not when his blood will suffice.’ He waved at Mad Max, now swaying gently above my actual body. His arms and long silver hair were just inches above my body’s face and I wrinkled my/ Darius’ face in disgust as I clicked exactly how I was going to get Mad Max’s blood: I just knew he was going to taste bad.

  ‘Fine,’ I agreed. Getting back in my body was the priority, not worrying about whose blood I was going to get. ‘So what’s next?’

  ‘Darius should feed now,’ Malik said, an edge of displeasure in his voice. ‘Sparingly,’ he added.

  ‘Okay, let’s do it,’ I said, then as Darius stopped hovering unobtrusively behind his white wall and leaned us eagerly towards my body’s neck, I added; ‘From the wrist.’ Ignoring his vague disappointment, I/Darius lifted up my limp hand, the one we were still clutching, and we sniffed the sweet honey scent that pulsed just under the skin. Hunger cramped our stomach, and we struck—

  —thick viscous, honey-tasting blood burst into our mouth—

  Cold, so cold … every beat of my heart hurt, as if a large hand were gripping it and squeezing, the fingers digging in painfully, then a brief second of respite before the hand gripped and squeezed all over again, like some torturous mechanical pump. I screamed, desperate to get away from the unbearable agony …

  ‘Drink, Genevieve,’ Malik’s voice commanded in my mind, and as Mad Max’s metallic, sour-tasting blood touched my lips, I opened my mouth and let it flood in, swallowing convulsively as it hit the back of my throat—

  He watched as the boy slid down the slide squealing with pure joy. The security lights flooded the playground in a bright white light that kept the night at bay, and turned the boy’s blond curls silver. He wanted to pick him up, lift him and swing him round, and tell him he could fly. Tell him he loved him. It was something the old man had done when he’d been the boy’s age: a small, happy thing in among the ever-constant fear. But he hugged the want to himself, tucked it away in his heart. She’d never allow it. It had taken five years from the boy’s birth until now for her to grudge him this one brief glimpse from a distance. And he didn’t want to give the bitch the satisfaction of seeing his need. Or his pain.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  I came awake in an instant, fully aware of where I was: in my own bed, in my PJs, covered by a cool cotton sheet, and aware of who was with me: Malik. The moonlight filtering in through the window left the corners of the room in shadow, turned the wardrobe and chest to dark, silent sentinels and muted the white-painted walls to grey, the same greyness that clung like mist to my mind. As I pushed into the mist, so pieces of events came back to me: the vibration of a vehicle, the hot splash of a shower, and Malik’s constant caring presence.

  I ran my hand over my stomach, tentatively investigating it—magic sparked as I brushed over Tavish’s handprint spell—and found my injury healed—

  ‘The metal is removed, Genevieve.’ Malik’s voice was soft; a brief push of mesma giving the words a soothing note.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said quietly, deeply grateful.

  The soothing touch of his mesma and his presence in my head withdrew. I turned to look at him.

  He lay on his side, his head propped on his hand, watching me out of his dark, exotic eyes. The moonlight glinted off the black stone in his left earlobe, played over the pale, gleaming skin of his shoulder and along the muscled contours of his arm, but left his bare chest in shadow. My gaze followed his arm down to where his hand rested on his leather-clad thigh— and stopped. Part of me—the part that was all instinct and lust and heat—was disappointed, even frustrated that he was still half-dressed. The rest of me was intrigued, albeit slightly wary.

  I shifted onto my side, mirroring his position, and pasted an enquiring look on my face. ‘Should I expect to be seduced any moment now, or am I getting the wrong message?’

  His eyes lit with amusement. ‘You still have a distinct lack of furniture, Genevieve. I see no reason to sit on the floor when you have a perfectly comfortable bed.’

  Damn. I was getting the wrong message. ‘Ri-ight, so we’re just being practical here,’ I said drily.

  ‘Also,’ he smiled, giving me a glimpse of fang, ‘you appear to have a dryad tree growing in your living room.’

  Sylvia! Oops, I’d completely forgotten about her. ‘Back in a min,’ I said, and jumped out of bed to check on her.

  She was still asleep, still smiling blissfully, and her roots were still digging into my wooden floorboards, but the blood was gone. The buds on her fingers and scalp had grown into long, delicate branches covered with pink and white cherry blossom, and their subtle fragrance filled the room with the scent of springtime. As I stood there, she made a small sound, a sort of hiccoughing snore, and the flowers shivered. A mini-snowfall of petals drifted down to decorate her rooted feet.

  Sylvia was fine—out of it, but fine.

  I smiled, my anxiety gone. I didn’t care about the holes in my floor; she was far too pretty and she looked way too happy for them to matter.

  Now to sort out the beautiful vampire.

  But first—

  I needed a drink. I suddenly realised my mouth felt like I’d swallowed a bucket of sand. I headed for the kitchen, downed two glasses of water, then grabb
ed the bottle of vodka from the fridge and knocked back a generous shot. The alcohol burned an ice-cold path down my throat into my stomach, where it set up a nice warm glow. Carrying the bottle and two glasses, I walked back into the bedroom and bumped the door closed with my hip.

  Malik had moved. He was lying on his back, propped against the pillows with his eyes closed and his hands tucked behind his head. I frowned. Something about the relaxed pose didn’t quite ring true …

  My attention caught on the silky triangle of hair that graced his chest. Mesmerised, I followed the arrow of black silk down to where it disappeared tantalisingly beneath the low-slung waist of his leather trousers, and then my eyes were drawn to the rose-shaped scar below his left rib. I’d stabbed him there. I’d also bitten him there once; and tasted his blood in all its sweet, glittering glory. My mouth watered as need tightened my body, and lust and thirst vied inside me. I took a step towards the bed, not sure if I wanted to bite him or—

  The vodka bottle bounced with a dull thud on the wooden floor, and it hit me that I’d been practically drooling over him. I scowled at the bottle, absently noticing a yellowing bruise on my left ankle. What the hell was the matter with me? Sure, he was eye-candy, and well worth ogling, but no way should I be lost in lust at the sight of him like that, desperate to taste him, desperate to sink my fangs in him—

  Except I didn’t have fangs.

  But he did. Damn. The vamp was still in my head and I was picking up on his desires. I frowned. I’d picked upon his emotions on Tower Bridge, in the dreamscape, but they felt stronger now, almost as if it was me inside his head. Curious, I closed my eyes, and tried to wade my way through his feelings. Thirst, hunger, lust, need and something indefinable swirled round me like crossing currents of breaking waves, pulling me first one way then another, and the notion that only indecision was stopping him from giving in to any one impulse chilled my skin. Then I dipped below the waves and found the flat, glassy surface of a vast black sea, old and controlled, and I realised the waves were nothing to worry about. But beneath the sea’s still surface something simmered in the dark depths, a memory that called to me, and I pushed down towards it—

  And ended up on my butt on my bedroom floor, my head spinning like I’d taken a trip on a roller-coaster.

  ‘I would prefer that you stay out of my mind, Genevieve.’ Malik’s calm voice floated down from the bed above me.

  ‘Yeah?’ I scowled at the bottle of vodka, which was now nestled under the bed among the messy pile of my shoes and boots. ‘How about you stay out of mine then?’

  ‘As you wish.’

  Something snapped in my head, and a barrage of aches and pains pulled a groan from me, and when I looked down, I saw it wasn’t just my ankle that was bruised, but the rest of me too. The bruises carried on up both legs, going from fading yellow to puke-coloured green as they disappeared under my sleep shorts and—I lifted up my strappy vest—darkening to a mottled purple mass over my diaphragm. More bruises tracked down both my arms like blue fingerprints, and the soreness in my back no doubt meant it was as colourful as my stomach.

  I pressed my lips together, grabbed the vodka and shakily knocked back another shot in a futile attempt to fool my body that I hadn’t gone ten rounds with a starved vamp lost in bloodlust.

  Trouble was, my sidhe metabolism meant I’d have to drink the whole bottle—not to mention the two others in my fridge—before I even started to feel the effects. At least the alcohol rinsed away the sour-apple taste of Mad Max’s blood. I gently prodded the spreading bruise colouring my midriff: either Mad Max wasn’t as good at healing as Malik, or he hadn’t put enough effort into it. I was betting on the latter.

  And thinking about Mad Max, it was time for the beautiful vamp in front of me to come up with some answers.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  I pitched the vodka bottle and the glasses onto the bed, then, mindful of my aches and pains, I snagged a couple of pillows and made myself comfortable against the bed end. Malik was still lying in his supposedly relaxed pose … a pose that showed off the flex of his biceps, and the lean, hard muscles of his pecs … and I had a sudden urge to flick my tongue over his dark nipples, to feel them come alive under my mouth … desire spiralled deep inside me and my own breasts tightened in anticipation. Damn, even with all my aches and pains, my libido was doing the happy dance about having a moonlit half-naked Malik lying in my bed, and this time the thoughts were all mine. An errant part of me wondered what would happen if I made a move on His Fanged Hotness. Reluctantly, I nixed that idea. Even if I was sure he’d be interested—which I wasn’t—there were too many other complications, most of them to do with the curse. Not to mention sex isn’t always the first thing on a hungry vamp’s mind. Maybe the second …

  I stifled a sigh, gave my libido a mental cold shower, and got my own mind back on track.

  ‘Okay,’ I said, piecing together the later events at the Coffin Club in my mind, ‘so I’ve got this hazy memory that you agreed not to kill Darius for attacking me, and that the Moth-girls, including Lucy, are all on the mend?’

  ‘There is no need for you to be concerned about your friends, Genevieve,’ he said, without opening his eyes. ‘They are all safe.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, grateful. If he said they were safe, then I knew they would be. ‘But what about you?’

  ‘You do not need to be concerned about me either. I can control my thirst sufficiently that you are not in danger.’

  ‘That wasn’t what I meant.’ I smoothed my hand over the sheet. Now I was looking at him with more concern (and slightly less lust), the shorn hair emphasising the sculptured planes of his face still suggested vulnerability to me, but even though I’d felt his deep thirst, there wasn’t the slightest shadow of blue veins mapping his skin (always a sign of a vamp’s hunger). How that was possible was a mystery, but— ‘I meant; are you okay? You seemed … edgy earlier when you arrived. And not just from the situation.’

  He opened his eyes, looking at me with his usual enigmatic expression. ‘Tell me about these memories that the Morrígan has given you.’

  Okay, so he didn’t want to talk about himself … yet. Determination settled in me; he would later. For now, I told him about the first sad, sad memory belonging to one of the Moth-girls, and the dreadful memory from Darius’ childhood. ‘But I don’t think they’re connected to what the Morrígan wants me to know about the missing faelings,’ I said thoughtfully. ‘It feels more like her spell was all-encompassing than specific.’ Then I described Mad Max’s memory of the child on the slide. ‘I’m pretty sure that that one is connected, just not how.’

  Malik frowned and crossed his arms over his chest. ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘Not sure.’ I tapped my glass. ‘Instinct, or a prod from the Morrígan, maybe. I got the impression the boy was Maxim’s son, but I couldn’t pinpoint any clue in the memory as to when it had been. Do you know how long ago Maxim took the Gift?’

  ‘He has not yet reached his first century.’

  So, not that long ago, but not very specific either, which wasn’t because Malik didn’t know: he’d answered way too quick. ‘Do you know if Maxim had a son, either when he was human or since he’s taken the Gift?’

  ‘I have not heard him talk of a son, but that does not mean he does not have one. Many who took the Gift in the past isolated themselves from their human families.’ A fleeting bleakness in his eyes made me wonder for a moment if Malik himself had done just that.

  ‘Don’t suppose you know when they first invented children’s slides, do you?’ I smiled hopefully.

  Amusement flickered on his face. ‘I am sorry, Genevieve, no. It is always possible that Google will be able to answer your question.’

  I grinned. ‘So you’re not the font of all knowledge then?’

  He sat up, resting his forearm on his bent knee. ‘Is that all the memories?’

  ‘No, I got one from Francine too. Hers is much more informative,’ I
said, and told him about the hysterical blonde girl Mad Max had been dragging away. And that I’d finally remembered where I’d seen her before.

  ‘She’s a faeling called Ana,’ I said, thinking that it really couldn’t be a coincidence that Ana kept popping up, ‘and she’s also the great-granddaughter of Clíona.’ I filled him in on the whole story, from Ana’s loss of her fae mother, her two years in a blood-house in Sucker Town—it didn’t take a genius to work out it must have been Francine’s—and her ‘escape’ and marriage to Victoria Harrier’s wizard son. ‘Ana and her family have been victims of the curse more than once, but I’m not sure how she fits in now. But I am sure there’s a vamp hanging round her. Maxim.’

  ‘I can see why you think that Maxim might be intimate with this family’—he brushed a hand over his buzz-cut head—‘but I do not know this is the situation. If he is, then it would be something almost impossible to hide from his master. But I will investigate the matter and if the situation is as you suspect, then I will see that it ends.’

  I narrowed my gaze at him. Like fae, vamps don’t lie. It’s not that they magically can’t, unlike us fae, but the old ones in particular are all about their honour. Malik was both old and honourable. If he said he didn’t know, then he didn’t. Although as he was London’s Head Fang, he should know … ‘That was a very careful answer,’ I said, ‘so what is it you’re not telling me?’

  ‘There are some things that it is safer that you do not know, Genevieve. One is what Maxim wants from me. I have refused him, but he is persistent, and so when the opportunity presented itself to him in the shape of Darius, he set a trap for you. It is what he does. He prefers to put himself in a position of strength before any possible negotiation. He planned to use your concern for Darius’ welfare as a leverage point with me.’

  ‘Yeah, I worked that out.’ I sipped my drink, thinking Malik was still being much too careful about what he said. ‘What about what he did to the Moths?’