The Bitter Seed of Magic s-3

by Suzanne McLeod

  Behind my back, I crossed my fingers, for real this time.

  ‘Because of that, we will conclude our bargain tomorrow at sunset. I will leave you to your business now.’ She bent over Tavish. Shoving her arms under his shoulders and thighs, she tried to pick him up.

  Shit. I’d expected her to drag him by the chain, which would’ve given me some time.

  She smiled at me, a smile that said I should know better than to try and fool a goddess, and she kept on pulling at him, the muscles straining in her slender arms. He struggled against her, screaming, and kept on screaming and struggling as the horn embedded itself further in his body to keep from being torn from the ground. I clenched my fists, trying not to heave. She lowered her mouth to his in a kiss and thankfully, he fell limp and silent. This time when she lifted him, the horn slid easily from the ground.

  Fuck. That wasn’t what I wanted to happen.

  ‘Until sunset tomorrow, little sidhe,’ she said, and slithered quickly towards the bronze pool.

  The gold chain trailed after her, then tautened.

  I staggered to my feet and shambled frantically as fast as I could after them.

  She coiled herself round into the pool.

  I shambled faster. I had to reach him before she took him into the water.

  Her head and torso began shrinking, the pale green colour darkening to match the eel part of her body.

  My vision blurred; there were two Tavishes in her arms now.

  The pool erupted into a geyser of water and they disappeared.

  The water smoothed out into stillness.

  Desperate, I fell to my hands and knees next to the silver knife pinning the gold chain to the ground. Please let me be right. Gripping the chain with my left hand on one side of the knife, I cupped my right as I delved inside myself. The small gold key that I’d found after the Morrígan’s visit popped into my right palm. I had to be right. I carefully scooped up the chain from underneath and closed my fingers round it. I pushed my magic out through my skin … please let it work … and the link around the knife shivered, then as I held my breath, it split and broke.

  ‘Yes!’ I shouted.

  I looked at the broken ends of the gold chain, one end in each hand. One linked to Tavish … the other to the Morrígan.

  I pulled the left one, the one nearest my heart.

  A strong wind buffeted me whipping my hair into my eyes, a thundering noise filled my ears and darkness descended around me. Sharp talons closed around my arms, piercing my skin and then I was lifted, dangling, into the air. Yelping with shock and fear, I looked up. A huge raven had me by the wrists.

  The Morrígan’s boon.

  And my trip to the Tower—but I didn’t want to go yet, not without Malik.

  It flapped its wings, and as we started to ascend, I looked down at the grassy ground and bronze pool receding into the distance. A long black figure was now lying half-in, half-out of the pool. Was it the eel? Or—?

  The figure flung its arms out.

  It was Tavish.

  Heartfelt relief and guilt filled me. He was free—if you could call being stuck in a blood-circle in the middle of nowhere in Between freedom. Now all I had to do was hope he’d leave the Old Donn’s horn where it was, or I’d be the one with something I didn’t want thrust inside me. My stomach curdled, a combination of that thought and what I’d done to Tavish.

  Space wavered as the raven flew us out of the blood-circle.

  Nothingness closed round me, leaching into my eyes, drifting up my nose, crawling down my throat. Unseen hands with odd-shaped fingers and claws grabbed at me, pinching, pulling and yanking. Something jerked at my legs, and one of the bird’s talons ripped through the skin of my left wrist, its grip loosening— Then I was hanging by only one arm and I screamed, the sound muffled in my own ears as fleshy, muddy-tasting lips stole the scream out of my mouth. Above me the raven gave a loud croaking caw, half warning, half desperation …

  Space wavered again.

  And we flew into the night sky over London, the heavy feeling in my bones telling me this was the humans’ world. Stars glittered in the sky above, rain splattered my face, and the cold spring wind cut through me, raising goosebumps over my body.

  Beneath me the Tower of London came into view.

  My throat constricted with trepidation. It was where I wanted to go … but the boon had been for two trips, one for me, the other for Malik. Without him, I had no back-up.

  The raven sped towards the Tower, its talons digging painfully into my wrist as the noisy downdraught from its wings buffeted me, and sent me twisting in its grip.

  Briefly closing my eyes against the vertigo, I shoved my hand in my jeans pocket, clutching for the feathers. There was only one left.

  I peered down. We were over the grassy moat.

  I rubbed the feather over my bloody neck and dropped it, shouting out with my mind for Malik to find it, to use it.

  The thick grey stone of the Tower’s curtain wall flashed beneath us, then we were above the open space of the interior.

  I shouted for Malik again.

  The raven flew straight at the bluey-grey walls of the White Tower, the oldest part of the castle, and I swallowed, half-wanting to close my eyes, as the solid stone filled my vision—

  —and as we passed through the wall as if it didn’t exist, the sudden lightness of my body told me we’d once again left the humans’ world and were now back in Between.

  The raven dropped me.

  The stone flagged floor hurtled up to meet me, too fast. I tried to tuck myself into a ball and roll, but instead landed hard on my shoulder. Pain shot down my arm and across my back, the breath whooshed out of my lungs, and a whole Milky Way of stars spun in my vision.

  A hand touched my face—

  And the memory rushed into me.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  ‘ Here’s your little man, dear,’ Witch Harrier smiled. ‘All bathed and ready for his new mummy.’

  Behind Witch Harrier came Dr Craig, his bald patch shining pale as a fish’s belly in the overhead lights, and his messy brown curls crowding his jug-handled ears.

  She squirmed lower in the bed, the memory of Old Big Ears doing it to her as disgusting as ever—but for once she was tired and desperate enough that she almost didn’t care that he was here, didn’t care that his face held that same suspicious expression it had ever since she’d told him she was expecting after that one time. She’d put up with him if it meant keeping her baby. Nothing was going to stop her keeping her baby.

  She took him carefully, nerves and excitement making her tremble. What if she dropped him, or held him too tight? Then as he settled in her arms, her nerves turned to happy eagerness. She gently pushed back the blanket and traced his little scrunched-up face, still flushed from the birth. Her heart stuttered with awe. He was beautiful, perfect, incredible. His nose was hers, and his chin looked like his father’s, and his ears were neat and flat to his head—not like Old Big Ears’ monstrosities—and his eyes were screwed tight shut … but she knew they’d be blue.

  She pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead, breathing in his soft baby scent with a deep-felt joy. He wriggled, and she loosened the blanket some more, tucking her finger inside his tiny hand as he waved it. The baby’s own fingers tightened, clutching at her with a strength that surprised her, his little mouth puckering up with a quiet whimper.

  ‘He needs feeding, dear,’ Witch Harrier told her encouragingly. ‘Just point him in the right direction and you’ll be fine.’ She sent an indulgent smile Old Big Ears’ way. ‘I was with my two boys.’

  She glanced from one to the other in embarrassment. It didn’t matter that they’d both watched avidly as she’d given birth, or that Old Big Ears had done it to her. She didn’t want them watching now. She rocked the baby, too fearful to ask them to leave, but hoping they’d get the hint and go anyway.

  But deep down, she knew they wouldn’t. Witch Harrier wasn’t going to be denied any m
oment of her new ‘grandson’, and Old Big Ears was the school doctor. All the girls in her class knew what he was like, they’d all commiserated with her when he’d bought her Bride-Price, and gossiped with relief behind her back. Of course, she’d always known someone would buy it; she was a ninth-generation witch, the most powerful in her year. She hadn’t worried about it much, not after her mother had told her what to do so they wouldn’t have to give the money back if she didn’t get pregnant within the year, like a lot of the girls had to; wizards were more infertile than witches a lot of the time. But why did it have to be Old Big Ears, that disgusting pervert? When she’d found out, she’d decided to put her mother’s alternative into action straight away. She hadn’t wanted Old Big Ears doing it to her more than was necessary. He was even worse than the other girls knew, too; he’d spent the last week ‘instructing’ her with hands-on demos; pinching and squeezing, until she’d wanted to cry. She hadn’t, though, but now she hunched her shoulders at the memory. With that and the awful sickly-sweet fenugreek tea Witch Harrier had made her drink to bring her milk on, her breasts were like two aching, swollen boulders sitting on her chest.

  The baby whimpered again, more demanding.

  She shushed him.

  ‘Did you want some help, dear?’ Witch Harrier leaned forward, her face solicitous. ‘Breastfeeding is so important, not just for his health, but it will make the magic come much more easily to him.’

  She knew that, she’d been told it often enough: wizards weren’t just born, they were breastfed.

  ‘Maybe, I should help you this first time, Helen?’ Old Big Ears said with a lascivious look.

  She shook her head, then quickly tugged at the bow on her nightdress, trying not to let them see. Witch Harrier was right, the baby knew what to do; he latched on straight away, no hesitating. She flinched at the slight sting, then the small pain and the soreness and aching dissolved in relief, her worries disappeared and love flooded out of her into her son. She didn’t care about the audience any more, this was just perfect. He was her baby. Her wonderful beautiful baby son.

  Tired and exhausted, she fell asleep holding him.

  Soft singing jerked her awake, and, panicked, she looked at the baby. He was cuddled safely in her arms. He’d fallen asleep as he’d fed, and his little mouth hung open. Now she could see his tiny, sharp fangs, not just feel them: the minuscule specks of white glistened against the soft pink of his baby gums. And two tiny beads of blood trembled on her still leaking nipple. Heart fluttering fast and anxious, she surreptitiously tried to wipe them away as she covered herself with the thin white nightdress.

  ‘Dear?’ Witch Harrier’s disapproving voice made her look up.

  Her heart stopped.

  They were all there.

  Witch Harrier, Old Big Ears, the kelpie … and next to him was a young girl, hardly any older than herself.

  The girl was the one singing, a soft sad lullaby, swaying from side to side as she twirled her long silver-gilt hair around her finger— Beside her stood the Irish wolfhound.

  ‘No,’ she screamed, clutching at her son and staring at the dog in abject horror. ‘You said I could keep him! You promised!’

  ‘It’s for the best, dear,’ Witch Harrier said, her face hard.

  The sidhe girl stopped singing and danced over to her. She leaned down and kissed the baby’s head, then looked at her with the wide, guileless gaze of a young child.

  The pendant was hanging round her neck.

  ‘Don’t be sad, pretty girl,’ the sidhe whispered, and took her son from her arms.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  ‘Did you have to drop her?’ Helen Crane’s familiar patrician voice, along with the reek of ammonia, pulled me out of the despair of her memory. ‘She was already injured, and now you’ve made it worse. She really needs to have most of her faculties about her for this, otherwise it won’t work. It’s important; we won’t get another chance.’

  Looked like I’d found Helen, or rather, she’d found me. And she wanted something, which really wasn’t headline news. I pushed her desperately sad memory to the back of my mind and played dead as I tried to assess my injuries through the pain radiating out from my shoulder, down my arm and across my back. The verdict came back: not good. I was pretty sure my collarbone and shoulder blade were broken, and quite possibly my humerus too. My left arm was useless. On a lesser scale of discomfort, the flagged stone floor I was lying on was cold and hard, and the temperature was near-freezing. The icy chill made the police-issue gem- and spell-studded silver cuffs shackled around my wrists and ankles burn like super-heated brands.

  ‘I know it’s important, my lady,’ an apologetic male voice said. ‘I tried my best, but we were attacked and I almost lost her. I ask your forgiveness, my lady.’

  I peered out from under my lashes. Jack the raven in his blond, indigo-eyed sidhe guise was crouching by my hip. He was wearing jeans, topped with a thick purple jumper, so his ability to get himself changed from feathers into clothes had either improved, or I’d been lying unconscious for some time. He was looking worriedly at Helen, kneeling next to him.

  She looked the most casual I’d ever seen her. Her blonde hair was scraped back in a utilitarian ponytail and she was wearing pressed jeans with a pink tailored shirt and a navy cardigan, all of which looked out of place with her usual jewellery-shop-display of spell-carrying bling. She was treating Jack to an exasperated frown, while absently wafting a small brown bottle under my nose: smelling salts—which accounted for the ammonia. I almost laughed. Did she think I’d fainted or something?

  ‘I told you to stop calling me my lady, Jack,’ she snapped at him. ‘I’m your mother, not one of your fancy sidhe females you have to flatter and flirt with. Call me Mum, Mother or Helen, I don’t care which one, but most definitely not my lady!’

  So looked like I’d found Helen’s changeling son, too, and if her memory was correct, he was also Mad Max’s long-lost little boy, and Jack had to be the dog’s offspring she was protecting. Part of me was surprised I hadn’t put it together before, even if Helen was a witch and Mad Max was a vamp and ne’er the twain shall meet, let alone get down and dirty and produce a bouncing baby boy complete with tiny vamp fangs.

  But while mentally playing Happy Families with Helen, Jack and Mad Max was entertaining, it wasn’t going to help me escape from my evil witch nemesis, or help me save Nicky and the missing faelings. Hoping for inspiration, I scanned around. We were in a large, dimly lit mediaeval-looking room the size of a tennis court, judging by the ceiling, which was all I could see from my prone position. The walls were irregular grey stone, and the thick wooden beams and pillars were darkened with age. Huge circular wooden chandeliers, stuck with half-melted candles, marched down the centre of the room. The room didn’t look too different from the pictures Hugh had shown me of the interior of the White Tower itself—but then, it’s always easier to base Between on something real; if you rely on imagination too much, there’s a chance you’ll end up with a pic’n’mix nightmare of whatever the magic decides to winkle out of your mind.

  And speaking of nightmares …

  ‘Alternatively, you could always call her Witch-bitch,’ I said, my voice sounding as croaky as a raven’s caw. ‘That works for me,’ I finished as they both turned.

  Helen’s mouth pinched sourly. ‘At least you’re awake.’ She took the smelling salts away and I took a decidedly more pleasant breath.

  ‘Hello, my lady.’ Jack gave me a tentative smile; it held the same apology as his voice. ‘I’m sorry I dropped you. I wasn’t planning on it, you just sort of slipped.’

  ‘Hey, no hard feelings, Jack.’ I hit him with my best glare. ‘So how’s the Morrígan and the mother thing working out for you then? Or am I wrong in thinking you’re one of the goddess’ messengers?’

  ‘Um, the Morrígan wanted you here, and so did my la— my mother,’ he said sheepishly.

  ‘Ri-ight. You do know that pissing off a goddess isn’t the he
althiest thing you can do, don’t you?’

  ‘Ms Taylor,’ Helen spoke briskly, ‘the Morrígan didn’t say how, or where she wanted you once you got here, so Jack has fulfilled the task set for him. Please stop trying to intimidate him.’

  ‘I’m not trying,’ I said, keeping my eyes on Jack, ‘I’m telling it like it is. And I bought two tickets for this “Tour the Magical Tower” trip, so, no, he hasn’t fulfilled his task yet.’

  ‘I’m sorry, my lady,’ Jack said, ‘but I have to wait until the feather—’

  ‘Jack, be quiet,’ Helen said. ‘You don’t need to tell her anything.’

  Jack gave me a ‘nothing I can do’ shrug. Damn. So much for my intimidation skills. And so much for my fanged backup: with his super-senses, finding a feather with my blood all over it should’ve been like finding a giant needle without the haystack.

  I switched my glare to Helen. ‘Oh, and while we’re on this whole need-to-know-or-not subject,’ I said, ‘how about filling me in on all the Tour’s gory details. What’s my fate this time? Are you going for straight sacrificial victim, or can I look forward to something more creative?’

  Helen ignored me and spoke to Jack, who was hovering anxiously at her shoulder. ‘I told you to rest, so will you please do so and get your strength back.’

  ‘I’m fine, my la— Mother.’

  ‘Just do as I say, Jack,’ she said tiredly.

  He sat back with a loud long-suffering sigh.

  ‘Having problems with the kids, Helen?’ I said sarcastically. ‘I mean, you just get your son back, then you lose your daughter. Very careless of you.’

  She flicked her finger at me, a fist of magic punched my injured shoulder and I disappeared into a furnace of pain.

  Then the sharp ammonia scent brought me back.

  Fuck. Whatever happened to not making my injuries worse? As I shifted away from the pungent smell, another shock of pain ripped through me and I resolved to stay still. If I didn’t move, it didn’t hurt. Of course, if she didn’t spell-punch me, it wouldn’t hurt either.