The Sweet Scent of Blood

by Suzanne McLeod

  The queue shifted forward as I moved past it to the front. A high, nervous laugh, quickly stifled, punctuated the low hum of voices. My pulse sped faster, but with the G-Zav in my system, there was no way I could slow it. Still, there’d be plenty of other hearts beating fast right alongside mine, so it shouldn’t matter.

  And I was invited. The invitation offered a guarantee of safety, that old ‘Death before Dishonour’ thing.

  I reached the start of the line. A neon sign in the shape of a cloverleaf cast a deep red glow over the entrance. A gaggle of girls surrounded the doorman; one, a blonde in a red leather mini-skirt and matching sequinned boob tube, had her hand on his shoulder. As she stretched up, balancing on tiptoe in her red wedges, the criss-crossed straps bit into her calves. She murmured in the doorman’s ear. He moved aside and waved her in. She turned to her friends, bright red lips smiling in triumph, and caught me watching her. For a moment she hesitated, then she tossed her long hair over her shoulder and followed her friends through into the bar, leaving me to face the doorman.

  The top of his black hair was cut flat as a table. He wore a black dinner suit, complete with shamrock-green silk cummerbund and matching bowtie. But underneath the smarts he was all sumo wrestler. I stepped in front of the rope holding back the waiting punters and saw my own face mirrored in his dark glasses. I smiled nice and wide.

  He looked down at me, nostrils flaring as he took a good long sniff.

  ‘Hey, there’s a queue here,’ someone grumbled.

  Sumo slowly turned his head in the direction of the voice. He glared at the sandy-haired guy who’d grumbled, then leaned forward and hissed into his startled face.

  The guy swallowed with an audible gulp. ‘Sorry, man... was just saying, y’know—’

  Sumo’s mouth split open, his fangs gleaming. The neon sign started strobing above us, plunging the doorway into darkness, then light, then dark again. Now you see him. Now you don’t. It was a nice touch. Gasps and shivers of jumpy excitement rippled through the waiting humans but I was just disappointed his dickie-bow didn’t spin.

  I sighed and gave Sumo a sharp poke, just above his cummerbund. ‘Cut the dramatics, fang-boy.’

  His head did that same slow-turn thing back to me.

  Ignoring my leaping pulse, I treated him to my best so-not-impressed look. ‘I’m here to see Declan. Tell him Genevieve Taylor got his invitation.’

  The sign stopped flashing, leaving us in a pool of red light.

  I made a twirling motion with my hand. ‘Hurry it up. Night’s not getting any younger.’

  Sumo’s lips twitched, then he produced a miniature phone and spoke, staccato-fast, in some Asian language. He listened a bit and snapped the phone shut. Then he ushered me towards the entrance, saying in a surprisingly soft voice, ‘All right, luv, you can go in. Mr Declan will be seeing you.’

  The tight feeling in my stomach went up a notch. I ignored it and gave Sumo a wink as he held open the door for me.

  I heard the music first: a lilting Irish melody, background to the conversational buzz that filled the room. The smells, heavy on the Guinness and the Thai snacks the place served, hit me next - odd for an Irish bar, but hey. I walked up three wooden steps and looked around, letting my eyes adjust to the muted light.

  The place looked pretty much like any other pub on a Friday night: lots of tables, a long bar down one side of the room, and with the added extra of a central staircase leading up to a dimly lit galleried area. People were chatting and laughing, all of them looking like they were having a great night out. In fact, the relaxed ambience was at odds with the nervous jitters I’d felt outside. I frowned. Maybe it was the music, or some sort of vamp mesma? But if it was, I couldn’t sense it.

  I also couldn’t sense any vampires.

  What I could see was a lot of green, interspersed with tiny crimson shamrocks. It was everywhere: green glass lights, emerald-green walls and, when I glanced down, yep, the carpet was green too, complete with its random splattering of blood-red clovers, just great for hiding those pesky drips or spills.

  Now that was a nice touch.

  I hadn’t immediately noticed the waitress making straight for me. She was dressed in an oriental-style uniform, green of course, with a fist-sized red shamrock embroidered over her heart. She placed her hands together in the prayer position and bowed. ‘Please.’ It sounded more like plis in her clipped accent. ‘Mr Declan, he has business. You wait few minute. You like drink, yes?’

  Surprise pricked at me as I followed her. She hit my internal radar as a witch, but I hadn’t heard any gossip about him having one on the payroll. She deposited me at the quiet end of the bar, next to a tray of empty glasses.

  I hoped it wasn’t symbolic.

  Banging her hand on the counter, she shouted, ‘Mick, house drink.’

  A short man, ginger hair gelled into a quiff, appeared through an open door behind the bar. His black muscle vest left the freckled skin of his arms bare and was tight enough over his skinny frame to outline his ribs. A leather bandolier stuffed with corks crossed his chest and a belt studded with bottle tops hung low on his hips. He looked even thinner than the last time I’d seen him, but at least he was alive and well - even if he was a gutless bastard.

  I smiled, showing lots of teeth. Being a cluricaun, a relative of the leprechauns and the Irish goblins, Mick would, of course, appreciate my toothsome grin. ‘Make it a vodka, Mick, Cristall if you’ve got it.’

  His green eyes bugged and he clutched the edge of the counter, the suckers on his fingertips flushing pink and flattening out against the wood. ‘What are you doing here?’ he whispered.

  The music changed to a lively jig.

  I looked at him, my eyes wide, innocent. ‘Let me see now ... having a drink? Visiting old friends? Maybe wondering why you haven’t been returning my messages?’

  His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. ‘I couldn’t. He wouldn’t let me. Now go away. Leave me alone.’

  ‘How is Siobhan, Mick?’ I asked sweetly. ‘Still back in Ireland? Still well?’

  He nodded, opened his mouth to speak—

  The band played a fanfare, a hushed gasp rippled through the room behind me, and Mick stopped looking at me and stared at something up over my shoulder.

  I turned round. Up in the gallery, one of the Shamrock’s vampires was leaning over the handrail, staring down at the crowd. For a moment I thought it was Declan, but then I realised it was one of his brothers, Seamus or Patrick. All three shared the same dark Irish looks, but Declan was the Master. Together they were the Shamrock’s main attraction.

  There was another gasp as the vampire moved, seeming to suddenly appear at the top of the stairs. It wasn’t a vamp trick; he’d just moved too fast for the humans to see. His black hair curled around his handsome head and a moody look on his face put me in mind of Heathcliff, only he’d got the costume all wrong. He wore a red muscle vest like Mick’s, tucked into tight black denims. Still, it matched the red outfit of the blonde now walking up the stairs towards him, the girl I’d seen at the entrance. He held his hand out to her and as she took it, her expression reverential, her knees dipped in an unconscious curtsey.

  He bowed with a flourish and kissed the pulse point on her wrist.

  A dozen people stood up, clapping their hands together over their heads and Mick made a strangled noise in his throat.

  I turned back to him. I knew which brother it was now. ‘Seamus is busy tonight.’ Pasting a frown on my face, I added, ‘Only I’d heard he wasn’t into the ladies, just a certain red-headed barman. Something you’ve long neglected to mention. ’

  His face closed up. ‘I was told not to.’

  I laughed, but there was no mirth in it. ‘Like I couldn’t work that one out for myself, Mick.’

  Another waitress slid a tray of empties onto the bar. ‘Refill, plis,’ she said, ignoring me.

  Mick threw her a nasty look and muttered, ‘Bugger off, Chen.’ He scowled as she scurried awa
y.

  I glanced upwards, but Seamus and the blonde girl had disappeared into the dark shadows on the balcony. ‘’Spect that’ll put a bit of a crimp in your love life.’

  Mick’s mouth turned sulky. ‘We don’t do sex here.’

  ‘Bet that disappoints a few punters.’

  ‘Not at all, Ms Taylor. I can assure you that all of our customers are very satisfied.’ I swivelled towards the woman’s voice and saw luminous grey eyes, short white-blonde hair and salon-perfect makeup. ‘I am Fiona, the proprietor of Tir na n’Og.’ Her dress was spectacular, form-fitting black silk with what looked like very expensive ruby and diamond catches holding it together. There were more rubies sewn onto her elbow-length evening gloves. ‘If you’d like to follow me, Declan is waiting.’

  I beamed. ‘Let’s not keep him any longer then. Lead on.’

  As she turned and headed for the stairs, Mick grabbed my arm, his suckers pulsing against my skin. ‘Be careful up there,’ he whispered. ‘Declan doesn’t take too kindly to the Gentry.’

  It was an apology. Of sorts.

  Chapter Twelve

  I’m off to meet the vampire ... The words beat out the tune in my mind as I followed Fiona up the stairs, or rather, followed her shoes: red suede courts with four-inch heels, studded with more rubies. The ruby extravaganza made my spine crawl. Fiona had hit my radar as human, so why was she blinged up like a witch or a goblin queen?

  I looked, checking her out for magic. There was nothing on her. But I did see the blue shimmer of a ward at the top of the stairs. I walked through it. It clung like a garden cobweb, sticky but insubstantial, but whatever it was supposed to stop, it wasn’t me.

  ‘This way, Ms Taylor.’ Fiona turned to the right.

  Horseshoe-shaped booths, set at odd angles like a static fairground ride, lined the deep balcony. They were empty, though a faint candle-like glow rose over their high sides. As we passed them, the noise and light from the bar below receded as if a heavy curtain had dropped. Up here was full of peace and quiet and secrets.

  Mesma. I bit the inside of my mouth and the sharp pain cleared my senses. So it was mesma working downstairs, manufacturing the relaxing ambience - but it had been so subtle, so insidious, so almost-normal, gliding quietly by me like a snake ... which was ironic, seeing as St Patrick was supposed to have cast that particular beastie from Ireland’s shores a long time ago.

  What if I’d missed something else?

  I looked at Fiona again. Still nothing. Except ... The little hairs on my nape stood to attention ... Had the jewels on her shoes winked? Or was it a trick of the light? Damn. There was something about rubies, something I couldn’t remember ...

  Then I realised she’d stopped.

  I stared up into laughing blue eyes full of warmth and welcome.

  ‘Well, Genevieve, me darlin’. It’s good to meet you at last.’

  He looked to be in his mid-forties, so he’d accepted the Gift later than most. He was the archetypal handsome Irishman: straight nose, firm chin with just a hint of a cleft and a shadow of dark stubble. A slender gold hoop pierced one ear and more gold glinted at the neck of his collarless white-linen shirt, which fell loose and casual over his black moleskin jeans.

  I smiled back at him before I could stop myself. He radiated happiness; it wrapped round me like the heat of a log fire, the steam rising from a hot toddy, the scent of bread baking in the oven, all the comforts of home.

  Only my home had never had those sorts of comforts.

  I dropped the smile. ‘How could I refuse the invitation when it brought back so many old memories?’

  Declan gave a deep chuckle, the corners of his eyes crinkling attractively. ‘And memories can be of such significance in our lives.’ He reached out, took my hand in his.

  I let him. I was stoked up on G-Zav, after all.

  ‘Céad míle fáilte.’ His fingers were cool. ‘That’s a hundred thousand welcomes to you, in case you’re not for understanding the Gaelic.’ Turning my palm upwards, he bent, touched his lips to my pulse and inhaled deeply. ‘Ah. Sugar and spice ...’

  I wanted to pull my hand away, but my mind couldn’t work out why I should. He was like an old family friend, a favourite uncle and I gazed down affectionately at the silver-grey strands threading his hair...

  My family wasn’t the friendly type.

  And I’d had enough of his games.

  I gave an impatient sigh. ‘C’mon, Declan, cut the crap,’

  Fangs pressed against my skin.

  My pulse skipped and distant need itched in my veins, muted by the G-Zav, but still there. Shit. Maybe he wasn’t playing after all. I suppressed the urge to smash my knee up into his face. ‘Draw blood,’ I warned, ‘and I’ll make sure your nose never sits straight again.’

  Moist breath caressed my wrist.

  ‘Declan.’ The soft note of warning in Fiona’s voice sent a shiver down my spine.

  He lifted his head. His eyes were black orbs, his skin stretched tight over the hard bones of his skull, all four fangs glittered needle-sharp in his open mouth.

  My heart pounded. So not good. Fiona looked more pissed off than anything, but it wasn’t her neck on the block. She returned my gaze with an undecided expression, one that brought to mind a Roman emperor debating the merits of thumbs-up, or thumbs-down.

  Somehow I couldn’t foresee a lasting friendship in our future.

  Finally she gave a loud sigh. ‘Men and their egos, Ms Taylor. Not even a set of sharp teeth can rip them apart.’

  Declan threw his head back and laughed. The sound exploded out into the air, a release of power that lifted my hair and demolished the quiet that had blanketed the gallery. My ears popped - or maybe it was just my nerves snapping as I wondered just how close I’d come to being Declan’s next bloody meal.

  Bursts of his laughter bounced back from the bar below.

  Declan gave me a wide grin, his eyes sparkling blue again, no longer doing his overly dramatic impression of a death’s-head. ‘Our guests will surely be enjoying the craic tonight!’

  I swallowed in relief. His quick change from scary to just-your-friendly-neighbourhood-vamp told me more than I wanted to know about just how much juice he could pull. I was betting he could give the Earl or even Malik a run for their dinners. No need to let him know he’d got me rattled, though.

  I clapped my hands together slowly. ‘Nice show, Declan. Maybe you should consider going on the stage. I hear you enjoy a memorable performance now and again.’

  He released my hand and winked at Fiona. ‘There you see, me love, and didn’t I tell you she had a sense of humour?’

  She pursed her perfectly outlined ruby lips. ‘And that’s a good thing, for both of you.’ She turned smartly on her ruby heels and said over her shoulder, ‘I’ll bring some refreshments.’

  Looked like Fiona was the one with all the good ideas.

  Declan blew a kiss at her departing back, then murmured, ‘The perfect hostess.’ Turning to me with a mischievous grin, he waved towards the semi-circular seat. ‘Why don’t you make yourself at home, me darlin’?’

  The deep patch of darkness behind the high curved back of the bench made the hair on my neck stand up, but something told me the skirmishes were over, for now at least. I sat down at one end of the horseshoe, sinking into the plush green velvet decorated with its tiny red shamrocks.

  Declan sat opposite, a half-smile on his mouth. ‘You’ll have been to see my boy then.’

  ‘Yes, I saw your boy.’ I tilted my head. ‘You could’ve used the phone, you know. It would have saved all the drama.’

  He chuckled. ‘But all those shenanigans make it so much more interesting, me darlin’.’

  I pressed my lips together. Maybe for him they did.

  ‘And you’ll not deny it’s an interesting situation we have,’ Declan carried on. ‘There’s my boy accused of killing Melissa, the poor wee bure.’ Sadness filled his face. ‘A pretty girl she was too, nearly twenty-one, getting re
ady to make some big changes in her life, if you take my meaning.’

  Twenty-one. The legal age of consent for the Gift. I frowned. ‘And your point is?’

  ‘The boy knew those changes were planned, he and the wee girl were looking forward to them. He wasn’t about to try offering her the Gift himself. Why would he be taking that risk, when he knew there was no need?’

  ‘Declan, no one in the know believes the story the papers are touting,’ I said, then realised something. He didn’t seem to be ‘in the know’ about how Melissa had been killed, that her death was nothing to do with a botched Gift, otherwise why try and convince me. Did that mean he hadn’t searched Bobby’s memories for her death? Or did it mean Bobby had no memories for Declan to find because he hadn’t killed her?

  ‘But,’ I said slowly, fishing for answers, ‘that doesn’t mean your boy didn’t kill her. Maybe he just got greedy?’

  ‘Why would you be thinkin’ I wouldn’t know if he killed her, me darlin?’ He smiled. ‘He’s mine, after all.’

  That told me, didn’t it?

  ‘So if the boy didn’t do it, someone else did,’ Declan carried on.

  I narrowed my eyes as I considered him. ‘Whether your boy killed her or not, involving me in this situation isn’t part of our bargain, Declan.’

  ‘Now why would you be thinkin’ that?’

  I leaned forward. ‘The agreement was you’d notify me when a fae or faeling needed help, and in case it’s slipped your mind, your boy isn’t fae: he has a nice shiny set of fangs. So you’ll have to find someone else to be your own personal private detective.’

  A broad smile widened his mouth and he flashed his own sharp set of pearly-whites, looking entirely too pleased with himself. Damn. There was something else, some catch. I sighed inwardly. Telling him I wasn’t going to do the job because it didn’t meet the terms of our bargain had been a long shot, but at least I could console myself with the thought that I’d tried.

  ‘But what about the wee bure?’ he said softly. ‘Surely you wouldn’t deny her your assistance, not when she’s got the blood of the fae in her?’