The Bitter Seed of Magic (A Spellcrackers Novel) (26 page)

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 up on 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.

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?’

‘Maxim has a penchant for playing games, and he does not worry overmuch if he has to sacrifice someone whom he considers a pawn. Although I understand that their part in his ill-conceived plan was an unfortunate error, which Maxim then decided to use to his advantage.’

‘Okay, so why did Mad Max stake Fyodor, his Dear Old Dad?’

‘You would have to ask Maxim, Genevieve. I do not want to guess at his motives where his father is concerned.’

Another evasion. ‘Okay, then I’ll guess. Let’s say Mad Max staked Fyodor to shut him up, or keep him out of the way, so he didn’t spoil Mad Max’s blackmail plot to get you to agree to whatever it is he wants. So there’s a fifty/fifty chance Fyodor knows what it’s all about,’ I said pointedly.
See, oh, uninformative one, there are other ways of getting information
. ‘But is what Mad Max wants just to do with your usual vamp stuff, or is it to do with the curse and the missing faelings? With everything else, I’m leaning towards the latter. Especially with Francine’s memory connecting Mad Max to Ana, and Ana connecting to the curse, and the missing faelings. That whole degrees-of-separation thing. So, if I take a leap here, Mad Max could connect to the missing faelings’ – I stopped and gave the beautiful, and still annoyingly closed-mouthed vamp reclining on my bed an enquiring look – ‘unless of course you can tell me something different?’

‘I am sorry, Genevieve, but I cannot tell you anything about the missing faelings.’ He turned the platinum ring on his thumb – the ring he’d given me, then taken back in the dreamscape. ‘If I do discover anything about their plight, then I would as a matter of urgency inform the police and do whatever was in my power to help them.’

Damn. Whatever Mad Max wanted, Malik didn’t think it was anything to do with the missing faelings. Or he didn’t know if it was. But I still wanted the information so I could judge for myself.

I tilted my head at Malik. ‘Did you know Mad Max and Fyodor are my relatives?’

‘Yes.’

Finally a straight answer, even if it was monosyllabic, and didn’t give me any sort of clue. Maybe if I tried another hook? ‘Maxim’s been taking my blood from Darius as some sort of tithe,’ I said, ‘but I don’t think that’s the only reason. But I couldn’t prise the info out of Darius’ head, because he’s promised to keep it a secret. And Mad Max wanted me to think he was the one drinking my blood, but he isn’t, is he?’

‘I do not have an answer for you, Genevieve.’

Definite stonewalling now. ‘Darius was thinking about a name,’ I said, not giving up. ‘He tried to hide it from me, but I’m pretty sure it was Andy. Does that ring any bells with you?’

Malik tensed in interest, so maybe he really wasn’t the font of all knowledge, and I’d hit on something he didn’t know. ‘Did you receive any impression of who Andy might be?’ he asked.

‘Another vampire, maybe?’

‘It is possible.’ A frown lined his forehead. ‘But if he has been giving your blood to this “Andy”, I would like to know who he is – if only to ensure neither Maxim nor he is a threat to you any longer.’

‘Can’t you just order him to tell you who Andy is?’ I said, shifting uncomfortably. My aches and pains were heading for the major complaints department, even with the pillows at my back.

‘I have no way of forcing Maxim’s obedience, Genevieve,’ he said. ‘He owes his Oath to the Autarch.’

My instinctive terror at the Autarch’s name threatened to surface; I swallowed it back. Time to dig in a different direction. ‘So now we’re on the subject of the Autarch and Oaths,’ I said, the calm sound of my own voice surprising me, ‘want to tell me what that means for me?’

‘You need not be concerned about the Autarch, Genevieve.’

‘Easy enough for you to say,’ I said, keeping my tone reasonable, ‘but I don’t know what’s going on. And if the general consensus is that I’m your property, and you owe the Autarch your Oath again, then he can demand you give me to him. So I was wondering what my options are if the Autarch comes calling.’

‘I have given you my protection,’ he said dismissively. ‘It is not necessary for you to worry.’

Looked like I was getting the brush-off again, which meant it was time to discuss a few ground rules about whatever our
relationship
was, or wasn’t.