The Shifting Price of Prey (5 page)

I halted my thoughts before they strayed any further into that particular emotional minefield. This wasn’t the time or place. Still, I couldn’t quite stop the eager leap of
anticipation at having a reason to contact Malik . . . I snagged my phone, and, getting his voicemail, left a brief message for him to call me. That done, I put my phone away. As I took a steadying
breath, noticed the ginger tom was crouched on the edge of the desk, hackles raised, gaze fixed on the window.

Peering round the edge of the sash window was a dark-haired figure, tall and broad enough to be male, his face in shadow.

For a moment my panic-induced paranoia screamed,
the Autarch
, then my sensible, prosaic head took over: the watcher was more likely to be a poacher casing the gnome’s joint for
his magical valuables.

The male jerked out of sight, and I rushed to the window.

The house’s small front garden had once been a grassed square with shrubs around the outside, but the plants were now choked and overgrown, the grass knee-high with weeds. But, despite the
jungle, there really was nowhere for anyone to hide. And other than one of the gnome’s cats disappearing into the bushes, the garden was empty. As was the road in both directions as far as I
could see, and the open grassy space of the Primrose Hill park opposite.

Crap. I’d missed him—

A human couldn’t disappear that fast.

I sent my Spidey senses searching for any Others nearby, but all I picked up was the gnome at the back of the house . . . I closed my eyes and concentrated . . .
There
, distant enough
that they had to be a good few houses away, the ping of a vamp—

Fuck. Maybe my first guess had been right, and the peeping tom/poacher
was
the Autarch.

Except, even with the sunset starting to paint the sky red and orange, it was still too bright and therefore too dangerous for any vamp to be out – Apollo’s crispy critter look is
never a healthy choice for a sucker – so the vamp was probably just a local waking up. Although, my paranoia reminded me, while I’d never heard of any vamp having the ability to walk
around during the day, that didn’t necessarily mean it wasn’t possible. And a daywalking Autarch had starred in not a few of my nightmares over the years.

I shuddered at that scarily uncomfortable thought and gave the empty garden a last once over, mentally filing ‘Autarch is stalker is Emperor’ for later discussion with Malik. We were
going to have a lot to talk about.

I packed my stuff up and woke the sleeping gnome (eventually, though it took a cast-iron frying pan bouncing off his head; I’d be lying if I said I didn’t find that satisfying) with
the bad news that he’d have to wait a couple more days for his dead garden fairy licences (despite the lack of evidence, I’d decided to play it safe), and that he might have a poacher
problem. Which, since something had punched out the cat flap in his back door –
the kelpie? Could he shapeshift that small?
– had the gnome shoving me out of his house in
frenzied alarm so he could fix it and reinforce his Wards.

Outside, I perched on the gnome’s low garden wall. As I waited for my lift, thoughts of trapped fertility, tarot cards, disappearing kelpies, peeping toms and daywalking Autarchs circled
my mind like the gnome’s anxious cats. My shoulders started to itch with the feeling I was being watched. I smoothed my thumb over the emerald ring on my right hand, and the large square-cut
gem, guarded by baguette-cut rubies, warmed with a tingle of magic. The ring’s mediaeval gold setting was ugly and heavy, but that was its only downside. I took a quick scan, double-checking
the road was still empty (not wanting to panic any bystanders), and clenched my fist.

A ball of green dragonfire erupted from the ring, and a sword sprang into my palm. A Roman gladius. Just over two feet in length, its two-edged blade a mix of steel and silver tapering to a
sharp point. The sword was made for cutting, slashing or stabbing. And on the blade was an engraving of a dragon crouching along with the sword’s name: Ascalon. The sword was blessed and
bespelled and would cleave through anyone, other than an innocent, killing them instantly.

Ascalon had been a present, of sorts, from an old flame a couple of months ago; he’d taught me to use it as a teenager, and since he’d given it to me, his current girlfriend –
a fencing teacher and fitness instructor – had insisted on sparring with me thrice weekly (read beating me into the ground) to bring my sword-skills back up to scratch. Not that I minded; the
sword was more than useful, and it came in the super-handy, concealed carry-size.

I lifted the sword in a warning salute to whatever/whoever was causing my ‘being-watched’ itch (be it just my paranoia or something more) then let the sword slip back into the ring,
loving the fact I finally had a weapon I could take anywhere, and unlike the flick-knife I once carried, one that wouldn’t get me into trouble with human law. Even better, the ring came with
its own See-Me-Not spell and would only work for me.

Maybe I should show the gnome the sword, next time he grabbed my arse.

Yeah, that would make him keep his filthy hands to himself. I grinned and let my paranoia relax slightly, breathing in the scent of a night-blooming jasmine and admiring the view of
London’s skyline, its lights sparkling against the darkening sky. A warm summer breeze lifted the sweaty hair at my nape and brought me the faint sounds of bells, whistles and the rhythmic
clank of machinery mixed with excited shouts and screams: the 24/7 fairground was in full money-making swing at the nearby Carnival Fantastique in Regent’s Park.

Rumour has it the Carnival, which descends on London every year in the week leading up to the Summer Solstice, was given the Regent’s Park pitch in the early eighteen hundreds after some
shenanigans between the Prince Regent and the then Carnival Ringmaster, a triton (said to be immortalised in the fountain in Queen Mary’s Garden). Which may be true. But despite its initial
colourful royal patronage, now the Carnival has to apply to the Department for Culture, Media and Sport for all the relevant exhibition permits exactly like any other temporary show. Something I
knew about in more detail than I ever wanted, since Spellcrackers (thanks to the company’s Witches’ Council associations) had won the contract to provide magical security for the
Carnival. Tedious permit details aside, it was a solid high-profile contract and good for business.

The throaty roar of a motorbike drowned out my musings along with the Carnival’s distant noise.

The bike rode up the centre of the quiet road like a modern-day knight on a mechanical charger, and rolled to a showy stop in front of me. The tall, lean rider, dressed in black bike leathers
and heavy boots despite the summer heat, silenced the engine, kicked the stand down with casual skill and turned a black-helmeted head my way, face a pale blur behind the dark smoke of the
visor.

My lift had arrived.

I
raised my hand in greeting. The bike rider dipped her head and removed her helmet in one smooth continuous movement. Lifting her gaze to mine,
she hit me with a stunning smile and whisked her swathe of shining blonde hair round in a practised flip worthy of any hair product advert.

Katie: part-time Spellcrackers receptionist (and my occasional taxi service), soon to be full-time student dancer, and the nearest thing to a kid sister I have.

I grinned at her. ‘Ten out of ten for the hair whip, Katie. All you need now is to get someone to pay you to do it.’

‘Well, funny you should mention that . . .’ She did another expert flip and stretched out her arms, excitement glinting in her eyes. ‘Ta da! You are now looking at
L’Oréal’s newest hair model!’

‘Really?’

‘Reallyreallyreally!’

‘Woot!’ I held my hand up for a high five, and she slapped my palm with her leather gauntlet. ‘Go you!’

‘Yeah! Go me!’ She beamed and punched her fist in the air. ‘Finally!’

‘That’s brilliant, Katie.’ I hugged her, breathing in the scent of leather, hot metal and the citrusy perfume she always wore as her arms tightened around me. She’d been
hoping for this for so long. ‘So what’s the job?’ I said as we broke apart.

‘I’m to be in the background of an ad with about ten others, so there’s no face work. It’s only a couple of days. But it’s a start. And the pay’s good for a
chunk of college fees, but then’ – she gave me a mischievous grin that made her look about nine years old – ‘I’m worth it!’

I groaned and rolled my eyes at her. ‘Plea
-se
. You’re killing me.’

She stuck her tongue out. ‘Wait till you hear my other news.’

By the way she was almost bouncing, I didn’t need to hear, I could guess. Marc, the boy – no, not boy, man, since he was my age: twenty-five – who’d been seriously
flirting with her for the last few weeks (at her other part-time job in the Rosy Lea café), had finally asked her out. Marc was the first guy she’d been interested in after her last
‘date’ turned out to be a vamp’s human blood-slave. The vamp had kidnapped Katie to blackmail me into taking his blood-bond. Katie hadn’t been hurt, but I’d promised
myself I’d never let anything bad happen to her again. I couldn’t change the fact that her confidence and trust in herself and others had taken a beating, though, so Marc asking her out
was momentous.

Especially as he’d spent so long getting to this point, which had taken Katie from agonising over whether to say yes to wondering what was wrong. Katie’s mum, Paula, thought it
showed he’d picked up on Katie’s nervousness. But for me, it smacked too much of manipulation and had me uneasy. Of course, anything to do with Katie pushes my Red Alert button. But
still, just because I might be rabidly over-protective, and over-reacting, didn’t mean Marc wasn’t someone to watch. Damn it, I
so
wanted to wrap Katie up in the proverbial
cotton wool, but I hate it when people try to do that to me.

I pasted a teasing smile on my face. ‘You won the lottery?’

This time she rolled her eyes at me. ‘Gen-
ny
!’

‘Kat-
ie
!’

She crossed her arms with a disgusted glare.

I laughed. ‘C’mon then. Out with the details.’

‘First night at the Royal Opera House for
La Sylphide
.’

Marc was good; I couldn’t have chosen better for Katie myself. I clamped my mouth shut before my paranoia made me say something I’d regret.

‘And no,’ she said, her glare turning determined, ‘I’m not bringing him into the office so you can give him the once-over.’

Then again, I didn’t really need to say anything. Katie knew me.

‘Look, I’ve got it under control,’ she carried on earnestly. ‘I’m meeting him there. I’ll book a Gold Goblin taxi home. I won’t go anywhere else with
him, or get into any strange cars, go down any dark alleys, or drink or eat anything that’s been out of my sight.’ She leaned forwards and hooked her blue heart-shaped pendant out from
under her jacket. It carried a mega Personal Protection Ward and Tracker spell that had cost me near enough six months’ wages, even with Tavish doing the
casting
for free. She
dangled it before me. ‘I’ll be wearing this as usual. I know what I’m doing. Marc’s a nice guy. Trust me? Please?’

‘I do trust you,’ I said.
Just not him
.

‘It’s a first date, Genny,’ she warned. ‘I don’t want to get all heavy about things and scare him off.’

If he likes you, then it won’t.
But again I didn’t say it. If I didn’t trust her judgement, then how could she? And really, the vamp kidnap thing had been my fault,
not hers. She’d done nothing wrong. She didn’t deserve to have her every date interrogated, magically or otherwise, because I felt guilty. What she deserved was to have an awesome night
out with a guy she liked.

‘
La Sylphide
is a’ – romantic, tragic tale of impossible love; not
my
choice for a first date, but hey, Katie would adore it – ‘wonderful
ballet,’ I said, happy for her, my smile only a tiny bit forced. ‘You’ll love it.’

She grinned and clapped her hands. ‘I know! So exciting.’

I grinned back then changed the subject. ‘So how’s things back at the office?’

Her expression turned businesslike. ‘All under control. Rotas are done and agreed for the Carnival. I’ve got a couple of interviews lined up for the vacancy, and we’re all
caught up on the non-Carnival jobs.’

Katie wasn’t our summer receptionist/office manager because she’s my sort of kid sister. She’s also Ms Super Organised. I was going to miss her come the start of college.

‘So all I’ve got you down for tomorrow, so far, is Harrods,’ she finished.

I nodded. Harrods were having problems in their lingerie changing rooms. Their Magic Mirror spells kept mutating and instead of coming up with the appropriate recommendations, they were spouting
subtle put-downs that meant customers were walking without buying. Obviously, store management were
not
happy. It was Spellcrackers’ top contract and, once the Magic Mirror problem
was sorted would be a good steady earner.