The Shifting Price of Prey (8 page)

Briefly I wondered how he’d got it to grow that long in the last couple of months, then any curiosity was eclipsed by fury.

‘I am not Rosa!’ I yelled. ‘I don’t want her fucking ring or her magic flowers!’ I threw the ring at his head. It missed, chinking loudly off the window—

He snatched it out of the air. And turned.

Shock stripped away my anger. He was beautiful, his face all perfect lines and angles, his part-Asian heritage shaping his black eyes, but his forehead was marked. Branded. With delta, the
fourth letter of the Greek alphabet, in the lower case: δ. The brand was delicate rather than disfiguring, and gave him an almost mystical air. I
looked
: it emanated with low-level
power and some sort of Veiling spell. I forced my
sight
past the Veil, and the brand turned from matt black to a pulsing painful red.

My stomach heaved. ‘Why haven’t you healed it?’ I demanded.

‘Genevieve.’ His eyes darkened with grim mockery. ‘The correct greeting of blood-property to their master should carry more reverence. An offer of the throat is ideal, a wrist
acceptable, a deferential falling to your knees the bare minimum.’

An image flashed in my mind of me on my knees before him; what I was doing took deference to a whole other level. Lust spiralled within me like a tornado and slick heat bloomed between my
thighs.

I dropped my backpack to the floor with an incensed thud. ‘I am
not
your blood-property, Malik.’

He moved faster than I could track and was behind me, one steel-hard arm clamping my arms and chest, trapping me against him, his other hand thrust in my hair, yanking my head back to expose my
throat.

I yelped in shock before snapping my mouth shut. My heart pounded, flooding adrenalin through my veins, urging me to flight or fight. Instead I froze, my childhood training kicking in:
struggling over-excites vamps, and over-excited vamps, even one as normally übercontrolled as Malik, are more likely to forget whatever
fucking infuriating game they’re playing
and tear your throat out.

‘You are my blood, Genevieve.’ His breath seared along my pulse. ‘As such there are expectations on both of us.’

My mind stuttered as his words penetrated. Had I missed something: like maybe we weren’t alone? I pinged my inner radar. But all I could sense was Malik . . .

His dark spice scent wove around me like smoke, his lips cool against my skin, a certain part of him pressing hard against my arse. Damn, it wasn’t just the blood-sucker in him that was
excited. Though to be honest, blood and sex are two sides of the same coin with vamps.

‘You didn’t expect anything before.’ I kept my voice quiet and calm.

‘Before you had not admitted yourself such,’ he said. ‘In writing.’

It took me a couple of seconds, then . . . Crap. I had. Last Hallowe’en. As part of my ‘blackmail’, I’d given another letter to the witches. It had been the carrot to go
with my stick. That letter gave Malik dispensation for any unspecified crimes he may or may not have committed (so long as he had Hugh’s agreement) against any witch, past, present and
future, in exchange for his property – a.k.a. me/my blood – used in a spell. My ‘admission’ seemed to have changed something. Leaving me vulnerable. My pulse sped
faster.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, keeping my annoyance at myself out of my voice. ‘In hindsight that was a stupid idea.’ For me, anyway.

He didn’t react. Not an indrawn breath or a muscle moved. He’d shut down. His lungs not working, his heart not beating. Which was a sign, hopefully, that he was getting himself under
control. I had an urge to swallow. I stifled it. Waiting. Hardly breathing myself. Then after a long drawn-out silence, I opened my mouth to apologise again.

‘Shh.’ He stopped me. ‘I am not fully myself. I need—’ He broke off. ‘It may aid me if you would calm your pulse. I find my thirst for you is greater than I
anticipated.’

At the self-disgust in his voice, a suspicion slithered into my mind like one of Asclepius’ snakes. Maybe this wasn’t his game, but someone else’s. Like the Autarch’s. He
had to be the one who’d branded Malik; no one else would have the power.

Angry resolve, rather than the usual panic, filled me. I concentrated on counting, slowing my pulse.

What felt like aeons later, Malik’s grip on my hair lessened, allowing me to lower my chin a few millimetres, and ease the painfully stretched tendons in my neck. My gaze caught on our
reflection in the windows in front of us. Malik was fully vamped out— pupils flaring red with flame, lips drawn back in a silent snarl, canines and needle-thin venom fangs white and sharp.
The brand on his forehead now pulsed dirty silver in my sight.

My stunned eyes met his grim ones in the glass. ‘It’s doing something to you. If I remove the spell, will it stop it?’

‘It marks me as his. As the Ancient Greeks used to mark their slaves.’

Bastard Autarch.
‘You’re not Greek,’ I said flatly. ‘And neither is he. And I don’t get how that’s even relevant.’

‘You are right. We are not Greek. But the symbol is understood by those who need to see it. I am Oligarch, but all know that I took the position without his knowledge or permission. He has
asserted his authority. It is necessary to maintain the status quo.’

Great. This was some sort of political vamp crap. ‘So keep the brand,’ I said. ‘What about the spell?’

‘The spell?’

‘Vamps can’t see magic. So what’s the point?’

His hand spasmed, tightening his hold on my hair. ‘It is for his personal entertainment.’

Sadistic psycho.
‘What’s it doing to you?’

He was silent, a dark weight at my back.

‘C’mon, Malik. It’s doing something, or he’s doing something through it. You’re not usually so volatile.’

‘Volatile?’ He yanked my head back again. ‘Volatile is for the undisciplined, Genevieve.’

‘If you keep doing that,’ I croaked, ‘you’re going to break my neck. I’d be happier not wearing a brace for however long it takes to heal.’

‘My apologies.’ His voice was contrite.

‘Okay,’ I said slowly, trying to think of an out. ‘So we’ve both said we’re sorry. How about you let me go and we’ll talk about it?’

‘I find myself unable to do that. It is taking all of my . . . discipline to hold you like this and not feed.’

Right. Well, maybe taking my blood would help. After all, what was a drink between friends? And Malik
was
my friend, despite the current stand-off. ‘So feed,’ I said.

‘No. I am too . . . volatile.’

Underneath his attempt at dry amusement, I could taste his fear, like bitter aloes mixed with rancid blood. Fear of losing control, and of hurting me. Not that I wanted either of those things to
happen either, but hey, the other options – standing here until inevitably the sun came up or his disciplined restraint gave way – weren’t cutting it either.

‘Look,’ I said, frustration making me sharp, ‘I haven’t donated yet so I’ve got plenty of blood.’ My usual donation was a pint into a blood-bag; a daily
necessity thanks to the 3V infection turbo-boosting my red cell production. But hey, Malik could probably take a good three, even four pints before things got too iffy. ‘If you get too
carried away then you can heal me. And, I’m not human, remember. There’s no way you can pass your curse on to me, if that’s worrying you.’

‘It is a tempting offer, Genevieve. Thank you. But no.’

Stubborn vamp. Sometimes his phobia about his curse made him even more paranoid than me. ‘So what’s the plan, then?’

‘The plan?’

‘Yes. The plan to get out of this.’

There was a long silence. ‘I find it impossible to marshal my thoughts.’ The confusion in his voice was raw, as if he’d suddenly woken in a frightening place. ‘I do not
have any plan.’

I’d have sighed, if his arm around me had let me take a deep breath. Not working out what needed to happen next wasn’t like him. Had to be an effect of whatever the Autarch’s
spell was doing to mess with Malik’s mind.

Well, I had an easy way to sort that, whether he wanted me to or not. Except I’d left my turkey baster down in the square; not that I thought Malik, or rather the Autarch controlling
Malik, would let me take the turkey baster to his forehead. I choked back the slightly hysterical laughter at the image that thought conjured.

Next option was
absorbing
the spell; definitely not a good idea with who knew what side-effects the magic would sic me with. Much better to get rid of the spell totally, which meant
I’d have to
crack
it. Preferably not while it was on Malik. He’d heal the smashed-watermelon effect it would have on his skull, but I needed to talk to him tonight, not in
three or five or however many weeks’ time. So I needed to
call
the spell off of him and
tag
it to something else first. Something I could destroy without too much
damage.

I stared up at the painted ceiling and visualised what the room contained. There wasn’t much to choose from. Windows, pillars, paintings, stacked chairs, tables and . . .
Got
it!

I
focused
on the spell. Or at least I tried to, but the damn thing kept slipping away from me as if I was trying to hold water in a sieve. I needed to physically touch it.

‘Um, any chance we can change positions here?’ I asked. ‘Like, face each other?’

‘Why?’

‘This isn’t exactly comfortable.’

‘I do not think a change of position is wise.’

Because he wanted to sink his fangs into me. And going by the way a certain part of his body was still pressing into my back, he wanted to sink something else into me too . . . Which might be
enough to distract him from the bloodsucking bit.

Recalling the image he’d flashed in my mind of me on my knees before him, I closed my eyes, took a moment to get my thoughts in order, then, hoping the visual communication went two ways,
started sending mental pictures.

A shudder travelled through him. ‘What are you doing, Genevieve?’

Giving you ideas, hopefully.

His arm around me loosened slightly.

Yes! I sent more images to his mind—

His hand plunged into the V of my shirt, yanking it open violently enough that I saw a button hit the ceiling above us. He shoved my shirt aside, roughly cupping my lace-covered breasts. I
moaned loudly, pushing back and wiggling encouragingly against his thick length. He growled, driving his hips into me as he ripped away my bra, knuckles grazing my nipples. They tightened in
response, then I bit back a scream as he pulled on one, rolling the sensitive point between his demanding fingers, the pain/pleasure arrowing straight to my core. Liquid heat filled me making me
wish that this was for real.

Reluctantly, I reminded myself it wasn’t. This wasn’t about my fantasies, but about distracting Malik to get at that spell.

As his hand continued to map my body, making me yearn for more, I forced aside the distraction, letting my magic rise as I sent more images. He obliged, feverishly tearing the zipper on my
trousers, shoving them down my hips so they pooled around my ankles. I kicked them off, thankful they were loose and as the golden glow of my power surrounded us, I slowly reached up to grasp his
queue—

He ripped off my briefs, jerking me off my feet, his firm hold on my hair the only thing keeping me upright. Heart thudding, I sent another picture, praying this would work like the others as I
tugged persuasively on his queue. Finally, he released me and I almost sagged with relief as he slid gracefully down to fall to his knees before me. I looked at him gazing up at me and my heart
stuttered. The flames in his pupils were feathered with gold. I’d almost caught him in my Glamour.

My plan had worked better than I’d believed possible.

For a second I revelled in his worship . . . then, half-regretful, I blocked it.

Now for the next part.

I bent, using his queue to tug his head back and slapped my hand over the brand on his forehead. The magic in the spell felt slippery, like soft jelly. I grabbed it, panicking as it threatened
to ooze out of my fingers. I gave it a small experimental pull; the body of the spell lifted away from Malik, but a forest of thin trailing threads –
tentacles? –
was still
embedded inside his brain.

Eww
, the thing was like some sort of horrible jellyfish.

Then some of the legs pulled out of him on their own, flicking round to sting my wrist. Intense pain shot up my arm and my hand jerked open. The spell disengaged, burrowing back inside
Malik’s skull and disappearing. A pained grunt escaped his mouth, red flames eclipsing the gold in his pupils. He snarled, lips peeling away from his fangs as he readied to strike.

Crap. I was losing him.

I clasped his face, digging my fingers into his temples, frantically pouring my magic into him as I shouted more images into his mind. He growled low in his throat; the flames in his eyes
flickered red, gold, red and then disappeared totally as his pupils, irises and whites all turned a brilliant gold. I stared transfixed as bloody tears ran down his face, and power rose around us
like a red-gold mist. I bent lower, needing to place my lips on his, to drink down all that power, to take it into myself until it filled the hollow place inside me. But before our mouths touched,
his cool hands touched my hips, slid up to my waist and, as he stood, he lifted me up—

And I flew back through the air to land with a jarring thud on the nearest table.

The pain and the heavy perfume of the roses next to my face brought me back to my senses. I stared at the ceiling, trembling as I pushed away the horrific thought that I’d been ready to
consume Malik’s . . .
what? Power? Soul?
And gave thanks that he at least was still following the script of images I’d shoved into his head.

Hands manacled my ankles.

Now to get rid of that torturous spell.

I looked at him. He stood at the table edge staring adoringly at me from golden orbs.

He’d lost his shirt. I gaped. Not so much at his broad shoulders, or his lean, hard chest with its silky triangle of black hair, but . . .