The Bitter Seed of Magic

Chapter Fifty-Five

I woke up in a coffin with the dark spice-and-copper taste of Malik’s blood in my mouth. He’d healed me. Part of me was disappointed that I hadn’t been around to enjoy it. The coffin was glass, cushioned with plush white velvet, and was in the middle of the Room of Remembrance. A hard knot of worry twisted in my gut. I hoped the coffin was nothing more than someone’s black sense of humour, and not some symbolic fairytale portent telling me I’d missed my sunset appointment with the Morrígan.

I jerked up to find the room empty apart from Mad Max, who was watching me with a quizzical expression on his face. He was leaning, arms crossed, against the blood-smeared coffin displayed on the raised dais at the end of the room. He was dressed in his red Hussar uniform, with his long platinum-blond hair pulled back in a ponytail … and his shiny black knee-boots were firmly planted on the Old Donn’s furry orange hide.

‘I need to know how long it is ’til sunset,’ I said, trying to keep my voice calm.

Mad Max gave me a lazy smile. ‘Sun’s not going down for a couple of hours yet, love.’

I blew out a relieved sigh. There was still time. ‘What happened while I was out?’

‘The police troll chappy turned up with all bells ringing and a parade of ambulances,’ he said nonchalantly. ‘Everyone got carted off to HOPE, or to the nick at Old Scotland Yard.’

‘Oh good.’ Sounded like Hugh had it all under control.

I hopped out of the coffin, pulled a face at the dirty, blood stained velvet I left behind, and scowled at the dirty, bloodstained jeans and ripped T-shirt I was still wearing. For some reason my clothes had suffered worse than I’d thought in the magical explosion. I had a brief, wistful thought about a hot shower, ice-cold vodka and clean clothes. Unfortunately, there wasn’t going to be enough time for all that.

I still had a couple more problems to sort out as well as the Morrígan.

And Problem Number One, Mad Max, was standing in front of me.

‘So,’ Mad Max said casually, ‘how’re you diddling, Cousin? All your aches and pains gone?’

I gave my first problem a neutral look. ‘“Cousin”? Or should it be “niece”?’

He raised his brows. ‘Cat’s out of the bag, is it?’

‘Yep.’

He flung his arms wide, and bowed. ‘Cousin whatever-it-is-removed on your dad’s side’—he smacked the coffin he was leaning against: inside it was Fyodor, still lying staked in his diamond- and blood-strewn white clothes—‘and this here is not just my Dear Old Dad, but your mum’s too, which makes your mum my nutty little sister, and me your uncle. But family are downright hard to keep track of unless you keep them in their place’—he smacked the coffin again with evident glee—‘so don’t take my word for it; have a butcher’s at that instead.’ He pointed to a book propped up against one of the glass coffins opposite me.

I strode across the aisle and snatched it up.

‘Watch it, love,’ Mad Max snapped out sharply, ‘you damage that and I’ll take it out of your hide.’

I shot him a frown, then studied the book. It was tooled black leather with each corner protected by silver, and an ornate silver lock and clasp keeping it closed. Mad Max’s diary, maybe? The silver burned my fingers as I undid the clasp, and as the book fell open where it had been bookmarked by a black silk ribbon, the faint perfume of roses rose like an ethereal ghost.

On the left-hand page was another family tree; a small hiccough of hysteria lodged in my throat that this was the second family tree I’d seen in two days. But it was the page opposite the tree that truly captured my attention. It was dated: 18th June, twenty-six years ago, and written at the top in large, almost childish script was: Brigitta’s fifteenth birthday.

Below the heading was a faded, pressed pink rose, and next to the pressed flower was a strip of four small photographs, from one of those ‘instant photo’ booths. The first three photos were headshots of two giggling girls with a silver-haired Irish wolfhound sitting proudly between them—Mad Max in his doggy persona, presumably. The dog was holding a pink rose in his teeth. The last one showed the same two girls, with Mad Max in his human shape, still with the rose in his fangs, looking like some platinum-blond vampire Valentino.

One of the girls was obviously Helen, a much younger version. The other one I’d never seen, but if her hair had been less strawberry blonde and more my own blood-amber colour, and if the pale gold colour of her sidhe eyes had been darker, she could’ve been my twin sister. She had to be Brigitta.

All three of them looked young and happy, and like they were having a great time.

I looked at the family tree on the page opposite.

I stared at the photos and the handwritten family tree, trying to take it in.

I wasn’t my mother’s only child.

She’d had another daughter, Brigitta … who was twenty-six years older than me and looked like my twin—

But Brigitta was dead, killed by the vamps, and I’d never even met her. Rage, and an odd grief for the sister I’d never known, rose like a surging tide in my chest and I wanted to smash something—

‘Of course,’ Mad Max’s loud drawl broke me out of my thoughts and I swallowed my anger back as I turned to glare at his cheerful, smiling face, ‘your batty mother—Angel, as she likes to be called now—kept changing her name’—he pointed at the book in my hands—‘which rather makes a mess of the whole thing, love.’

My fingers clenched on his book. With all the family skeletons coming out of the bloody cupboard, maybe he’d tell me about one more. ‘So how did my sidhe mother end up in possession of a long-lost Fertility spell right at the time when she met my vamp father?’

‘Ah. I’m afraid the blame for that is mine.’

I dug my nails into my palms to stop from screaming at him. ‘Tell me.’

‘Well.’ He crossed his arms again. ‘When my barmy sister was returning the Fertility spell to this nasty moth-eaten old thing here’— he dug his heel viciously into the Old Donn’s hide—‘she stopped off for a little romantic holiday with the equally crazy fossegrim. But the rub of it was, once she’d finished playing about in his fountains, the spell was missing. Fast-forward a few years, and Brigitta—that’s her kid with the old fossy—happened upon the spell on one of her visits to the old man.’

‘At which point you decided to test it out—on Helen!’ I looked down at the diary in my hands. ‘And on Brigitta—’ I stopped, appalled. ‘Brigitta was your niece! My half-sister!’

‘What can I say’—he grinned widely, flashing fang, but his eyes were a cold, hard blue—‘other than the girls were great friends, they both had pressing problems they wanted solved with the miracle of a bouncing little baby, and despite being a cad and a really quite terrible uncle, I obliged them. Anyway, the next thing happens, my wacky sister turns up and demands the spell. Of course I handed it straight over. You don’t want to get on the wrong side of her, ’specially not when she’s got her “goddess” thing going on.’ He gave a dramatic shudder. ‘But old Andrei—that’s “Daddy” to you—was visiting, and my fruitcake of a little sister took a fancy to him, slapped the old boy with enough Glamour he didn’t know which way was up, and then, hey presto, nine months later out you pop.’

‘So my father didn’t rape her?’ I said, feeling oddly numb that I’d spent the last eleven years believing something about my parents’ relationship—and my birth—that wasn’t true. And after all this time, if there was a baddie in all that, it wasn’t my father, but Clíona and The Mother.

‘Good God no!’ He shot me a horrified look. ‘More like the other way round, if you think of it—not that he objected, no, he was quite the strutting peacock with it all.’

So why did she leave me with him? But I didn’t ask. I was pretty sure the curse and The Mother had something to do with the answer. Instead, I carefully closed the diary and put it back next to the glass coffin. I’d had as much of my family history as I could cope with for now. I dropped the grief and pain and anger away into a dark hole in my mind to deal with later. I needed my wits about me for my sunset appointment with the Morrígan.

‘Right, miles to go,’ I said briskly, since there was still Problem Number Two—the Old Donn—to sort out before my meet up with the Morrígan. ‘So I’ll take my furry orange hide from under your boots, thanks.’ I shot the furry orange hide in question a pointed look.

‘You’re not thinking about resurrecting him, are you?’ Mad Max asked in an offhand drawl.

‘No.’

‘All yours then, niece.’ He tipped an imaginary hat to me and started sauntering to the doors. ‘I’m off to see if I can resurrect the shambles you’ve made of the business. Have fun, kiddo.’

‘Wait—’

He turned and flashed me a knowing, fang-filled grin. ‘Mr Inscrutable’s gone back to spend some quality time with His Royal Brattiness. After all, none of us want Him putting in an appearance, do we? And old Malik’s the best man to keep him occupied, what with all that True Gift immortality thing he’s got going on—’

Fear, panic and anger that Malik had gone back to the Autarch hit me like a sucker punch right under my heart. Stupid, idiotic vamp.

‘—but he’s bound to turn up like the bad penny he is, sooner or later.’ Mad Max shot his finger at me. ‘Told you, Malik never forgets, and he keeps coming after you once he’s got you in his sights.’ He turned to go.

‘He’s not another long-lost uncle, cousin or whatever, is he?’ I blurted out. Any of which would be like a major ick, I added silently.

Mad Max gave a barking laugh. ‘Worried he’s into incestuous relationships like the rest of our dysfunctional family, are you, niece?’

‘Yes.’

‘Not his thing at all, love.’

Relief slammed into me like a high wind in a hurricane and I let out the breath I’d been holding.

‘Oh,’ he added, ‘and speaking of dysfunctional families, if you see my little bitch of a daughter, tell her she’ll have to deal with you direct for your blood from now on. It appears my middleman’s gone walkabout.’

His daughter—? Oh right, Ana, who I now clicked was another relation … my cousin, or niece, or both … Mentally I shook my head, not sure I wanted to work out exactly how all the family connections fitted together. It was icky enough just knowing they did. But why would she want my blood? And more worryingly— ‘What’s happened to Darius?’

‘Your little fang-pet? Nothing as far as I’m aware. Perhaps I should’ve said my middlewitch, since it’s the beautiful Helena who’s done the old disappearing trick.’

Surprise winged through me. ‘Helen Crane’s gone missing?’

‘That’s what I said, love,’ he said bitterly, his Happy-as-Larry mask slipping momentarily, ‘and if you’re interested in finding her, you’ll have to chase up my black-feathered son.’ Then he did his own disappearing trick and vanished, leaving a sad-sounding plea in my mind. ‘When you see Ana, tell her to stay away … and stay safe.’