‘So, we’re going to stay here like this until one of my neighbours comes home, or what?’ I said, aiming for unconcern, but the tremor in my voice meant I didn’t quite make it.
‘Dode worry, do one’s gedding in, bean sidhe,’ he said, and patted my cheek. ‘Dot wid de Tank spell we pud on the building.’
I swallowed, trying to ignore the branches digging into my neck. A Tank spell—whatever the hell that was—presumably stamped out the possibility that someone—anyone—had noticed something and might be coming to rescue me.
‘Bud while we’re waiding for more of by frieds’—his hand fumbled at the waistband of my jeans; my gut twisted with dread—‘you can keed still and waid with me.’ His arm round my ribs squeezed, shooting sharp, hot pain through my chest. ‘Or I’ll dock you out agaid, okay?’
There was no way I wanted to be unconscious again, not even for a fraction of a second. I forced myself to stay still, to think. He had to be a willow; they were the only ones whose branches grew fast and long like whips. But those branches couldn’t be all reaclass="underline" they had to have some magic in them, didn’t they?
‘We mide as well use de time well.’ His legs clamped harder around my thighs as he struggled to pull the zipper on my tight jeans. ‘Now, rebember, bean sidhe, keep still.’
I looked, and saw the magic flowing around me in multi-coloured currents, swirling and eddying like different strands of paint mixed into a jar of murky water: lacklustre greens and feral yellows merged into dull oranges, deep reds faded into sickly violets and brackish purple, and through it all sparkled tiny motes of gold. Crap, even I was leaking magic. I couldn’t see where his magic started and mine or the witch’s anemone’s ended. What would happen if I tried cracking it? No, that was a really stupid, mind-blowing idea ... Wasn’t it?
‘I always wanded to be a daddy.’ He flattened his hand over my bare stomach, rubbing it. ‘I’m going to plant my seed in here and watch it grow.’ I didn’t bother telling him he needed my willing consent if he wanted me pregnant. I just prayed he’d stay thinking about his future fatherhood and wouldn’t try and do anything about it yet. At least in this position it wouldn’t be possible; he’d have to let me up, which would give me a chance—
—a whiplike branch scratched across my stomach, pushing and slithering down the front of my jeans.
‘Shame we can’d make new shoots the fun way,’ he murmured against my cheek. ‘But dis way works just as good.’
The thin branch poked into my briefs.
No fucking way!
Anger rose like a golden tide inside me ... and I reached out, focused on the magic, pushed all my will into it, and cracked it—
—and the world exploded.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
An angel smiled down at me out of a cool silver-gilt mist that twinkled with rainbow lights blurring in and out of focus. A silver halo hovered above the long curls of her pale-gold hair, and a bridal confection of silk, satin and lace wrapped her slender form. The air smelled of cinnamon, and oranges and sweetened vanilla. She held a star-tipped wand in one small hand, and offered her other hand to me. I stared at it, oddly bemused. Her fingernails were painted different colours: blue, green, yellow, red and black. They didn’t go with the rest of Angel. Was I dreaming, or hallucinating? Maybe I’d died and heaven really was just like the Christmas cards. I squeezed my eyes shut. But when I opened them she was still there, still smiling, still holding out her hand. I peered through the mist, trying to discern if the filmy image at her back was actually wings or not. Her delicate face creased in a frown as she turned and looked behind her.
‘Am I dead?’ I asked, my voice croaking like a strangled frog’s.
She turned back to me, bewilderment making her look even younger. ‘I don’t know,’ she whispered. The rainbow lights slowly stopped blinking and faded away. ‘Do you feel dead?’
I thought about it. It felt like my hands had been ripped off. I held them up in front of my face, vaguely concerned. Nope, still attached, though as scratched and bloody as if I’d fought my way out of a thorn thicket. If I squinted, I still had the right number of fingers. My throat felt like I’d swallowed a cactus, and when I touched it, my fingers came away sticky with blood and bits of green flaky stuff, while my head felt like a bad-tempered troll had stomped on it and turned it into squashed mush. But compared to the spiky pain in my ribs, all that was a minor torment. I decided if I was dead, I hurt too much for this to be heaven; so it was more likely the other place.
‘But they don’t have angels in hell, do they?’ I murmured, or rather, croaked again.
Her expression turned mutinous and she wrinkled her nose. ‘Angels bite you if you misbehave.’
I blinked. Not quite the answer I was expecting.
She bent at the waist and ran a strand of my hair through her fingers. ‘Your hair looks like dragon’s breath, all pretty golds and coppers. Can you spin it into smoke?’
Her eyes came into focus, beautiful pale-gold eyes with vertical cat-like pupils, and I realised she wasn’t an angel, but something I’d never seen before—at least, not without a mirror.
She was sidhe.
The mush in my mind started to rearrange itself into something more lucid.
Was this the sidhe? Tomas’ murderer? She had to be; there couldn’t be two of them in London, that would be too much of a coincidence. Only the eyes I stared into were as wide and guileless as a child’s—but she was sidhe fae, and while she might look to be in her late teens, she could be anything from that to—well, centuries old.
But not only were her eyes blank; her mind wasn’t at home behind them either.
‘No, I can’t spin it into smoke,’ I said slowly.
She pursed her lips in disappointment as she straightened. ‘Cecily can, and she can make pictures in the smoke, like the moon and the sun and the stars and even mountains and castles.’ She formed the shapes with her hands as she spoke.
I struggled to my feet, my hand clamped to my right side. ‘What’s your name?’ I asked.
‘No names, no shame, us dames are all the same,’ she trilled in a high falsetto, and grasping the long silk skirts of her dress she curtseyed before dancing away through the mist.
‘Fine,’ I muttered, pinching the bridge of my nose, trying to banish my headache. What had Grianne said? Something about being careful with her when I found her ...
I sighed; I was beginning to see what she meant. I lifted my head and looked around, trying to work out where I’d ended up.
The silver mist was dissipating, leaving only a fine haze in the air, and I realised I hadn’t gone anywhere; I was still on the third floor of my building, only now I was standing in the middle of the landing, my jeans half round my hips and my stomach covered with bloody scratches like my hands. I winced at the pain in my side as I zipped up my jeans. The landing looked the same as before I’d cracked the magic—well, almost, if you ignored the jagged opening that now replaced the doorway leading into Witch Wilcox’s flat. And the wood shavings that blanketed the landing and stairs.
There were a couple of mounds under the sawdust, which I took to be the dryads laid out by the purple anemone Back-off spell. I looked down the stairs: yep, two more mounds, a.k.a. Bandana and Red Turban, and at the bottom of the stairs I could just make out the top of Shorty’s Panama, covered with its own sprinkling of wood shavings.
It was a lot of sawdust: more than one wooden door and frame could account for, so I guessed some of it had come from the dryads themselves. But cracking the magic—which had to be why I looked like I’d been pulled through a thorn-hedge backwards and frontwards—didn’t look like it had killed them, for their bodies hadn’t faded away to nothing. But I didn’t plan on playing Florence Nightingale; Bandana had been calling for reinforcements and I wanted Angel out of here before they or the police arrived. Any injuries the dryads had, they fucking well deserved.