He stepped closer. ‘Bobby’s my son.’ Desperation flooded into his face. ‘He’s all I’ve got left. I don’t know what I’d do—’
‘Shhh.’ My heart ached for him and I reached up and cupped his face. Golden light spread from between my fingers, pulses of pink and orange flashing through it. The night air filled with the scent of honeysuckle.
Pinpricks of gold sparked in Alan’s pupils, his expression smoothed out and a soft smile curved his mouth. ‘So beautiful ... glowing ... like sunshine—’ Sliding his hands into my hair, he bent towards me, lips parted.
I raised myself on tip-toe to meet his kiss.
Aye, that’s right, comfort the poor man.
The words in my head jerked me back.
Shit. What the hell was I doing?
I yanked free, pulling the magic back inside me and backed off a couple of steps. I dug in my bag and came up with a handful of liquorice torpedoes and stuffed them as quickly as I could into my mouth. I crunched down, willing the sugar to quell the brownie’s magic.
A brownie’s touch goes to them that needs it. Agatha’s voice sounded in my mind again.
I swallowed the sweets. Alan’s need for comfort might have awakened the magic, but he wasn’t a child. Mixing brownie magic with my own was so not a good idea: the last thing either of us needed was Alan to be caught in my Glamour. Damn Finn and his quick fix; now I was going to have to deal with the side-effects.
Alan swayed slightly, then frowned. ‘I’m sorry. What was I saying?’
I huffed a relieved sigh. ‘You were going to tell me why we can’t see Melissa’s body.’
‘Oh, yes. The Soulers have got an injunction stopping anyone from looking at her body, even the pathologist.’ Alan held the door open for me, the worry back in his grey eyes. ‘They’re petitioning for a pre-emptive staking, claiming that Melissa can’t have agreed to the Gift because she was under age. My solicitor’s contacting a judge he knows to see what he can do.’ He tapped his jacket pocket. ‘I’m expecting his call.’
The Soulers—Protectors of the Soul—are a right-wing religious organisation who, supposedly, could trace their lineage back to Cromwell’s times. They believe humans who become vampires are selling their souls to the devil, albeit at some distant point in the future. Melissa was already dead, and even with the fourteen-day period to allow for a spontaneous change, the circumstances meant it was doubtful the Gift was going to work, so from Melissa’s perspective, it really didn’t make much odds—except that after the pre-emptive staking, the body was immediately cremated. If the Soulers had their way, I wouldn’t get the chance to look for magic.
Was it just a coincidence, or something else?
I angled past Alan into the police station, careful not to touch him again. ‘Melissa worked for the vampires. Don’t they normally sign some sort of pre-death wish thing for just this sort of situation?’
‘She did.’ He ran a hand over his head, leaving a few hairs standing on end. ‘But Fran, Melissa’s mother, claims it’s not valid because of her age. She can be a bit eccentric at times, but I never thought she was religious. I tried to talk to her, but the doctor’s got her sedated up to the eyeballs.’ A chirping sound cut him off and he fumbled for his phone. He gave me a relieved smile. ‘It’s the solicitor.’
Coincidence or not, it certainly wasn’t looking good for Mr October.
I moved far enough away to give Alan some privacy. I’d been to Old Scotland Yard—the ‘Back Hall’—a couple of times before. Cheerful was not the adjective that immediately sprang to mind: bare bulbs under steel coolie shades hung on the end of long chains from the high ceiling, the floor was a dull expanse of scarred grey linoleum, and uncomfortable plastic chairs for visitors, two of them currently occupied, sat opposite the reception hatch. In fact, the only welcoming thing was the air-conditioning.
Standing under the vent, I let the chill air flow over me. A uniformed police constable—not one I knew—stuck her head up from behind the reception counter, brown curls bobbing and an enquiring look pasted on her plump face. I smiled briefly and pointed at Alan. She stared at me for a moment, then her expression turned less than friendly. She gave me a curt nod and returned to whatever she was doing.
Nice attitude. I mentally shrugged it off and looked over at the occupied chairs.
The man in the sharp suit had a red and black cross pinned to his lapel; obviously the Soulers’ representative. He was in his early twenties and sported a well-trimmed Van Dyke that was a slightly darker blond than the tips of his highlighted hair. He perched on the edge of his chair, his fingers tapping the buckle of the briefcase resting on his lap while his alert gaze darted from me to Alan and back again.
Next to him was a goblin. He sat like a muscle-bound child, his feet dangling six inches above the floor, kicking his heels slowly, making the lights in his trainers flash red. Fat ringlets of dyed black hair bounced gently round his liver-spotted face. Wraparound shades protected his eyes. But no one would ever mistake this goblin for a child: his back was straight as a poker and his huge shoulders strained the seams of his navy boiler-suit. A flashing Union Jack badge was pinned to his left chest pocket, under his own black and red cross, while on the right, shiny gold embroidery proclaimed him an employee of Goblin Guard Security. As did the baseball bat, neatly covered in shiny silver tin foil, that he held across his knees.
I felt my own shoulders tighten in apprehension: a Beater goblin. I’d forgotten the Soulers hired Beaters, rather than the Monitor goblins most humans use when business combined with magic or vampires. Normally the only place where Beaters are employed is Sucker Town.
I rolled my shoulders, attempting to ease away the tightness in the muscles. As I did, the goblin turned his blank eyes slowly in my direction, his cat-like ears twitching. He shifted his bat and grasped it in his right hand. He smoothed a long finger down the ski-slope incline of his nose, then covered his mouth with his palm for a brief heartbeat.
It was the traditional mark of respect between goblins. And every goblin I’d ever met offered me, a sidhe fae, the same salutation, whether I knew them or not ... although the mouth-hiding bit is considered old-fashioned by most goblins who work in London.
I returned the greeting. He might not be able to see me do it under the harsh lighting, goblin eyes being better suited to dark underground caverns, but he’d nonetheless sense that I had done so.
Then I sighed and dug my fingers into the annoying throb at my neck. It was getting worse, and I knew I was going to have to deal with it sometime soon. How long was this all going to take? Alan’s half-heard conversation murmured through the quiet of the hall, the tone of his voice telling me he was getting nowhere fast with his solicitor. My initial vision of breezing in the police station, checking out the body and getting out fast was floundering like a beached water-dragon.
As my gaze passed over the Souler rep he caught my eye. His hand flew to adjust the knot in his tie, while his face lit up with the eagerness of a zealot. Damn! That was all I needed. Still, at least he had a goblin with him. That should curb his urge for conversion.
But the Souler sprang up and came towards me, a big bright smile on his face. ‘Ms Taylor, isn’t it?’ he gushed. ‘I’m Neil Banner.’
The goblin leapt after him.
Shit. I took an involuntary step back as they both advanced. It looked like Neil Banner hadn’t read the handbook that came with his goblin.
‘I’m so pleased to meet you, Ms Taylor.’ His enthusiasm was almost tangible.
I took another swift step back. ‘Er, you too.’
The constable stuck her head up over the counter and smiled gleefully at the scene before ducking back out of sight.