Twenty-Seven
The instant she lifted out the jug, she knew. She hefted it in her hands then she dropped the damned thing and ran after the departing witches. ‘Hey!’ she yelled. ‘You fuckers! Hey!’
They simply walked faster. Mallory gritted her teeth and sped up. ‘This isn’t the right jug!’
The witches paid her zero attention. They passed through the gate and started to close it but, before they could, Mallory put on an extra burst of speed and caught up with them. ‘Out of our way,’ the male witch growled.
Mallory straightened her shoulders and drew so close that they were almost touching toes. ‘Not until you give me the real bellarmine jug.’
‘We gave you a real jug,’ the woman said, although there was a faint tremor in her voice. ‘We kept our end of the bargain so piss off.’
‘What you gave me is a tourist knock-off worth about ten quid. If that. I might be a squib and I might choose to live in Coldstream, but I wasn’t born yesterday. Either give me back my spoon or hand over the real thing.’
The witches exchanged glances then the man’s hands sparked with blue magic and he threw out a blast that knocked Mallory off her feet. As both witches ran for the car, she scrambled to her feet and pulled a pocket knife out of her pocket. She was winded but unhurt – and this was far from over.
As the car’s engine revved, she flung herself towards its back wheels and plunged the knife into the nearest tyre before rolling to the side. A second later the car took off leaving her in a cloud of choking exhaust fumes. Unsurprisingly, it didn’t get very far.
It was the driver who climbed out to confront her, a thin, middle-aged man with a lot of scarring down one side of his cheek. Thanks to the troll she’d spoken to earlier, Mallory knew this was the High Priest of the Inverness coven.
‘Thomas MacAuley,’ she muttered. ‘At least you’ve decided to show your real face.’ She brushed the dirt from her clothes. ‘I’d advise against any further magical attacks. You’ll only be sacrificing temporary gain for long-term pain.’
‘Is this where you tell me that you have friends in high places and I ought to watch my back?’ he asked sardonically.
Mallory regarded him coolly. ‘I’ll leave you to decide that for yourself.’ She folded her arms. ‘You didn’t really think could pull this off, did you? That I’d let you walk away after scamming me? Best-case scenario, I’d have ensured that the deal with Mystic Forces was cancelled.’
She tilted her head as anger coursed through her body, much of it directed at herself. She’d broken her own cardinal rule of always enforcing a blood contract; even straightforward transactions needed an insurance policy to back them up. ‘Worst-case scenario? Well, that remains to be seen.’
‘Are you threatening me, Ms Nash?’ MacAuley spoke quietly but there was an edge to his words.
Screw him. Mallory met his gaze. ‘When I threaten you, you’ll know about it,’ she told him, trying to sound far harderthan she really was. She examined his face and then laughed coldly. ‘Oh, I see. You thought I’d accept that piece of ceramic tat because I’m just a squib who doesn’t know any better. I have to say I’m getting mighty tired of people underestimating me because I don’t have Preternatural blood running through my veins. I’m also getting mighty tired of being in a bad mood.’
She sniffed. ‘I’m usually a very happy person – my glass is half full and my days are filled with sunshine. But during the last few weeks I’ve lost that feeling. Frankly, Mr MacAuley, I’ve been pissed off for about four weeks now and you’re making it worse.’ She stepped towards him. To her surprise, he flinched.
Mallory doubted she’d scare a Coldstream witch so that was curious, but then she realised – somewhat belatedly – that she was the one with the real power because she could make the coven’s life unpleasant. The trio of idiot witches didn’t pose a real threat. None of them had hurt her; even the bloke who’d knocked her down hadn’t caused much damage and she doubted she’d even find any bruises.
But she didn’t want MacAuley’s fear because fear made people act out of character. Fear encouraged unpredictability and, in Mallory’s opinion, that was something to avoid. Besides, at any moment he might remember that it was three witches against one squib, and if they killed her and disposed of her body there’d be nothing she could do about it. She needed to do some very quick and very clever thinking.
‘Here’s what is going to happen,’ she said. ‘I will not inform the Inverness police that you have attempted to defraud me, and neither will I remind the Witches Council in Coldstream of your existence. I will not tell anyone that you attacked me with magic, and you can continue your self-imposed exile for as long as you wish. In return you will give me a real bellarmine jug.’ Just to show that she wasn’t a complete monster, she smiled. It almost reached her eyes.
Thomas MacAuley flinched again. Oh dear; that hadn’t been her intention. She paused and examined his face more closely, then her heart sank and nausea swirled up from the pit of her belly.No. Oh no.
‘You don’t have a real jug, do you?’ she whispered.
MacAuley’s eyes dropped. He turned and called softly, ‘Mikey, bring me that spoon.’
The right-hand passenger door opened and Mikey heaved himself out looking sullen. ‘But…’
‘Just give it to me.’
The spoon caught the moonlight and glinted as MacAuley turned it in his hands then held it out. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘With my deepest apologies.’ There was a catch in his voice and Mallory realised that the Inverness coven was simply doing the same as she was – trying to survive in the best way they could. They really needed that magicked spoon.
Her shoulders sagged and she sighed. ‘Keep it,’ she said. ‘Keep the damned thing.’
There was a brief flare of relief on the High Priest’s face before he masked his expression.
‘Coldstream isn’t a bad place, you know,’ Mallory went on. “The covens there do alright. Even if you don’t want to live there, you can?—’
MacAuley didn’t let her finish her sentence. ‘We can’t.’ His tone brooked no further discussion.
