A question. Damn it. I hated questions. ‘Yep. But maybe something or someone got to the knife before it disappeared?’

He shook his head. ‘I know only what you told the kelpie, Genevieve. That does not lead me to think that it would be possible for someone to have retrieved the knife before the veil closed.’ Frustration threaded his words. ‘Had I been conscious at that time, I would perhaps be more certain.’

Which, with the whole ‘tranqued-by-the-bad-guy’, was about as specific as an answer as he could give. I sighed. ‘Okay, so we’re pretty sure Janan is in hell. But the Emperor obviously doesn’t know that otherwise why look for the knife? So the more important question is: why does he want to bond souls, and whose souls do you think he wants to bond? The kidnap victims’, maybe?’ I shuddered at that horrible thought.

‘The Emperor may not want to bond any souls,’ Malik said. ‘Janan can also release a soul from its earthly body.’

I snorted. ‘Wouldn’t it be easier to just kill someone if he wanted to release their soul?’

‘No. Death frees the soul. But with Janan the soul can be captured.’

I shuddered. ‘Ugh, nasty thing.’

‘Not originally. Janan’s primary purpose was to keep the souls of the dead safe on their journey to the afterlife. That is why Janan is called, Beloved of Malak al-Maut. Malak al-Maut is the Angel of Death.’

Shock slammed into me. ‘Malak al-Maut’s the Angel of Death? Why the hell would you use the Angel of Death’s knife to bond our souls together?’ Horrified and angry, I shoved at him, catching him off guard. He went flailing backwards over the wooden seat behind him and thudded into the base of the boat, eyes wide with surprise. The small boat rocked dangerously and, as if we were in the middle of a rom-com, I lost my balance and tumbled forwards to faceplant, oh so gracefully, between his legs, my nose mashing against a certain hard but obviously sensitive part of him. As mortification spliced through my fury, and his pained grunt reached my ears, there was a clunk of something hitting wood, followed by the quiet tinkling of shattering glass.

Cold liquid drenched my T-shirt, arms and hands.

My anger stalled as my mind tried to understand what broken glass and wetness meant. Then, as the boat steadied and Malik’s hands grasped my shoulders, lifting me away from him, it dawned on me that my fall had smashed the fragile bottle of werewolf repellent.

The reek of it slapped me like a long-dead, heavily decaying fish.

I clapped my hand over my nose and mouth. My wet hand. My lips burned as if I’d pressed silver to them. Then as the metallic tang of the liquid seared my tongue, and my hands started to blister, it hit me that the repellent did actually have silver in it. Silver which, thanks to my vamp blood, I’m allergic to. Shit. I snatched my hand away as my throat closed on a choking cough and, catching a glimpse of bloody tears streaming down Malik’s pale face, realised I wasn’t the only one hit by the silver in the repellent.

Where’s the Hallmark moment now, Gen?

Then, almost faster than I could process, we were out the boat and in the lake. Water closed over my head. Instinctively I snapped my mouth shut, struggling and thrashing to the surface, but a steel grip held me under. I gasped for breath and water rushed down my nose, my throat, filling my stomach and lungs. Hands ripped at my clothes, the cool lake water soothing my burning flesh. Greyness edged my vision and a distant part of me thought I was probably drowning until I was hauled out of the water, coughing and spluttering, and dumped unceremoniously on to a patch of sandy grass.

I collapsed there, retching. Damn Tavish. Why hadn’t he told me the repellent had silver in it? The stuff wouldn’t have killed me, like it might a young vamp, but if Malik hadn’t dunked me I’d have been out of it for who knew how long while my sidhe body healed itself. Not to mention what harm had it done to him. And hadn’t that article in the witch archive said silver didn’t work on werewolves? The kelpie had some explaining to do, next I saw him.

Finally, my heaves subsided.

I pushed wet hair out of my eyes and discovered I was on the small island just past the bridge.

Other than my briefs, I was naked.

With no sign of Malik.

Chapter Thirty

Ten minutes later, I’d half-dragged myself down to the lake’s edge, rinsed my mouth out and was sitting there, hugging my legs, toes tapping anxiously in the water as I tried to work out what to do next. Did I try to find Malik, or see if I could rustle up some help? Though the lack of clothes problem wasn’t exactly conducive to accosting strangers, nor was the fact that I had enough aches and pains, and bruises blooming, that it felt like I’d been in a death-roll with a croc. Not to mention a vague fuzziness in my head. The dunking I’d taken seemed to be the cause, or maybe the silver in the werewolf repellent was to blame.

Then Malik appeared.

My aches and pains muted with relief.

He rose up out of the water about fifteen feet in front of me until he was standing waist deep, hair slicked wet down his back, moonlight gleaming on his pale chest, its silky triangle of black silk hair arrowing down to disappear into the water. He looked like some sea god, breathtaking and beautiful and ready to be worshipped. My toes curled of their own volition. He came towards me, the lake getting shallower as he did, to reveal, much to my regret, that he wasn’t all-the-way naked. He was still wearing his leather trousers. Damn him.

A hot wind sprang up from nowhere tangling my hair across my face. When the wind dropped, Malik was standing before me. I shuffled a few feet back up the grassy bank and he sank elegantly down into a crouch before me. He held something grey out. When I frowned at it, he wrapped it round my shoulders and tied it gently. As I watched, he nicked a finger on one fang and let it bead with dark, almost black blood.

He offered it to me. ‘Freely given, Genevieve.’

The scent of liquorice and dark spice drew me and I leaned forward eagerly, sucking his finger into my mouth. A brief glorious taste burst on my tongue then, disappointingly, his finger was gone. I blinked as the aches and pain vanished and the fuzziness in my mind cleared.

His blood had healed me.

I frowned as I realised his hair was dry, as were his leather jeans, and the grey thing around me was the pashmina; also dry. My backpack was on the grassy sand next to me; the spell Sylvia had put on it to keep my things safe had obviously worked to stop its contents getting wet, which explained the pashmina. But not Malik’s dry hair nor the trousers . . . Unless that had been the wind . . . some sort of vamp power . . .something to think about later.

‘Thanks,’ I said, placing my hand on his arm. ‘For helping me.’

‘You are welcome, Genevieve.’ He smiled, then his mouth thinned as he added, ‘Though I fear your clothes are unsalvageable. I did not know how much silver the potion held, so I was primarily concerned with removing them before they could do you harm.’

I gave a lopsided grin. ‘Seems to be a habit you have, ripping my clothes off.’

His mouth twitched. ‘I will replace these as I did the others.’

‘’S’okay,’ I said. ‘Think Tavish owes me, not you.’

‘The kelpie did not tell you there was silver in the potion.’ Condemnation edged his statement.

‘Nope,’ I agreed. ‘But even if he had, neither of us would have thought I’d end up wearing more than a drop at a time, or virtually drinking the stuff. Anyway, I didn’t think silver worked against werewolves?’

‘It does not. I believe silver can be used as a magical carrier for other ingredients. The sidhe do this, so I have heard. It concentrates them, giving them more potency.’