Damn it, that was it. Malik wanted Tavish’s help in killing Bastien – an idea I was fully behind. Only I’d always had in the back of my mind that with Bastien gone, Malik would be the new Head Fang, not some evil interloper like the Emperor. And Tavish wanted me protected until the fae’s fertility problem was solved . . . which was why Malik had sent me home. Into Tavish’s waiting arms.

Crap. The annoying pair had double-teamed me again, first with Tavish’s text, which I didn’t get to see, and then with their little chat while I was out of it. Maybe I should just save time and trouble for all of us, and buy the bubble wrap myself.

‘So that’s it?’ I glowered at Tavish. ‘You’re going to talk to Malik and I just have to wait for the next card to turn up?’

‘Och, doll, ’tis the best thing.’ He patted my hand. ‘Safer too, what with the Emperor’s werewolves running about. And ’twill all sort itself out once the last two cards turn up and the reading’s complete; the spirit in the cards hasnae failed me yet.’

Yeah, but there’s always a first time. I gritted my teeth. ‘What about the Emperor’s website? Have you hacked it yet?’

His dreads twisted with frustration. ‘’Twill nae be long now, doll, but I do have a wee thing of interest to show you.’ An electronic tablet appeared with a small audible pop to hover in front of us. Tavish plucked it out of the air, tapped the screen and handed it to me.

It showed the home page for a plant nursery:

Bodmin Moor Plant and Herb Nursery ~ Specialists in mediaeval and modern herbs, herbaceous perennials and rare bulbs ~ Growing since 1775.

I cut Tavish a bemused look. ‘Um, why am I looking at this?’

Tavish reached over and tapped ‘News’.

A picture of Katie’s ‘boyfriend’, Marc, filled the screen. He was standing next to a slightly older man, both of them smiling for the camera, holding up three cards with gold coins stuck in the middle of them. The caption read:

Nurseryman Carlson Fowey and his nephew Marc Fowey with the three prestigious Royal Horticultural Society gold medals awarded at this year’s Chelsea Flower Show; the first year Marc has taken full responsibility for the nursery’s exhibits at the show.

I wasn’t enlightened. I frowned at Tavish. ‘You going to fill me in?’

‘You told me that the lad, Marc, here, was spying on you at the gnome’s,’ he said. ‘This is why. He was there to do business. Apparently, one of the gnome’s cats was sitting on the windowsill and the lad went to speak to it, glanced through the window and saw you, got a mite curious and then a wee bit embarrassed when you caught him watching. So he rushed off instead of keeping his appointment with the gnome.’

Hm. ‘And you believe him?’

‘Aye, doll, his tale is true enough. The nursery does business with many of the gnomes, nae just Gnome Lampy.’

I pursed my lips at the smiling Marc and his medals, reluctantly remembering that Katie hadmentioned he worked with plants. I couldn’t deny his story was plausible, given that whole ‘the simplest explanation is usually the one’, only unease still niggled at me. Marc and his uncle were doing business with the gnome, who was in no way a nice guy. Though, really, the gnome was pretty much stereotypical, albeit a tad more obnoxious than most. So my unease was probably just my ‘Katie paranoia’ kicking in.

I turned to Tavish. ‘So, there’s nothing to worry about?’

‘Aye, but to be sure, I’ve asked a body I ken, who stays down that way, to check out this nursery.’

‘Okay, thanks,’ I said grudgingly, relieved and glad at least that he’d helped in this— until his next words.

‘Och, and I told Katie’s mother all about it. I ken you wouldnae want her worrying.’

I stiffened. ‘Tell me you told Katie too? Before you told her mum?’

His ‘why would I do that?’ expression said it all. He hadn’t. Perfect.

Tavish gave me a sharp-toothed smile that told me he’d dropped me in it with Katie deliberately – a joke, payback for some slight, or just him being ornery – then he said he’d let me know as soon as he had any news, and left.

As soon as he’d gone I grabbed my phones from the landing outside . . . and discovered about twenty texts from Katie, starting with the expected snippy one which informed me Marc had already told her about the ‘gnome mix-up’, before Tavish had done his ‘Sam Spade’ thing, which he wouldn’t have had to do if he’d just spoken to her first. Oh, and some friend I was, getting Tavish to do my dirty business, and blab to her mum, instead of trusting her to know that she’d have told her mum anyway.

Damn. I was going to have to do some serious grovelling. Still her aggrieved tone let up a bit with the rest of the texts, all updates about Spellcrackers –things were all ‘running like clockwork’, which was good news, despite making me feel oddly redundant. The childish part of me wanted Spellcrackers to fall to pieces without me, to show no one else could run it as well. Mentally I slapped myself, saying I should be grateful that everyone was super-efficient at their jobs.

Katie’s next text had my jaw dropping in shock.

Finn’s just walked in the office!!!! Did you know he was coming back? Why didn’t you tell me?

The text was sent mid-afternoon. I stared at it, heart pounding, thoughts and questions bouncing like balls I couldn’t catch till I snagged the important one: if Finn was still here I had a chance to talk some sense into him about the Witch-bitch Helen.

I called him.

His phone went straight to voicemail.

I started to call Finn’s brother, then stopped as I remembered the herd were on my shit list. Instead I read the rest of Katie’s tests. They told me what I wanted to know: Finn had turned up looking for me, discovered I was holed-up all day with the police at the Harley Street crime scene, poked around the office for a couple of hours, then said he had to go back to the Fair Lands. He’d asked Katie to tell me he’d be back soon.

‘Soon!’ I spluttered at the phone. ‘When the hell is soon? Tomorrow? Next week? When?’ And why the hell couldn’t the aggravating satyr tell me that himself— Maybe he had. Frantic, I scrolled through the rest of my messages—

And found the one, sent late afternoon, from Malik:

My apologies, Genevieve. I am unable to meet you at midnight. I would be grateful if we could rearrange our meeting for sunset. Malik.

‘My’ answer to him, five minutes later, was as he’d told me:

Any meeting must be private at office or not at all.

Stunned, I stared at the text until the pieces snapped into place. Finn had been at Spellcrackers. My phones had been at Spellcrackers. Finn, if he was about, was always the one who fixed the phones . . .

Damn interfering satyr had sent ‘my’ answer to Malik. And if I needed any more confirmation, four other texts – all Spellcrackers’ business calls – had been answered too. But just because Spellcrackers didn’t deal with vamps, and even if he hated suckers, and Malik in particular, it didn’t give Finn the right.

‘Back less than a day and you’re already up to your old tricks,’ I ground out.

Furious, I texted him, not caring he wouldn’t get it until whenever the fuck ‘soon’ was!

You have no right to answer my texts. No right to make arbitrary, high-handed decisions on my behalf, about my work or my personal life. Oh, and yes, Malik *is* my personal life.

Fuming I jabbed send.

Stupid, irritating males – all of them – trying to run my life for me.

Half an hour later, I’d showered, eaten the BLT sandwich I’d found in the fridge (thanks to Sylvia’s magical delivery service), drunk my nightly blood-fruit Mary, and my rage had muted to a pensive simmer. I checked on Bertha again. She was still swimming back and forth, doing her vigilant-periscope patrol, no doubt hoping I was going to reappear so she could get a bite in.