Part of me didn’t want to think too closely about that dream/memory. Didn’t want to speculate who the woman was. Or what part she and her three children, especially Bastien, had played in Malik’s past life. But another part couldn’t not think about it. I dug my phone out along with a fresh bottle of water (a replacement, thanks to the same spell that was on our fridge), and drank it, my heart fluttering like an anxious bird’s, as I did some Googling.
Malik’s memory had taken me to a harem. Though the place had seemed so much less decadent than I’d always imagined harems to be – not that I’d thought about them much – the silent, ebony-skinned eunuchs standing guard over unseen chattering women, along with what Malik had told me about being friends with Suleiman, an Ottoman sultan, meant the place couldn’t be anything else but a harem.
Various sites told me that Muslim households had a harem – secluded, protected living quarters for the wives, concubines, children, female relatives and (in the past) slaves – whether it be one room or many, like those in the famous Topkapi Palace, Istanbul. Malik’s memory had showed him right at home in the harem, but the only males allowed were eunuchs or relations. Malik was sonot the former, which meant he had to be the latter.
Brother, uncle, cousin, nephew, son . . . husband.
The woman, Shpresa, had been in her mid-twenties. As had Malik. Bastien had called her his father’s Ikbal— favourite concubine. Said that his commander – Malik– had tried to save the woman and her kids . . . save us . . .from the Emperor.
Did that mean the woman was Malik’s wife? That they were Malik’s kids? Only if it did, then Bastien, my psychotic, murdering betrothed, was Malik’s—
Son?
Denial and horror hit me like a sucker punch to the gut. My stomach heaved again, and I only just managed to keep the water down. I slumped down in the back seat, wishing I could crawl home, take a blisteringly hot shower and huddle in bed with a bottle of vodka or ten for a week.
Only that wasn’t an option.
Ten minutes later, Mary returned, jumped into the car and slammed her door with a frustrated bang, which made my head ring and told me clearer than words that the scrying hadn’t panned out. I swiped a furtive hand over my damp face – not from tears, well, not justfrom tears, but from retching half-a-dozen times more; my Hot. D postponed hangover had decided to make its appearance (figured, I wouldn’t get the whole twelve hours out of the damn spell), complete with a headache that felt like imps were munching on my brain.
Mary twisted to face me. ‘We’re going to head— Cripes, Genny, what happened to you? You look like warmed-up death.’
‘Took a Hot. D this morning.’ I cut a squinty look at the sunshine. ‘Got an early rebound.’
‘Those things are barely legal.’ She gave me her cop face then wrinkled her nose. ‘You’ve been sick?’
I nodded, then wished I hadn’t as a wave of dizziness swept over me and my stomach rebelled.
Her mouth pinched with worry. ‘Are you going to be okay?’
Unsaid was: we were in the middle of a scrying. Stopping now would mean losing the trail. But before I could say I’d survive, Dessa dived into the driver’s seat clutching a bag of fast food.
My stomach heaved again at the greasy smell and I clapped a hand over my mouth, missing what Mary said next.
‘Here, Genny, have this.’ A hand shoved a small lavender-coloured envelope under my nose with a picture of a serene-looking woman on the front. The spiel underneath said ~ Revive the Perfect You!A Reviver, or a Cinderella as they’re known in the trade. Cinderella spells were expensive.
‘It’s legit,’ Dessa added as I hesitated. ‘Not like the Power Nap patch. Present from my mum. I’ve been keeping it in case I ever land myself a hot date.’ Her face scrunched up in a wry look. ‘I’ve got a toddler, a job and no time. I need to be prepared and I need all the help I can get. Only downside is a headache the next day.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, taking the envelope; another postponed headache had to be better than hours of vomiting. ‘I’ll get you another.’ I pulled out the pale lavender patch – it smelled of lavender too – peeled off the backing and stuck it, as per instructions, on the back of my neck. For a second nothing happened, then it felt as if I’d been cocooned in cool silk for about five minutes. As the feeling dissipated, I felt like I’d just had a week’s relaxing spa holiday; my worries and fears were surmountable, and no matter what life, or a sadistic vamp, threw at me next, I could handle it.
‘Wow!’ Mary said. ‘I didn’t know those things were that good. You look a million quid, Genny.’
‘I feel it too.’ I grinned, eyeing my healthy-looking, perfectly understated made-up face in the rearview mirror and smoothing my hand over my glossy hair. My clothes all looked and felt like stylish, high-end stuff, instead of the chain store basics they actually were.
‘Seriously, girlfriend,’ Dessa said, shaking her cornrowed head in admiration, ‘that Cinderella’s the business. If I wasn’t straight, I’d be panting right now.’
I reached out and squeezed her shoulder, grateful. ‘Thanks, Dessa. I needed this.’ I turned to Mary. ‘Before we get back to scrying I’ve got a question about werewolves.’ Or about Fur Jacket Girl in particular. If she really was the young girl, Dilek, in Malik’s memory – his daughter?– who’d been changed into a werewolf, she had to be nearly as old as Malik. ‘Do you know how long they live?’
Mary frowned. ‘Interesting question. Don’t suppose you’re going to tell me why you’re asking?’
‘I will, but later, okay?’ I said, deliberately not looking at Dessa.
Mary got the message. ‘Okay. Well, the archives say that if therianthropes get the Death Bite, then they live a normal human lifespan. If they’re Born therianthrope or Changed by Ritual, then they can live hundreds of years, though I don’t know why exactly. Something about them being both animal and human, which all shifters are.’ She shrugged. ‘So that doesn’t really make any sense. But I’ve only read the first section. There’re pages more.’
‘Thanks,’ I said. So it waspossible for Fur Jacket Girl to be half-a-millenia old. Which meant she wasmore than likely Bastien’s sister and Malik’s daughter. She was also one of the Emperor’s werewolves. I hadn’t a clue how that all fitted together. Or even how I felt about it.
‘Right, ladies.’ Mary held up her scrying pendant. ‘Time to get back to work. See if we can’t find this missing Irish wolfhound.’
Half an hour later we were still driving around searching for another hit. Then, as we passed the fifteen-foot bronze of Freddie Mercury rocking it outside the Dominion Theatre, my phone rang. Unknown number.
‘You need to come to the Carnival at Regent’s Park.’ The voice was muffled, as if the person was trying to disguise it. ‘Your dog is here.’
Pulse speeding, I pressed speakerphone and tapped Mary’s shoulder. ‘My dog is at the Carnival?’
‘Yes. The Irish wolfhound. He’s here.’
Mary made ‘keep talking’ motions with her hands. I nodded and said, ‘The Carnival’s a big place. Where exactly is he? And who are—’
The phone went dead.
‘Hung up,’ I told Mary, disappointed not to have more info. ‘Still, at least it’s a lead.’
‘It’s a trap,’ she said briskly.
‘Then why not tell me exactly where to go?’
‘So you can’t tell the police, of course. And once you’re in among the crowds, it’s easier to snatch you and make you disappear.’
‘Nice,’ I muttered. ‘But we’re still going to follow it up, aren’t we?’
She gave me her cop face. ‘The police are, yes. Youare not. Now let me have your phone so I can see if I can get a trace on that call.’ She held her hand out. I handed the phone over with a scowl, determined Mary wasn’t going to leave me to sit this one out while she and her witches in blue went looking for Mad Max. By the time Dessa pulled into the temporary Carnival car park opposite Regent’s Park Mosque, I’d managed to convince Mary to let me tag along.