Free The Bitter Seed of Magic (A Spellcrackers Novel) by Suzanne McLeod Page A

along the edge of the tiny sharp blade, wincing as it sliced cleanly through my flesh.
    I stared at the bright bead of blood.
    It trembled with magic.
    Then before the spells in the silver manacles could kick in, or I changed my mind, I smeared the blood on the ring. It dropped off the bracelet into my palm, growing large enough for me to wear.
    ‘Here goes nothing,’ I murmured, and pushed it on my finger.

Chapter Nine
    T he over-large double doors in front of me were Victorian style, the six panels painted white, the frames a bright sky-blue. The paint looked fresh enough that I gingerly touched it to check it wasn’t still wet; and that the doors weren’t some magical construct. The paint was dry, and the doors felt as mundane as any other. There were no locks or handles, just steel push-plates. Curious about whether this place was as real as the doors felt, I glanced around. I was on a small, boxy landing. Behind me, a large green arrow pointed down a dimly lit concrete stairwell (which thankfully didn’t have the sulphurous nose-wrinkling smell of most such places) but otherwise there was nothing to indicate where I was . . . except I was now in jeans and, oddly, one of the lime-green hi-vis T-shirts sporting the Spellcrackers.com logo that we wore whenever we worked in a public place. And my feet were bare and half-frozen: the concrete floor was cold.
    The knowledge in my mind told me Malik’s ring was a way to contact him. I’d sort of expected to get the magical equivalent of a telephone call, to hear his voice with its not-quite-English accent in my head. But as soon as I’d put the ring on, I was just standing here in front of the blue and white doors.
    I eyed them speculatively. ‘Right, enough of cold feet, let’s find out where you lead.’
    I pushed the right door open. It swung back easily, if slowly, and without the spooky sound effects I was half-expecting, and left me staring into a long shadowed corridor about ten feet wide. The corridor was made from steel beams, the ones on the walls criss-crossing each other to leave large diamond-shaped gaps that had been fitted with glass. The diamond windows framed a spectacular view of the dying sun searing the cloud-laden sky with golden fire. It reminded me of one of Tavish’s Turneresque paintings. I frowned; the corridor was familiar too . . . then it clicked: it was one of the high walkways of Tower Bridge.
    I’d chased gremlins along every single frustrating step of both the two-hundred-foot-long corridors, five – or was it six? – times, in the last month alone. The little machine-hexing monsters kept getting down and dirty in the bridge’s engine rooms, and Spellcrackers had won the contract to evict them . . . which was proving to be so much easier said than done. But now, as I scanned the gloomy walkway, it was empty of all life apart from the lone figure about halfway along gazing out over the Thames.
    Malik al-Khan.
    I headed towards him, bare feet silent (but warming up) on the rough blue carpet. As I came closer, he turned to me, his expression enigmatic. I stopped, stunned at the sight of his pale, perfect face, his dark almond-shaped eyes that showed his part-Asian heritage, the black silk of his hair where it slipped just below the sculptured line of his jaw . . . Damn. I’d almost forgotten how beautiful he was. A memory surfaced of him lying still and defenceless during the demon attack, and my heart lurched wildly at the thought that I might have lost him too. Shocked at my reaction, I clutched Grace’s pentacle at my throat and scowled, my steps slowing.
    Sure, he was eye-candy, and I’d have to be more than dead not to have the hots for him, and he’d come to help me when I’d asked, putting himself in danger for me, which gave him not just my unending gratitude, but also a place in my heart. But no way was I going to fall for the beautiful, arrogant, infuriating, over-protective vampire. He might be a good guy for a vamp;