delicate, dangerous thrill she’d felt as her fae reached out and touched another living creature for the first time . . .
She wanted to commit witchwork.
Glory had seen Angeline at work often enough to know the ways and means of practising fae, and knew she should start with something small and tricky to detect, that wouldn’t backfire too badly if it went wrong. But she wanted to be useful too. Coolly, she considered recent coven business, looking for a gap to be filled or problem solved. Then she remembered Jimmy Warren.
Jimmy was a fence who made a living from selling stolen jewellery. Cooper Street took a cut of his profits in return for sending business his way. But last week he’d absconded, leaving the coven among his many creditors. He’d also left behind his sister, Trish. She claimed she had no idea where he’d gone. Nate, however, was planning some serious aggro to refresh her memory.
Glory liked Trish and had babysat her little girl on several occasions. She didn’t want the coven thugs to come over all heavy on her. How much better for everyone concerned, then, if she could get the information some other way . . .
An hour later Glory faced Trish Warren across the table, warming her hands on a mug of tea. Trish usually had a faded prettiness but today her face was blotchy and drawn. This was going to be easy.
Searching the household rubbish had been unpleasant, but it got results. Glory was holding the pink plastic casing of a false nail. Now she rested it on the empty packet of headache tablets in her pocket, nodding in sympathy as Trish talked about the failings of her no-good ex, and the pressures of her new bar job. She seemed glad of Glory’s company and had welcomed her into the flat without suspicion. The row of bells over the building’s entrance had been smashed up long ago; on an estate like Rockwood, witchcrime wasn’t something you bothered the authorities with.
The grubby tablecloth bore a design of yellow flowers and pink polka dots. Perfect. Under Glory’s scarf, nestling by her collar bone, she could feel the Devil’s Kiss begin to warm. She thought of its mark, purple-black, beating beneath her skin.
Glory concentrated on the tablecloth. In her mind’s eye, she recast the polka dots, so they were hot and red. She visualised gathering them up and pressing them, one after the other, into Trish’s forehead.
Trish put her hand to her brow, grimacing.
‘You all right?’
‘Bit of a twinge. I get these migraines sometimes.’
I know , thought Glory, her finger scraping Trish’s false nail against the plastic tray from which the pills had sprung. Pop, pop, pop, she thought, in time to the movement of the red spots.
‘Oof. Come out of nowhere, they do.’ Her victim got up and went to fetch herself a glass of water. ‘The doctor says it’s stress. Too much on me plate. But what can I do about that?’
‘Mm. You must be worried about Jimmy too.’
Trish stiffened at the mention of her brother. However, the approaching migraine made it hard to think. ‘I s’pose,’ she mumbled.
The time had come for Glory’s other find in the rubbish. Shreds of torn-up bills, typed in red. She would use their text to spell out the bane.
Behind Trish’s back, she mouthed Final Demand, Last Warning, sending the words, like the red-hot polka dots, into her target’s head. The painkillers’ plastic and foil packaging crinkled against her fingers.
‘About Jimmy,’ she said gently. ‘We’re all very anxious to find him.’
‘And like I told the coven, I don’t know where he’s gone,’ said Trish faintly.
‘But you must’ve some idea,’ Glory murmured.
Final Demand . . . red spots . . . popped foil . . .
Pop spot pop spot pop spot.
‘I need a lie-down –’
Yet somehow Trish could not move from the sink. She wanted to tell Glory to go away, but the pressure in her head was making her sluggish.
‘You’ll feel better soon,’ the girl soothed. ‘You just need to
She wanted to commit witchwork.
Glory had seen Angeline at work often enough to know the ways and means of practising fae, and knew she should start with something small and tricky to detect, that wouldn’t backfire too badly if it went wrong. But she wanted to be useful too. Coolly, she considered recent coven business, looking for a gap to be filled or problem solved. Then she remembered Jimmy Warren.
Jimmy was a fence who made a living from selling stolen jewellery. Cooper Street took a cut of his profits in return for sending business his way. But last week he’d absconded, leaving the coven among his many creditors. He’d also left behind his sister, Trish. She claimed she had no idea where he’d gone. Nate, however, was planning some serious aggro to refresh her memory.
Glory liked Trish and had babysat her little girl on several occasions. She didn’t want the coven thugs to come over all heavy on her. How much better for everyone concerned, then, if she could get the information some other way . . .
An hour later Glory faced Trish Warren across the table, warming her hands on a mug of tea. Trish usually had a faded prettiness but today her face was blotchy and drawn. This was going to be easy.
Searching the household rubbish had been unpleasant, but it got results. Glory was holding the pink plastic casing of a false nail. Now she rested it on the empty packet of headache tablets in her pocket, nodding in sympathy as Trish talked about the failings of her no-good ex, and the pressures of her new bar job. She seemed glad of Glory’s company and had welcomed her into the flat without suspicion. The row of bells over the building’s entrance had been smashed up long ago; on an estate like Rockwood, witchcrime wasn’t something you bothered the authorities with.
The grubby tablecloth bore a design of yellow flowers and pink polka dots. Perfect. Under Glory’s scarf, nestling by her collar bone, she could feel the Devil’s Kiss begin to warm. She thought of its mark, purple-black, beating beneath her skin.
Glory concentrated on the tablecloth. In her mind’s eye, she recast the polka dots, so they were hot and red. She visualised gathering them up and pressing them, one after the other, into Trish’s forehead.
Trish put her hand to her brow, grimacing.
‘You all right?’
‘Bit of a twinge. I get these migraines sometimes.’
I know , thought Glory, her finger scraping Trish’s false nail against the plastic tray from which the pills had sprung. Pop, pop, pop, she thought, in time to the movement of the red spots.
‘Oof. Come out of nowhere, they do.’ Her victim got up and went to fetch herself a glass of water. ‘The doctor says it’s stress. Too much on me plate. But what can I do about that?’
‘Mm. You must be worried about Jimmy too.’
Trish stiffened at the mention of her brother. However, the approaching migraine made it hard to think. ‘I s’pose,’ she mumbled.
The time had come for Glory’s other find in the rubbish. Shreds of torn-up bills, typed in red. She would use their text to spell out the bane.
Behind Trish’s back, she mouthed Final Demand, Last Warning, sending the words, like the red-hot polka dots, into her target’s head. The painkillers’ plastic and foil packaging crinkled against her fingers.
‘About Jimmy,’ she said gently. ‘We’re all very anxious to find him.’
‘And like I told the coven, I don’t know where he’s gone,’ said Trish faintly.
‘But you must’ve some idea,’ Glory murmured.
Final Demand . . . red spots . . . popped foil . . .
Pop spot pop spot pop spot.
‘I need a lie-down –’
Yet somehow Trish could not move from the sink. She wanted to tell Glory to go away, but the pressure in her head was making her sluggish.
‘You’ll feel better soon,’ the girl soothed. ‘You just need to
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