Page 25

Chapter 25

Voltaire studied me over a black coffee. His hair was as dark as his drink and his skin was as pale as the discarded milk. He was glaring at me openly, but there was nothing unusual in that.

We’d run into each other a time or two. Voltaire headed a team of the Red Guard, the vampyr elite who were responsible for killing necromancers. Necromancers can possess and control vampyrs like puppets, and understandably vampyrs don’t much like that. The last time we’d tangled, the necromancer had ended up dead but not at Voltaire’s hand. He’d been a bit pissed off about that.

Frogmatch had insisted on coming to the meeting but agreed to stay out of sight. A vampyr was going around collecting imp tails and, while I doubted it was Voltaire doing the harvesting, I was not going to risk Frogmatch. He was nestled in the folds of my voluminous skirt, hidden from view but close enough for me to feel his warmth through my clothes.

‘Speak, witch,’ Voltaire ordered.

I narrowed my eyes and deliberately took a slow sip of my cappuccino. Since he was being rude, I would be too.

Instead of asking his permission to rune, which would have been polite, I set the cup back down on the saucer and pulled out a paintbrush and a protection potion from my new tote bag. I painted runes on our wooden table: ansuz for communication, nauthiz for restriction and algiz for protection. That meant anything said at the table couldn’t be overheard. I pulled my magic forward and let the runes light up. Their glow told Rosie’s Other onlookers that we were discussing things of import, but that couldn’t be helped.

I trusted Maxwell, the owner of Rosie’s café, but his allegiance was to Roscoe and the Pit, not to me or the Coven Council. He had to do what was right for his people, the fire elementals, and I had to do what was right for mine.

‘Touch the table while you speak and none bar us three will hear what is said.’ Under the table, Frogmatch emerged from my skirt and leaned up to touch the underside of the table. Four of us, I corrected mentally .

Bastion leaned forward and placed one forearm casually on the table and Voltaire matched his movement. I simply laid my hand on it.

I studied Voltaire before I spoke. He was dressed in black jeans and a black polo shirt, casual-vampyr mode. I’d once seen him in full Red-Guard Regalia and it wasn’t an experience I was keen to repeat.

‘You got my message from Krieg?’ I started finally. The High King of the ogres had promised he would contact Voltaire to help me with my black-witch problem. Voltaire nodded tightly. ‘But that wasn’t enough to get in touch?’ I asked, exasperated.

‘You didn’t have information,’ he growled. ‘You wanted help. I don’t help witches, I kill them.’ He jerked his head towards Bastion. ‘I’m only here out of respect for Bastion.’ He folded his arms and leaned back then, grimacing, he unfolded his arms and placed one of them back on the table again. Heh.

‘I do have information,’ I said. ‘But I’m only sharing it if you share your information too.’ I felt a tug on my shoes and had to resist the urge to look under the table to see what the heck Frogmatch was doing.

‘Tell me your information and we’ll see,’ Voltaire said flatly.

‘No, that isn’t how this works. We’re an equal partnership or we’re nothing. Decide,’ I ordered abruptly. I sat back but kept my hand lightly on the surface of the wood.

Voltaire was visibly wrestling with himself. With a final glance at Bastion’s stony visage, he nodded. ‘Fine.’

‘Fine, what? Which is it, vampyr?’ I asked coolly, drawing the moment out. I couldn’t afford to have any mistakes or misunderstandings.

‘Partnership.’

I knew a little of vampyr customs; though it was disdainful in the extreme, the only way to bind him properly to his word was with an oath.

‘I will share with Voltaire of the Red Guard any and all information I have pertaining to any currently practising black witches or necromancers. I will answer any relevant questions put to me by him with honesty, and I will not seek to omit relevant details. As I will it, so mote it be.’ I glowed for a moment as the oath took hold.

With a reluctant twist of his mouth, Voltaire’s teeth elongated. He bit into his wrist and blood welled. ‘My oath that I will share with Amber DeLea any and all relevant information I have pertaining to any currently practising black witches or necromancers in the United Kingdom. I will answer any relevant questions put to me by her with honesty, and I will not seek to omit relevant details.’ He lifted his wrist to his mouth and lapped at it, sealing the wound with his healing spit and not wasting a single drop of his own precious blood.

‘Witnessed,’ Bastion said gruffly.

Voltaire and I had aligning goals, but I’d heard often enough that he was a vampyr who cared about results and wasn’t especially bothered if he made mistakes. He’d killed witches all over Europe. Some may even have been practising black magic. As I stared into his slate-grey eyes, I couldn’t help but feel I’d just made a deal with the devil.