Chapter 23
Chapter
Twenty-Three
Thump. Mallory groaned and put her head underneath her pillow.
Thump. Thump.
The best way forward would be to hide in her bed until the apocalypse happened.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Surely there were only so many times you could replay the same event in your own head?
Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.
It appeared that she wouldn’t be allowed to bury her head after all; whoever was at her front door clearly wasn’t going away. She crawled out of bed, staggered out and flung it open.
From the tiny landing, Boris gave her an arch grin. ‘Good morning, Mallory. I’ll assume by your delayed appearance that you got lucky last night and there’s a delectable werewolf snoozing in your bed.’
Her only response was a grunt. She turned away and stomped into her kitchen to put the kettle on.
‘Ah. You didn’t get lucky then?’ the spriggan asked.
Lucky was not a word she would use to describe herself, not right now. ‘No,’ she muttered.
‘Do you have another hangover?’
‘No.’
‘Ohhhh.’ Boris nodded wisely. ‘I see what happened. It worked, didn’t it? Alexander MacTire fell for Isadora Jones and they’re tripping off together hand in hand into the sunset. You succeeded and now you feel like shit.’
‘If I succeeded, why would I feel like shit?’
‘Duh. Because you’re head over heels in love with him and the only person you want him to have a happy ending with is you. But he’s an alpha werewolf and you’re a…’
‘…squib,’ she muttered. ‘Just a squib.’ Her shoulders slumped.
‘Oh, Mallory.’ Boris reached for her and, with uncharacteristic kindness, pulled her into a hug. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘He didn’t fall for Isadora Jones,’ she mumbled into his shoulder. ‘He didn’t fall for anyone.’
Boris stepped back and squinted at her. ‘Is that good news? Or bad news?’
There wasn’t any answer to that so Mallory changed the subject. ‘What are you doing here on a Sunday morning?’
‘Vanessa Pitcairn, of course.’
She stared at him.
‘The bellarmine jug? She’s dropping it off.
I took the liberty of contacting Mr Longchamps to tell him that you’ve been successful.
He asked – surprisingly politely – if you’d take the jug to his house as soon as you can.
He’ll wait up for you instead of going to bed for the day as usual.
’ Boris beamed. ‘And Nicola Sturgess is ready to meet him tonight to hand over the Clouded Map. This entire sorry saga is almost at an end.’
‘Oh.’ Shit. With all that had happened with Alexander, Mallory had entirely forgotten about Longchamps and the damned bellarmine jug.
‘I can take the jug, if you like,’ Boris offered. ‘The faster it’s in that fangy bastard’s bony hands, the faster we’ll never have to think about him again.’
‘You hate vampires.’
‘Yeah, I do. But I can do this part.’
She shook her head. ‘No. It’s better if I deal with him.
’ She checked the time; it was only just gone eight o’clock and Vanessa was due at nine.
Hmm. ‘Mr MacTire is coming here at eleven. I’ll deal with Vanessa then take the jug to Chester Longchamps.
If I’m not back by eleven, let Mr MacTire in. He can wait until I get back.’
‘Mr MacTire? What happened to Alexander?’
‘It’s not appropriate to call him that. He’s a client, not a friend.’
‘Uh-huh.’
Mallory sighed. ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’ She glanced at the kitchen wall and the display of potential First Mate werewolf pictures and notes. ‘Let’s get this down before he arrives.’
Boris looked worried. ‘Are you alright, Mallory? You don’t seem yourself.’
‘I’m fine.’
He wasn’t appeased. ‘I’ll make the coffee and take these down. You have a shower and sort yourself out.’
Tears pricked the back of her eyes for no good reason whatsoever.
‘Go,’ he said gently. ‘I’ve got this.’
By the time that Vanessa Pitcairn arrived Mallory was feeling, if not better, slightly more like herself and she managed to smile at the High Priestess. She even remembered to offer her a cup of coffee.
‘No.’ Vanessa shook her head. ‘I’m on my way to brunch so I’ll decline. I simply wanted to thank you again for how wonderful you’ve been.’
She’d not been wonderful last night.
‘I know I’ve said it before,’ Vanessa continued, oblivious to Mallory’s inner turmoil, ‘but you’re a true miracle worker.’
Nope.
‘I don’t believe there’s anything you can’t be successful with.’
Not even remotely true.
‘You’re kind, helpful and truly amazing. And to think you’re a squib! It’s extraordinary.’
Mallory smiled so brilliantly she thought her face might crack. ‘Extraordinary. Thank you, Vanessa.’
‘Here.’ Vanessa handed over the box. ‘The bellarmine jug is inside, carefully wrapped. I didn’t want to drop it on the way here so I might have gone overboard with the packing.
This might be the last unused bellarmine jug in Coldstream – there’s a chance one or two of the renegade covens who live up north might have a spare jug, but I’m not sure.
Either way, you should take good care of this one. ’
Mallory didn’t need to be told twice. She opened the box and undid a portion of the packing material; it was most definitely a bellarmine jug, original and intact.
At least something had gone right, but that didn’t ease the aching hole in the centre of her chest. ‘Great.’ She forced far too sunny a smile.
‘You’re the best, Mallory,’ Vanessa said as she headed for the door.
The best at screwing everything up. Mallory smiled even more brightly. ‘You too, Vanessa! Good luck with the garden!’
From the look in Boris’s pale eyes, her forced good humour was worrying him. ‘Mallory…’
She dropped the act. ‘It’s fine, Boris,’ she said tiredly. ‘I’m fine.’ She held up the box. ‘At least we can draw a line under this business. I’ll go straight to Chester Longchamps.’
‘Okay. Are you sure I should let MacTire in? I’ll happily tell him to fuck off if you want me to. In fact, I’d enjoy doing just that.’
He likely would. ‘No,’ she replied. ‘I need to sit down and have a proper chat with him.’ Her stomach twisted at the thought but she reminded herself she was a grown woman.
She could do this. ‘I’ll be back here by quarter-past eleven at the latest. If I’m late, tell Mr MacTire to wait and that I apologise for my tardiness. ’
‘Take your time,’ the spriggan told her with a snort. ‘And don’t apologise. The longer he cools his heels, the more fun I’ll have.’
Mallory sighed. She had no idea what she would say to Alexander – Mr MacTire – but she had a couple of hours to come up with something. It would be alright, she told herself firmly. In the end, everything would be alright. It had to be.
It was the first time Mallory had been to the Longchamps’ residence in daylight and it looked far shabbier than it did in the dark.
She supposed that Chester didn’t care: he wouldn’t notice the patchy paintwork or register the way the magicked puddles of eternal blood on the stone steps looked fake when sunlight hit them.
Even so, she avoided the sticky red patches as she descended.
She gingerly lowered the precious box containing the bellarmine jug to the ground and knocked loudly.
Nobody answered, not even Eric, the grumpy and often abused thrall.
Mallory heard no footsteps and didn’t feel any discomfiting prickle suggesting that she was being watched. She knocked harder. Still nothing.
She nibbled on her bottom lip. She wanted to hand over the bellarmine jug as quickly as possible; it would be incredibly vexing to lug it all the way back home again.
After another few moments, she raised her fist and knocked again.
Third time lucky, but if nobody answered this time she’d give up and leave a message.
She waited, but it was only as she was reaching into her bag to scrabble around for a notepad and pen that she finally heard some signs of life from beyond the heavy front door.
She didn’t recognise the face that peered blearily through the grate. The woman with the unkempt hair and smudged eye make-up was definitely a thrall, but Mallory had never seen here before. She smiled politely. ‘Good morning. My name is Mallory Nash and—’
‘I know who you are.’
Considering that Mallory was bringing an item that Chester Longchamps had needed for several weeks, she’d anticipated a warmer welcome, but she wouldn’t be the only person in Coldstream who was having a shitty weekend and she would do well to remember that.
She didn’t smile sunnily or present this new thrall with a business-like facade; she no longer had the energy to pretend to be other than what she was. ‘Good,’ she said. ‘Then you can tell Chester that I’m here and I’ve brought his jug.’
‘It’s Lord Longchamps to you,’ the thrall replied shortly.
Mallory raised an eyebrow; even with her distracted state of mind, she could tell that something was wrong. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘There’s no problem.’
‘Is Lord Longchamps here?’
‘Yes.’
Mallory sighed. ‘Then let me in so we can get this business over and done with.’ The irritation in her voice would have shocked most people who knew her, but the thrall didn’t bat an eyelid.
‘You can leave the jug on the doorstep and I’ll take care of it,’ the woman said.
Not a chance. ‘Let me in, or I’m leaving and taking the jug with me,’ Mallory told her. The thrall rolled her eyes but at least she opened the door.
Nothing about the hallway appeared different or unsettling: it was the same grand interior as before, the same paintings lined the walls and the same shiny marble floor was at her feet.
She was even directed to the same uncomfortable wooden bench.
But there was something subtly different and Mallory was sure it was related to the thrall’s attitude towards her.
She sat on the bench and eyed the Cursed Portrait. This time the moustachioed painting didn’t speak, though he did give her a very long, very derisive stare. Hmm.