‘Thank you, Genny.’ He looked down at the scowling inspector. ‘Ma’am,’ he said quietly, ‘the press are already outside. If Ms Taylor walks out now while we wait for a coven to arrive, there will be a lot of speculation.’

Crap. The last thing I needed was the papers speculating; I had enough problems being the only sidhe in London without the tabloids taking an interest in me again. But DI Crane didn’t need any more bad press where I was concerned either, not after she’d all but publicly accused me of murder not so long ago. I’d heard her superiors hadn’t been happy. Of course, they weren’t the only ones; I’d been pretty pissed off too.

Hugh lowered his voice further. ‘Ma’am, I think you’re allowing your personal feelings to cloud your professional judgement in this matter. It might be wise to take a moment to reconsider your decision and allow Ms Taylor to help with this particular situation.’

She flexed her beringed fingers as she turned her back on him and moved stiffly to contemplate the dead girl in the circle. Looked like Hugh’s ‘good cop’ routine was working … so maybe one last straw would break her.

‘Inspector,’ I said conversationally, ‘if it turns out the dead girl isn’t fully human, do you really want the fae community’—and by ‘fae community’ we both knew I meant Finn—‘to know you delayed matters unnecessarily?’

After a moment she turned, high spots of angry colour staining her cheeks. ‘Sergeant, you and Ms Taylor have made your points. If you can assure me of the undamaged retrieval of the spells, then I’ll authorise Spellcrackers.com to do so.’

Relief flooded into me. ‘Thank you, Inspector.’

‘Don’t thank me, Ms Taylor. Just remove the spells, and then remove yourself.’ She turned on her heel and strode out.

I narrowed my eyes at the circle. After dealing with Witch-bitch Crane, removing the spells was going to be the easy part.

Wasn’t it?

Ten minutes later, the authorisation forms were signed, my fee—hardly worth bothering with, if it weren’t for the principle—agreed, and the preparations nearly finished. Once DI Crane had capitulated, she’d gone into whirlwind mode; anyone would think she wanted shot of me!

I watched as she reached inside her briefcase and carefully extracted a large padded velvet bag. Slipping the bag off, she held up an unframed mirror the size of a dinner plate. ‘This is a solid silver castingmirror, Ms Taylor. I have two of them; one for each of the spells.’ She leaned over and gently positioned the mirror on top of its padded pouch inside the circle. ‘They are extremely costly. Please try not to damage them.’

I had no intention of even touching them; silver might well be the best way for witches to isolate magic—especially when you want to pick it apart at leisure—but it’s not the easiest to use when you’re allergic to it. My usual method— taggingunwanted spells to a salt block, then crackingthe salt block along with the spell—was messy but effective, but it wasn’t going to leave much to investigate. I could think of other things I’d be more comfortable transferring the spells to, like synthetic spell-crystals, or a lump of wood, even a plastic bucket—after all, magic isn’t fussy; with enough focus, spells can be attached to anything—but the DI was the one running the show, so the silver castingmirrors were it.

She stood up and waved a hand at the circle. The thick white candles standing at the five points—air, earth, fire, water and spirit—flickered into life, the red neon magic in the circle glittered like the Milky Way, and the smudge sticks of smouldering sage flared, their herbal smoke twisting up to gather, cloud-like, against the curved brick roof of the mortuary.

‘All ready for you, Ms Taylor,’ she said with a cheerful edge to her voice.

I stifled a grimace. Never mind the mirrors; I wasn’t happy about the rest of the magic show either, something she was well aware of, judging by her sudden change in attitude.

Trouble was, while magic might not be fussy—or something you can talk to or reason with—it definitely has a will of its own; and it tends to be unpredictable and capricious at times, especially around me. Being sidhe, and made of magic, has its disadvantages. Of course, witches are human—or at least their DNA doesn’t show the paternal sidhe side of their parentage—and they have their own disadvantage; they need all their textbook rituals in order to manipulate the magic. But, for me, all the DI’s extras just meant added complications.

I waved my own hand at the circle. ‘Is all the paraphernalia really necessary?’

‘Ms Taylor,’ she said briskly, ‘we’re in the centre of London, one of the busiest cities in the world, and I am responsible for its magical Health and Safety, among other things. We have to take precautions against every eventuality, no matter how slight. So yes, “all the paraphernalia”, as you so charmingly put it, is necessary.’

Probably true, though I was certain if she could get away with making things more difficult for me, she would. Needing more reassurance, I took stock of my audience. Constable Martin was staring studiously at nothing; she wasn’t going to grass up her boss. Hugh watched from near the mortuary’s entrance, his huge bulk almost blocking out the sunlight; he was on my side, but magic wasn’t his forte. The only other person around was on the opposite side of the circle: Doctor Craig, the doctor on police call.

He was crouched down, scratching his almost unreadable bird-footprint notes on the yellow pad balanced on his tweed-trousered knee. His familiar bald pate, with its halo of grey curls parting over his jug-like ears, gleamed in the candlelight. He looked up, as if suddenly aware I was studying him, gave me a vague smile along with a quick head-to-toe assessment, then returned to his yellow pad. He was famous for his note-taking at HOPE, the Human Other and Preternatural Ethics clinic, where he was doing hands-on research into 3V (vampire venom virus) and where I volunteered, and both his presence and the obsessive, scratchy noise of his pen made me more at ease.

He hit my internal radar as a straight human, though I knew he could seeand sensemagic, thanks to a touch of magical blood somewhere in his ancestry. And he’d always made it clear he’d be happier without the consultancy work he did for the police—making life better for the living was his thing—so no way was he in the DI’s pocket. And none of her preparations had fazed him.

Thinking about Dr Craig’s ethos reminded me why I was here. I looked at the girl; she was dead, but finding out what killed her—whether it was the curse or something else—and stopping it from happening again could make others’ lives better, maybe even save some too. So worrying about DI Crane having it in for me was wasting time. I dug out half a dozen liquorice torpedoes and crunched them quickly: the sugar boost makes it easier to work the magic. I handed my jacket to Hugh for safekeeping, touched Grace’s gold pentacle for comfort and offered up a brief prayer for success to whatever gods might be listening.

And stepped inside the circle.

DI Crane muttered something vaguely Latin-sounding behind me, magic prickled over my skin and the circle sprung up around me with an audible crack, like the jaws of a swamp dragon snapping shut. The dome of magic loomed over me like a giant inside-out multi-mirrored disco ball, reflecting my distorted face back at me, and I saw myself blinking in shock. What the hell had she drawnher circle with? This wasn’t standard. It should have been a nice clear dome, like a huge soap-bubble blown by a child. I took a deep, calming breath—

—it felt like I was trying to inhale a cactus—

Silver!

She’d put silver dust in the circle.