CHAPTER Eight
The portal was already set up and waiting by the time I arrived back at the main building. It shimmered green and purple in the morning sun. If I didn’t know better, I thought ruefully, I’d think it was pretty. Instead my stomach was already churning at the idea of having to travel through one yet again. God knew how the mages managed to do this all the time and not end up with some permanently dodgy stomach condition. I tried to steel myself, imagining a wall of iron surrounding my intestines. It’ll be fine, I whispered to myself.
A black robe who I’d not yet met stood towards the edge of it, but I barely registered him, instead focusing on the swirling shapes and flickers of light. I took a step towards it, suddenly wishing that I’d not agreed to the counselling. Why in the hell couldn’t it just be held at the academy? I was pretty sure I could conjure up a few other names of mages who would benefit from spending an hour or two with a shrink.
I sneaked a peek at the mage who continued to stand stoically at the side, pointedly not looking at me. It didn’t appear as if I’d get any quarter from that area, so I took a deep breath and walked forward, pushing through to the other side.
Inevitably, as soon as I came through, the bile was rising in my throat. I did my best to fight it, swallowing it down and trying to focus on breathing deeply. It didn’t work. I managed to run a few steps away from the portal itself and then immediately began regurgitating up the remnants of the coffee. It occurred to me that if anyone ever wanted to take me down, then it would be pretty damn easy for them to just to wait for me to materialise through a portal. My temporary nausea induced incapacitation would then quickly become permanent and there’d be f*ck all I could do about it.
I rubbed my hands over the top of my head. At least I didn’t have to worry about ending up with bits of vomited carrot in my hair, I figured. I shrugged thoughtfully. Maybe I wouldn’t bother re-growing my hair out. Then I reminded myself of the charming nickname Mary had designated for me, and thought otherwise.
Looking around, it was clear that I was on the roof of a building somewhere. I walked over to the edge and peered down, but didn’t see anything I recognised. Not that it was such a huge surprise that I didn’t know where I was. After all, I was hardly an expert on London. I had kind of thought that maybe it would be near the Ministry, but it didn’t seem to be. Shrugging, I turned back, making for a small door that could only lead down to the counsellor’s offices.
The initial staircase heading downwards was considerably more plush than I’d been expecting. The walls were dotted with photos of what I could only presume were successful clients. I stopped at one that looked vaguely familiar. Damnit, I knew I’d seen him somewhere before, I just couldn’t work out where. I felt slightly comforted at least that there others who were brave enough to attest to the fact that they’d been here before. I wouldn’t be letting anyone even think of putting my photo up here, though. Absolutely not.
I emerged from the stairs into a small waiting area. Creamy leather couches stood against a lightly coloured mauve wall. There was a chrome coffee table, upon which sat the obligatory range of magazines to cater to different tastes, and a blonde receptionist behind a desk, smiling professionally at me.
I cleared my throat. “Er, I’m here for an appointment. My name’s Mackenzie Smith.”
The receptionist’s eyes widened slightly. I didn’t like that reaction very much and frowned to myself. She beckoned me to sit down on one of the sofas and then practically ran out of the room to get ‘refreshments’.
My eyes narrowed. Something was going on here that I definitely did not like. Out of habit, I reached behind my head for the silver needles that I used to keep secreted away there, then I remembered that they had been taken away from me far too long ago. Instead of sitting down, I leaned over the desk to look for something I could use in case this was an ambush. I had no idea who or what might be after me now, but experience taught me that you could never be too prepared. My eyes fell on a silver coloured fountain pen and I smiled grimly. That would do.
Unscrewing the top, I palmed the pen, concealing it within the sleeves of my robes. It might not be a throwing dagger but it was better than nothing. Down the corridor from where the receptionist had disappeared, I heard a door open. My body tensed, and I moved to the opposite wall where I’d have optimum access if this really turned out to be something that required more than my usual attention.
Adrenalin began mixing with bloodfire and I could feel trickles of anticipated heat filtering through. I realised that there was a part of me hoping that this actually was some kind of nasty out to get me. It might even help me get rid of some pent up aggression before the real anger management. I frowned. As long as it wasn’t actually the counsellor himself who was hoping for a bit of action, of course. The sound of heavy measured footsteps approaching down the corridor filled the small space. That definitely wasn’t the receptionist returning. I clutched the pen tighter and prepared myself for whatever it might be. The footsteps got louder and louder, and then abruptly stopped just around the corner from where I was. I knew that their owner would be able to see that the couches were empty. That was unfortunate as it meant that I might just have lost the element of surprise. It was of little matter, however; I was confident enough that I could take on whatever was coming.
And then I inhaled.
“F*ck!” I slammed my hand against the wall and pushed myself off, rounding the corner to greet the unwelcome owner of that ever so familiar citrus spice aftershave.
“Hello, kitten,” purred Corrigan.
I shoved a hand into his chest as if to push him away, but he remained immobile, smiling down at me with the predatory gleam of his were. His green eyes danced with amusement.
“What the f*ck are you doing here?” I snarled.
He painted on a look of melodramatic hurt. “Why are you being so aggressive? I thought we were friends now.”
“We were never friends,” I enunciated carefully. “Now tell me just what exactly you’re doing here.”
Corrigan took a step towards and, before I could twist away, grabbed hold of my wrist. The pen clattered to the floor. He raised an eyebrow. “Are you going to ink me to death?”
“Get your hands off me!” I shrieked with a wail akin to a banshee.
His grip, in answer, merely tightened. I sucked in the scent of him, aware of how close we were. He’d clearly completely recovered from the effects of the red fever, and was looking far too good in a crisp white shirt that dazzled against the tan of his skin and his inky black hair. I swallowed and yanked my hand away harder, this time succeeding in pulling loose.
He gazed at me, a faint line of puzzlement etching its away onto his brow. “What’s going on? I thought we parted on good terms.”
I looked away, unable to deal with those emerald eyes searing their way into me. “You told the mages all about me! About what happened in Cornwall and the fact that I wasn’t strong enough to beat Iabartu.”
He reeled back momentarily, then recovered. “No,” he said slowly, “I told the mages that you were stronger than virtually any shifter I’d ever come across, and that you did well by almost besting a demi-goddess. I wanted them to appreciate your strength. By knowing more about you, I figured they could help train you to be even stronger than you already are.”
“Do you have any idea how patronising that sounds?” I spat, raging at the idea that he thought I needed his protection. “And besides, I know it’s bullshit. You’re just pissed off that I decided to go with them instead of stay with you. Well, guess what, buster? I’m having a great time! It turns out I am pretty good at all this mage stuff. I don’t need you sticking your nose in.”
“Is that right? Because the way I hear things, you’re not doing so hot. In fact there was something about you almost getting kicked out for losing your temper. Isn’t that why you’re here?”
I turned back to look him in the eye. “You’re getting reports on me? You have no right, Corrigan. I’m not part of the pack so you can f*ck right off.”
“You saved my life,” he said softly. In fact so softly that I barely heard him. “In some cultures that means that you’re now responsible for me for life.”
“Well then it’s just fortunate that’s not my culture then, isn’t it?”
A muscle throbbed in his jaw. “This is not going quite how I’d planned it.”
“My heart bleeds for you.” I spun around and went over to the sofa, plonking myself, and crossing both my arms and legs. “Now please leave. I have a very important appointment to keep.”
He ignored me and moved over to the opposite couch, carefully sitting down himself. “Your new haircut, it, um, suits you. It’s quite dramatic.”
I eyeballed him angrily. ‘Oh, you’re going to have to do so much better than that, Corrigan.”
He leaned over, forcing me to uncross my arms so he could take both my hands in his. An involuntary shiver ran up my spine. “So give me the chance then.”
“F*ck off.”
Corrigan sighed irritably and then frowned and looked down. His body tensed in anger. “What the hell happened to your hand?”
I was rather taken aback by the vehemence in his voice. “Nothing. I just needed some air so I punched a hole in a window, alright?”
“Did someone hurt you?”
“No.” I pulled my hands back and crossed them against my chest again.
“Mack, I mean it.” The look in his eye was frightening. “Did one of the mages do this to you?”
“No, Corrigan,” I said tiredly. “I did this to myself.”
He stared at me for a moment, as if trying to ascertain the truth. “Fine, then. But, know this, I’m on your side, whether you believe it or not.”
I snorted, then wished I hadn’t as the noise that came out of was quite ridiculously unladylike.
“And anyway, Mack,” he continued, “if you really want to avoid my attentions quite this much, then you should perhaps not flash me quite so much skin.’
My head jerked up at him, confused. He smirked broadly and gestured downwards. With horror, I realised that the rip in my robes had somehow increased even more since I’d put them on in the morning and they were now gaping open all the way up to the edge of my hip. I stood up hastily, more annoyed by the flush of embarrassment now flooding my face than anything else. Corrigan leaned over and chucked me on the chin.
I’ll be seeing you, kitten.
I growled at him again, but he pulled open the door and left, laughter rebounding back across the room. For my part, I kicked the coffee table, overturning it and sending the magazines flying. Outf*ckingstanding.
*
I was picking the magazines back up when the receptionist came back into the room. She flicked me a nervous glance.
“Whatever happened to patient confidentiality?”
“Um, excuse me?”
“Patient confidentiality,” I repeated, annoyed, then gestured at the door that Corrigan had just left from.
“That was the Lord Alpha,” she explained patiently.
“I know it was the Lord freaking Alpha!” I yelled. “How did he know I was going to be here?”
“Ohhhh, I see.” She nodded sagely. “I have no idea. He just showed up and told us he was going to wait for you. Certainly no-one from this office told him you were going to be here. Why on earth would we?”
The look she sent me left no doubt as to the fact that she patently had no idea why the leader of all shifters would have any kind of interest in a bald girl wearing a crumpled blue robe that had a huge rip up the side and who spent her free time going to anger management classes. Actually, maybe she had a point there. But that didn’t change the fact that now that not only couldn’t I trust Corrigan, it meant I couldn’t trust the mages either. One of them must have blabbed to the shifters about me being here. Probably the same person who thought it would be fun to let him know I was flunking out of magic school.
I scowled to myself.
The receptionist cleared her throat, nervously. “Uh, Miss Smith? You’re, uh, burning.”
I glanced down at my hands. Both were aflame with deep green light that danced over my skin. I sniffed and realised that not only had the bandage round my hand caught alight and burnt away almost to nothing, but now the sleeves of my robes were on fire too. Jesus. Couldn’t the bloody mages have been smart enough to pick some flame retardant cloth for their stupid uniform?
“The bathroom’s down that way,” the receptionist said helpfully.
“Great, thanks,” I muttered, before heading down the corridor to douse myself with water. This was not one of my better days.
When I emerged from the small bathroom, a man wearing a well tailored suit was standing outside waiting for me.
“Miss Smith? It’s a pleasure to have you here. I’m Jacoby Bryant. Please, if you’re now quite ready, perhaps you can follow me?”
I glanced down at myself. The sleeves of my robes were hanging down in ragged wet strips, slapping the edges of my bare skin, while the rip in the fabric up my leg was high enough now to not look out of place in any good stripper bar. One of the wounds on my hand had decided to open up and was oozing bright red blood so I quickly moved it up to my mouth to suck it away. Judging by what had happened so far, this was definitely an Otherworld venue so I’d have to be careful with where I spilt my blood. I smiled through my hand and curtsied with as much graciousness as I could muster and as if I looked like this every day of my life.
“Of course, Mr Bryant. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
For his part, at least, his gaze didn’t flicker. He just gestured me further along the corridor to a small room. Once inside, he pulled out a chair for me and then sat opposite.
“So Miss Smith, why don’t you tell me where you feel the problems are?”
I looked at the man, and felt a deep inward pain. I couldn’t even begin to tell him where my problems lay. How would the fact I’m secretly some kind of strange dragon human hybrid go down, I wondered? That I could barely control the hot angry blood inside of me? I was tempted, oh so very tempted to spill every little secret I had right there and then. But I knew deep down that no good would come of it. So instead, I rocked back in the chair and forced my body to relax. Then I looked him in the eye and just flat out lied.
*
By the time I returned retching to the academy, I had a whole host of calming techniques at my disposal. Bryant had recommended that I count to ten and practise some deep breathing and relaxation exercises whenever I felt the need to ‘lash out’ as he put it. It seemed like the sorts of things you’d tell an errant child having a temper tantrum, but he assured me that they really would work. I’d spun him vast and varied tales about what pissed me off and how I reacted to such situations. Not once did I mention that there was fire inside me that took over so I kind of had my doubts as to how effective such techniques were really going to be. And as much as I wanted to not fly off the handle at every slightest thing, and to be in more control of myself, I also knew that my bloodfire was what kept me strong. It was what kept me alive. I felt as if I was being torn in two separate directions: on the one hand I couldn’t trust myself to not hurt others whenever the bloodfire flared, and on the other I couldn’t trust myself to not personally get hurt if I didn’t let it happen. I eventually decided that context was everything. If I felt in danger – or if someone else was being threatened and I was there - then I’d let all hell break loose. If not, then I’d try counting and breathing, and if that worked, then great. Otherwise, watch out.
Needing to focus on something to keep Corrigan out of my head, I headed straight up to my little room and the mysterious book that kept tugging at me. I was bitterly aware of just how long it was going to take me to translate the sodding thing – but the one thing that I had ample amounts of now I was stuck at the academy was time. So I positioned myself cross-legged on my lumpy bed, opened both the book and the dictionary, and pulled out a pencil and notepad that I’d managed to snarf earlier on.
Unfortunately I was more than prophetically right at how slow-going my weak translation efforts were. Not only that, but looking up individual words on their own wasn’t aiding me particularly in making total sense out of what was on the page. After an hour of trying, I’d ended up with “In times past, tends steel dragon breathing fire was in the possession of the sky and the earth.” Ummm. Steel dragon? What the f*ck was that? I supposed that I should probably be grateful that the book wasn’t actually some ancient romance or pulpy thriller, and actually was about something that seemed like it might be to do with me. But that just added to my overall frustation with the thing. If this sodding book kept trying to find me, and was indestructible enough to avoid being burnt to a cinder when the Clava Cairns bookshop burnt down, then why on earth couldn’t it help me work out what it actually said?
I kept Bryant’s techniques in mind, and took a few minutes out to breathe deeply. Somehow or other it did indeed have a calming effect, and I eventually relaxed, and tried the next sentence. Chewing hard on the end of the pencil, and furiously flicking through the dictionary from one end to the other, the end result was, “These majestic creatures ruled with no small scarcity of mercy and grace, their innate strength of mind and body power allowing the poise and compassion through every dimension.”
Okay, that seemed to make virtually no sense whatsoever. The dragon or dragons (made of steel?) were in charge but still full of grace and mercy? For some ridiculous reason, I had sudden visions of a benign dragon-shaped version of Ming the Merciless wearing armour and pirouetting down a street. Not helpful. That translation was then followed by, “Is written and said and passed down through generations, that one such creature breathing fire and fell under the spell of the witch who were so impressed this charming dragon force they needed to harness their capabilities. Thus, worked her magic and true woman was able to convert the beast to the human form.”
I paused for a while, biting my lip. Dodgy pronouns and bizarre grammar aside, I thought I might just understand what was going on. Some female mage (of course it was a mage – who else would be stupid enough to stick their nose in where it didn’t belong?) had weaved some kind of spell to turn a dragon into a man because she liked the look of him. This was all becoming just a little too Greek myth-esque for my liking. I sighed and gave up for the time being, heading down to get some food from the cafeteria instead. At least the weekend had virtually arrived so, other than my promised session teaching Mary and the few other Level Fours who weren’t too scared to talk to me some ‘real’ Protection, I was confident I’d have more time to attack the next few pages of the book with some renewed gusto and verve.