I clicked where I’d seen Miranda before: on the front of the glossy magazine Sylvia had shown me before the Librarian had taken back the fae’s curse-cracking books. The girl—or witch—had been in a jacuzzi, complete with a fancy cocktail and half a dozen older men, and the headline had shouted something about a curse, which was obviously why the fae had added the magazine to their collection.
I looked from Juliet to Hugh. ‘I take it someone’s checked on Miranda’s whereabouts?’
‘Miranda is thankfully alive and well and at the college,’ Juliet assured me. ‘This child is someone else. There has been a spate of this type of appearance-altering spell, where the wearer has chosen a figure in the public eye who hasn’t given their consent to any doppelgänger spells. The Witches’ Council has received a number of complaints about them. While it is not as important as finding out who is responsible for this poor girl’s death, finding which witch has been casting the spells might provide us with some valuable information in both cases.’
‘Which witch for which’ spell made me think of Ricou and his Johnny Depp Glamour. I filled Hugh in, and suggested Ricou might be able to help. The WPC returned with my plastic bucket, and Hugh sent her back out to fetch him.
‘How do you intend to do this, Genny?’ Juliet asked.
‘Can you see what looks like thick silly-string all over her?’ I asked, lifting a strand. She nodded, which was a small relief; not everyone saw the magic the same way. ‘Then it’s probably easier if you just watch.’
I touched the edge of the circle with my finger and activated it with my magic. It sprang easily up into a clear dome above us, luckily with no nasty surprises. The knot in my stomach eased slightly. I focused on the silly-string, then plunged my hands into the spell and called the magic.
Ten minutes later I wrestled the last of the silly-string off the girl and into the bucket. I wiped my hand over my forehead, then wished I hadn’t as the slimy residue of the magic stuck to me like the slug-slime the goblins use in their hair gel.
I gave an involuntary shudder, and anxiously checked the girl. Thankfully, even with the removal of the Preservative/ Stasis spell she hadn’t developed any obvious injuries, or started bleeding from head wounds, or suddenly taken a last gasp at life as the dead raven faeling had. The knot in my stomach eased some more in relief.
Remembering Ricou’s small spell tattoos on his inner arms, I slowly ran my fingers up the girl’s smooth, pale skin, stifling another shudder at the lifeless feel of it. Nothing on the left. I leaned over and started on the right, hitting pay-dirt—or rather, spell-dirt—just above her inner elbow. I focused, and let a tiny trickle of power drip into the spell sparking under my forefinger. The Glamour peeled away from her like a banana shedding its skin.
The beautiful blue-eyed, blonde fifteen-year-old was gone, and in her place was a green-eyed, green-haired, green-skinned female of around forty with deep bracketed lines running from her small nose to her pinched mouth. Huge drooping breasts and a roll of excess flesh around her waist and hips made her look as if she’d lost a lot of weight quickly. For a moment I thought she was a bean nighe, one of the dark fae, but then I realised she couldn’t be, because her body hadn’t faded after death. I brushed the dead faeling’s hair away from her ears to find they ended in a definite point. Not a bean nighe then.
‘Oh,’ Juliet gasped softly, as she placed her stethoscope over the female’s heart, ‘she’s a leprechaun faeling, isn’t she? I’ve never seen one before.’
I hadn’t either, but I had once seen a full-blood leprechaun: Juliet was right. I sat back on my heels as she checked the leprechaun faeling over, hoping that whatever had killed her had been quick and painless, and wondering who she was.
‘Her name’s Aoife,’ Ricou said, startling me.
I looked up to see him standing outside the circle. I hadn’t noticed him arrive, but the rest of the WPCs had, and they weren’t bothering to hide their stares. He was still in his Johnny Depp guise, but he’d taken his trilby off and was holding it against his chest, sadness etching his face.
‘Her father is a full-blood leprechaun,’ he continued, then turned to Hugh. ‘He came over from Ireland in the sixties and hitched up with a girl from Dagenham. They split when Aoife was still a kid. Her mum’s passed now, but her dad’s back over there. This will cut him up.’ He paused. ‘Aoife means beauty. She was beautiful too, when she was younger …’ He crushed his hat.
‘Is she anything to do with the Morrígan?’ I asked.
‘Her father’s from Rath Cruachán.’ Ricou frowned. ‘That’s in County Roscommon. Which is where the MacCúailnge, the Old Donn, hailed from, so she could be.’
Chapter Thirty-Seven
I leaned on the railing surrounding the mortuary dock and stared out over the Thames. The brisk wind blew my hair back and brought me the ozone scent of the river; rain was on the way. Ricou’s information about Aoife’s likely connection to the Morrígan had sent Hugh into detective sergeant mode and next thing I knew, we were all giving statements. I’d told Hugh everything about the Morrígan, the dreams, the Coffin Club and the vamps, and anything else I could think of (that The Mother’s gag clause would let me) that could possibly help. Then he’d asked me to wait while he checked a few things out.
I’d spent my waiting time dredging the Internet via my phone for info about Rath Cruachán. Google hits on the name brought up the Táin Bó Cúailnge—the Cattle Raid of Cooley—apparently fought over the ownership of Donn Cúailnge, a stud bull, who had once been fae. And Donn Cúailnge was linked to the Morrígan romantically (although ‘romance’ and ‘stud bull’ didn’t necessarily go together in my mind) and their romance had obviously borne fruit in the person of the Old Donn. Which meant the Old Donn was a horned wylde fae, and a prime candidate for The Mother’s photofit of the villain of the piece. If it wasn’t for everyone telling me he was dead, I’d have been pretty sure I’d found the faelings’ killer. Now I was back to thinking the photofit was symbolic, which wasn’t helping much in the whole killer identification stakes.
I turned at the sound of heavy footsteps to find Hugh approaching, carrying two takeaway cups. ‘So any chance you’re going to let me in on your evidence?’ I asked. Then I added, ‘The deaths are to do with the fertility curse, and the latest one does sort of implicate—’
‘If you will give me a chance, Genny.’ He smiled, his pink granite teeth gleaming in his ruddy face, and handed me one of the cups: hot chocolate. ‘From everyone’s statements and our own investigations, it appears that whoever is killing the faelings has resurrected the Between that is attached to the Tower of London.’
‘Which is where Victoria Harrier was trying to take me.’ I wrapped my hands around the hot cup, sending mental thanks to Sylvia that Victoria Harrier’s plans hadn’t succeeded.
‘Yes, Victoria Harrier does appear to be the lynchpin in all this,’ Hugh said. ‘She’s on the Board of Directors of a TV production company—Adonis Films—which is making a series of historical documentaries at the Tower. That is how she’s gained access, we think. There have also been rumours on the streets about “short-term work contracts”, aimed particularly at faelings, which lead back to Adonis. Who of course deny all knowledge.’
‘And that’s how they’re finding the girls,’ I said.
‘Yes,’ Hugh agreed. ‘Adonis is also the company that make the reality TV show at Morgan Le Fay College—where Victoria Harrier is one of the board of governors. The college appears to be where the Doppelgänger spells originate from.’