Squib

Book 1: The Coldstream Chronicles

by Helen Harper

Genres: Urban Fantasy; Paranormal; Romantic Fantasy

Synopsis

She's supposed to find him the perfect match. Falling for him herself was not part of the deal.

Mallory has zero magic. No spells, no shape-shifting and no flashy Preternatural strength. But in the magical city of Coldstream, Mallory has made knowledge her power and she turns secrets and favours into currency.

Enter Alexander MacTire: alpha werewolf, wealthy businessman, and walking temptation. He wants Mallory to find him a mate. She wants absolutely nothing to do with him.

But MacTire isn't used to hearing no—and Mallory's not immune to his charm, no matter how hard she tries. What starts as a reluctant business arrangement soon turns into something dangerously personal. Because the more she gets to know him, the less she wants to help him find love ... with anyone but her.

The first book in the Coldstream Chronicles is jam-packed full of magic, mayhem, and slow-burn heat. It can be read as a standalone or alongside The Cat Lady Chronicles.

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Release date: January 13, 2026

Print pages: 303

Sample

Chapter One

The stone steps leading from pavement level to the dark maw of the basement of the narrow,
terraced house were the stuff of nightmares for anyone with even the mildest of vampire phobias.
Or, Mallory reflected, anyone wearing high heels.
There were glistening patches of dark, wet blood in several places; they looked fresh, as if
at least one unsuspecting victim had dribbled their last drops of the red stuff as they were being
dragged underground, but that was an unlikely scenario despite the location.
Doubtless the blood had been there for months, kept slickly moist by a handy flash of
witch-induced magic. It was a clever trick because a good number of people, whether they hailed
from Coldstream or elsewhere, would steer clear. Two things that vampires universally despised
were nosy parkers and cold callers. The steep claustrophobic steps and the puddles of sticky
blood would discourage both.
Fortunately, although Mallory owned two pairs of devastatingly sexy heels, they were
reserved for more congenial occasions than this one. Currently she was wearing grubby high-
tops which had seen better days. It was just as well.
Avoiding the blood, she descended carefully; flat shoes or not, this wasn’t the time to rush
and end up on her arse. She was a professional conducting a business call and there were
standards to maintain.
Mallory knew there would be at least one pair of eyes watching her from behind the
shuttered door at the foot of the steps, whether via magical means or through a more mundane
peephole. There was a lot to be gained from the five-hundred-year-old vampire she was due to
meet and first impressions were important. He wouldn’t care what shoes she was wearing but he
would care if she appeared clumsy or nervous.
Remember to breathe. Relax. You’ve got this. She had lived in Coldstream for more than
ten years, but annoyingly she still found anxiety got the better of her at times. It was a good thing
she was adept at masking her true feelings; compensating for her negative emotions with a
display of ebullient confidence usually worked well.
Once the danger had passed and Mallory reached the door, she lifted her chin and allowed
herself a moment to prepare. She inhaled deeply and tightened her toes, an old calming technique
she’d learned years before. Then she relaxed, raised her hand and knocked.

From the other side of the door there was a shuffling sound followed by a scraping thud as
the square grate in its centre was slid open and an irritated face scowled out.
The doorman wasn’t vamp. Judging by his clammy, grey pallor he was merely a thrall, a
servant who willingly yielded to the vampires in all things in the hope of one day being turned.
That was quite a gamble to take with your life. Mallory was well aware of the statistics:
typically, only one in every thirteen thralls was allowed to become a full-blooded vampire.
Three or four people came to her every year requesting her services in return for a leg up
with the vampires. Although plenty of vamps didn’t bother with thralls, she could help someone
become one if that was what they desired, but she had no control over what happened after that.
Vampires were notoriously mercurial. People lined up to join them, desperate to partake in the
dubious delights of an unnaturally long life. Some remained in thrall until their dying days,
others abandoned the enterprise after a month or two of unrelenting servitude. Very, very few
were turned true vamp.
None of Mallory’s clients had ever made the full-fanged leap. Although it would be
beneficial to her if they did because she’d have a direct line to all things vampish, she was
secretly pleased. Foregoing sunlight forever and drinking blood would be bad enough, but
vampires were cold creatures and the longer they lived, the worse they became. Every passing
decade stripped them of another streak of humanity until they were little more than unfeeling
husks on legs. When you lived for hundreds of years, everything quickly became boring – and, in
Mallory’s opinion, bored vampires were dangerous vampires.
She wasn’t one to judge the life choices of others, however, so she gave the grumpy thrall
a friendly smile. ‘Good evening.’ She nodded politely. ‘My name is Mallory Nash. I have an
appointment with Chester. He’s expecting me.’
The thrall’s scowl deepened. ‘You’re early.’
By three minutes. Mallory didn’t allow her smile to dim. ‘Shall I wait out here?’
He rolled his eyes expressively, suggesting that her question was completely unreasonable,
then sighed heavily. ‘You may come in.’ He sniffed wetly. ‘I suppose.’ He slammed the grate
closed and there was a clink as he slid back a bolt. The door creaked and, finally, Mallory gained
admittance.
It wasn’t her first time walking into a vampire’s lair and it likely wouldn’t be her last. A lot
of Mallory’s job involved keeping schtum about her clients; she would never admit who she had

worked for in the past and the thrall would never learn how many times she’d walked into a
vampire’s house under similar circumstances. She knew enough to look awe-struck as he led her
into the grand hallway with its flocked red wallpaper and stern paintings lining the walls.
Vampires liked it when the hoi-polloi admired both them and their surroundings. Much
like the rest of the society, they wanted their life – or rather their undead – choices to be
validated. As a mere squib, Mallory was supposed to be more impressed than other Coldstream
citizens and she reacted accordingly; she knew the game and she knew her place.
The thrall gestured to an uncomfortable looking wooden bench elaborately carved with
gleaming fleur-de-lis along the back, and grizzled lions with bared teeth on each arm. Sadly the
carver’s skill hadn’t extended to making it a pleasant place to sit. In Mallory’s experience,
comfort often took a backseat to beauty, more’s the pity.
‘Sit there,’ the thrall instructed. ‘When Lord Chester is ready, I shall return and fetch you.’
Both the thrall and Lord Chester were exerting their power in an unnecessarily showy
manner, and they’d doubtless leave her waiting for at least an hour before she was allowed any
further into the building. Mallory checked her watch. She’d cool her heels for seven minutes but,
as much as she wanted this contract, she wouldn’t demean her reputation by waiting any longer
than that. The vampires weren’t the only ones with appearances to maintain and she had another
appointment to meet before the night was out.
The easiest way to hurry things along and get what she wanted would be to ingratiate
herself with the thrall. ‘Thank you so much. What’s your name?’
His eyes narrowed. ‘Why do you want to know?’
‘You seem like a nice fellow,’ she lied. ‘And it’s always good to put a name to a face.’
His suspicion lessened a fraction but he was clearly still wary. ‘Most people who come
here don’t care what my name is.’
Mallory felt a flash of sympathy. ‘I’m not most people.’
He gave her a long look. Finally, with palpable reluctance, he said, ‘It’s Eric.’
She beamed. ‘Nice to meet you, Eric.’
‘You still have to wait.’
‘Not a problem.’ Still smiling, she sat down while the thrall vanished down the hallway.
As soon as she’d placed her hands on her lap, a low hiss filtered through the air. ‘You’re
going to die.’

Mallory raised an eyebrow but didn’t otherwise react.
The voice tried again. ‘He will drain your blood. He will sink his fangs into your neck and
suck every drop from your body until you are nothing more than a dried shell. Your skin will be
parchment. Your hair will be straw. Your body will be dust.’
Uh-huh. Presumably the voice was referring to Chester, who certainly wasn’t a real lord
regardless of what the thrall had said. Four hundred and thirty-two years ago, Chester
Longchamps had been a Yorkshire farm labourer who’d had the misfortune to get a landowner’s
daughter pregnant. He’d fled the county when it became clear that his offer of marriage was
unwelcome and that he’d more likely find himself dangling on the end of a noose than waiting at
the end of an aisle.
He'd found his way to Coldstream and ingratiated himself enough with the local vamps to
be turned. Mallory hadn’t been able to discover what had happened to his erstwhile girlfriend or
their child, though she could imagine.
‘Nobody will remember you,’ the voice whispered. ‘Nobody will find you.’
Although she possessed no Preternatural powers, Mallory was certain that she was the only
creature capable of breath in the hallway, so she raised her eyes and examined the paintings
along the far wall. There was a rich seascape deftly painted in amber hues that could well be an
original Turner. Next to it was a portrait of a moustachioed man in funereal black holding a skull
in one hand and a glowing poker in the other. Beyond him, she spotted a farm scene replete with
stocky ponies with dead eyes.
She returned her attention to Moustache Man and was rewarded when he blinked. ‘Hello!’
she said cheerfully.
The Cursed Portrait didn’t respond. Mallory dropped her gaze.
‘Your death will be painful. You will…’
She looked at the portrait again and the voice fell silent abruptly. Mallory gave him an
encouraging nod. ‘Go on.’ He glared at her. She waited but it appeared nothing more would be
forthcoming.
She shrugged and leaned back, ignoring the petals of the wooden fleur-de-lis that were
jutting into her spine. Some Cursed Portraits were chattier than others; this particular example
was clearly a less verbose type, at least when he was under direct scrutiny.

She crossed her legs and continued to gaze at him. His tense expression, obvious despite
the cracked eggshell paint, indicated that he was enjoying the experience far less than she was.
A high-pitched scream sounded from somewhere in the house, too far away for Mallory to
discern whether it was born of true fear or merely a playful shriek. Perhaps it was nothing more
than another attempt to throw her off-balance. She pursed her lips and checked her watch again,
then smoothed down her skirt, stood up and started walking towards the front door.
‘What are you doing?’ It was Eric, the thrall, who’d appeared out of nowhere.
Mallory turned her head and glanced at him. ‘I’m leaving.’
‘But Lord Chester hasn’t seen you yet.’
She waved an airy hand. ‘Unfortunately I can’t wait here all night. I have other
appointments to keep. If he’d like to reschedule, he knows how to reach me.’ She reached for the
door.
Eric began to splutter. ‘But … but … but…’
A mellifluous voice interrupted. ‘But I can see you now, Ms Nash.’
Mallory paused and squinted. Towards the end of the hallway was a tall dark figure. She
couldn’t make out his features but there was no doubt that this was Chester Longchamps.
Excellent: her display of brash confidence had paid off. She didn’t say anything; the ball was in
his court now. He understood the game as well as she did.
‘I apologise for keeping you waiting,’ he went on.
Mallory couldn’t tell if the loud snort came from the Cursed Portrait or Eric, but she was
betting on the former. It didn’t matter. The vampire had acknowledged his tardiness and
apologised and now she could be gracious.
‘Very well,’ she said. ‘Would you like to discuss your business here?’
‘No, we’ll retire to my drawing room. Please, come with me.’ He melted into the shadows
beyond the hallway leaving Mallory little choice but to follow.
‘You’re going to die,’ the Cursed Portrait hissed again as she passed it.
‘Not today,’ she murmured in response. And not by vamp. Chester Longchamps had just
proved that he needed her far more than she needed him.

* * *

Chester’s drawing room wasn’t any cheerier than his hallway. Mallory was unsure what
design aesthetic he was aiming for, but there was certainly an eclectic array of furniture. The
room contained everything from a Jacobean sideboard to a 1920s’ art-deco mirror to a Brutalist
coffee table that she was sure she’d seen only the previous month in a glossy magazine featuring
the home of a premier league footballer and his glamorous wife.
She couldn’t stop herself checking to see whether Chester’s reflection appeared in the
mirror. He caught her looking and smiled. ‘Look,’ he said and waved at it. ‘No hands!’
Mallory found she was smiling back at him. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude.’
His response was genial. ‘I understand such curiosity. I can offer you a canapé – which
most definitely will not contain garlic. You will find that all the windows in this property have
been boarded up for the past three centuries. And,’ he added, with only a hint of smarminess, ‘I
do sleep in a coffin.’
She blinked.
‘It provides a more restful sleep,’ Chester explained.
‘Good to know,’ she murmured.
She looked him over. For a vampire of his age, he was remarkably well-preserved. His
eyes didn’t contain much warmth but there was little evidence of the sunken skin she’d noticed
on other aged vamps. His pallor told of centuries of avoiding the sun, but he’d been canny with
make-up – either that, or he had a sunbed hidden away somewhere. Could vampires use
sunbeds? She pondered the question. She genuinely had no idea.
Sunbed or not, Chester Longchamps was clearly someone who cared a great deal about his
appearance and was keen to avoid looking like death in the way that some of his kin enjoyed. His
rail-thin body was clad in a light-blue jersey fabric as if he were relaxing after a long run.
The notion that he was attempting to appear casual to put her at ease dissipated quickly
when a young woman – another thrall – came into the room with a small dagger in her hand. She
sliced open her wrist with practised ease and raised it to Chester’s mouth. He drank greedily,
slurping her blood while maintaining eye contact with Mallory. When he was done, he licked the
thrall’s skin so that his saliva would heal her wound.
It was considered passé for vampires to use their fangs to pierce skin, probably because it
suggested a lack of consent on the thrall’s part. Nevertheless, the act made Mallory shiver.

Despite her many encounters with vampires, she’d not witnessed any of them feed. It was an
intimate deed and watching it made her feel like an unwelcome intruder.
‘I am not long awake,’ Chester said by way of explanation. ‘I find I require considerable
refreshment before I can attack the night.’ He nodded at the thrall, dismissing her.
Mallory suddenly had the thought that the act hadn’t been intended to throw her off-
balance but to indicate that he had vulnerabilities and needs. Regardless of the initial lack of
welcome, Chester Longchamps didn’t want her to feel intimidated. That was … interesting.
He dabbed at his mouth with a light-blue handkerchief that perfectly matched his athleisure
attire then beckoned Mallory to a nearby chair. Good: he was prepared to get down to business
quickly. She might still make her next appointment in time.
‘You are a squib, Ms Nash,’ he said. It wasn’t a question. ‘When I first heard of your
services, I admit I was sceptical. However, you come highly recommended.’
Mallory certainly hoped so; she’d worked hard to develop her reputation as somebody who
got stuff done.
‘What is your success rate?’
‘Near perfect,’ she answered without missing a beat. ‘The last time I didn’t manage to
fulfil a client’s request was more than three years ago.’ And that had been because the client in
question – a troll called Bertie – had provided false information. It could be argued that the
failure had not been hers.
Chester stroked his chin. ‘And you deal solely in secrets and favours? You do not require
monetary compensation for your efforts? Because frankly that would be far easier and, I suspect,
far less costly in the long run.’
‘My terms were made clear to you before my arrival.’ She kept her tone pleasant.
He tilted his head and examined her. ‘You present yourself as flowers and sunshine, Ms
Nash, but in truth you possess a core of steel.’
‘Titanium,’ Mallory told him. Coated in radioactive nuclear waste. She didn’t add that last
part; it would have been overkill.
The vampire barked a cold laugh. ‘Yes. Ha! Titanium indeed. Very well.’ He leaned
forward. ‘I can count on your discretion?’
‘Absolutely. Whether we proceed with an arrangement or otherwise, I will reveal nothing
about this meeting.’

‘Strangely, I believe you. Very well, then.’ Chester paused for a moment before
continuing. ‘What I am seeking is an object. I would like to get my hands on … the Clouded
Map!’ he finished with a dramatic flourish.
There was no accompanying drumroll although Mallory sensed that he expected one. If
she’d known what the Clouded Map was she might have agreed, but alas she’d never heard of it.
She knew better than to say that aloud, however. ‘I see,’ she said, keeping her expression
studiously blank.
Oblivious to her ignorance, Chester went on. ‘I appreciate it is a mammoth task. If it helps,
I do not wish to retain the Clouded Map permanently. I would simply like to borrow it for a short
period – twelve months at the most. Then I will happily return it to the Witches’ Council.’
Well, at least now she knew who owned the map. Now the vampire’s reasons for
approaching her made sense: the witches didn’t lend anything without good reason and
considerable compensation, and they wouldn’t strike a deal with a vampire under any normal
circumstances.
‘Why do you need it?’ she asked.
‘I am not at liberty to say.’ Chester responded smoothly.
Mallory shrugged. ‘I don’t require specifics, but if I am to approach the Witches’ Council
on your behalf I need to know if your temporary possession will help you harm another sentient
being in any way. And I am certainly not willing to participate, even indirectly, in any criminal
activity.’
‘I can assure you,’ he said with a stiffness that suggested he was affronted by her
suggestion, ‘that there is nothing criminal or underhand about this venture.’
He hadn’t answered her so she pressed the question. ‘Will you use it to harm another
sentient being?’
His eyes shifted. Oh dear.
Despite her earlier statement about criminality, potential violence wasn’t necessarily a deal
breaker for Mallory – this was Coldstream after all – but she wanted to know what she was
getting into so she could make an informed decision.
There was a short silence before he replied, ‘Not without provocation.’
She sighed; he was being deliberately obscure. ‘I’ll need you to elaborate on that.’

‘Titanium,’ he murmured. ‘Very well. Before we proceed, I require your spoken vow that
you will not repeat anything I tell you to anyone else.’
‘I’ve already told you I will not reveal what is discussed here to anyone else and, as we’ve
already established, I am a squib. I do not suffer the same consequences for breaking my word as
a Preternatural does.’
Chester nodded. ‘I’m aware that is the case, but I would still like your word. In the
unlikely event that you break your vow, there will still be consequences.’ His cold eyes gleamed
and for a second Mallory had a glimpse of the predator lurking beneath his artificially enhanced
skin.
‘Consequences that you will carry out personally?’ she enquired lightly, pretending that
her heart rate hadn’t suddenly ratcheted up.
His only answer was to curl the corners of his thin mouth into a half-smile.
Despite her reputation as a trustworthy broker of secrets and favours, Mallory was often
presented with similar promises of violence; it was par for the course in her line of work and she
wasn’t offended. She certainly had no doubt that Chester Longchamps would carry out his threat
if she talked. She’d probably be disappointed if he didn’t.
‘Very well,’ she said. ‘You have my spoken vow that I will reveal nothing of what is
discussed within these four walls to any soul.’
Chester leaned back and relaxed slightly. ‘Thank you.’ He drew in a quick breath. ‘I
require the Clouded Map to locate a creature who has been attacking vampires. This creature has
caused several deaths.’
‘Vampire deaths?’
‘We are not truly immortal, Ms Nash. Nobody is.’
Mallory knew that, but she was still surprised because killing vampires wasn’t an easy
task. Yes, it happened from time to time but it was rare. ‘You want to kill this creature?’
‘I want to prevent any further deaths among my kind. If killing the culprit is the only way
to achieve that, then that is what will happen. If an alternative solution presents itself, then that
will be acceptable.’
Mallory eyed him. She could be mistaken but she was certain she saw a glimmer of fear in
the old vamp.
‘Ms Nash,’ he said quietly. ‘Mallory. We are desperate.’

Every client presented a gamble in some way but Mallory suspected that everything
Chester Longchamps had told her was the truth despite the aggression lurking beneath his calm
facade. The fact that he’d now switched pronouns and was referring to all vampires rather than
himself sealed the deal as far as she was concerned. ‘Okay,’ she said.
His eyebrows shot up. ‘That’s it? You will procure the Clouded Map for us?’
She smiled slightly. ‘I didn’t say that. What I will do is find out whether I can achieve
what you are asking and what it will require from me. Then I will present you with my terms.’
She thought about it. ‘Twenty-four hours should be long enough for me to gather enough
information to determine what is and isn’t possible.’
Before Chester could express any gratitude, she added, ‘I expect my fee will be high.’
He didn’t flinch. ‘Whatever it is, we are prepared to pay it.’
If that were true, Mallory could reap rewards from this venture for many moons to come
but she knew better than to count her chickens. A lot could happen between now and the blood
drying on a contract between them. However, she’d maintain her customary attitude to life and
remain optimistic.

Chapter Two

As soon as she left the building after promising to return in a day’s time with her terms to
seal the deal, Mallory turned smartly right and walked to the end of the street where Boris was
waiting.
‘You’re still alive then?’ the yellow-eyed spriggan called out as she approached.
She twirled and held out her arms. ‘As you see. Vampires are not to be feared, Boris. I
keep telling you that. As long as you are not a threat to them, they will not harm you.’
He shuddered. ‘Any creature who spontaneously combusts at the first sign of a sunbeam is
to be feared. You’re as afraid of them as I am.’
She patted him on the back. ‘You’re being melodramatic.’
‘I most certainly am not.’ He sniffed and gave her a long look from beneath his blond
eyelashes. ‘What did he ask for?’
‘I’m not going to tell you that.’
‘What are you going to give him in return?’
‘I’m not going to tell you that either.’
‘But you are going to deal with him?’
She took some time before answering. ‘It seems likely. Can you set up a meeting for me
tomorrow morning with Nicola Sturgess?’
‘The witch?’
‘Yep.’
‘She’s on the Council.’
‘All the more reason to meet with her,’ Mallory said mildly. ‘Besides, it’ll be good to get
her favour off the books. There are only a few weeks before the time runs out on it.’
‘Less. You only have ten days remaining on that contract.’
Oh. Mallory absorbed that news, then shrugged and gave her assistant a sunny smile.
‘Then this is the perfect opportunity for her to repay what she owes.’
Boris sighed heavily. ‘Okay.’ He reached into his waistcoat and drew out a small leather-
bound diary. Gripping a nub of a pencil in his green fingers, he scratched a reminder to himself
before tucking the pad away again.

Not for the first time, Mallory told herself that she should start doing something similar to
remain organised and on task. The minutiae of her life tended towards haphazard chaos which
caused more problems for her than she cared to admit. Her strengths lay in remembering people,
not dates and numbers.
‘I should tell you that your meeting with Kit McCafferty was due to start five minutes
ago,’ Boris said. ‘You’re going to be very late.’
Mallory grimaced; it was never a good look to arrive late to an appointment. Fortunately,
she doubted McCafferty would mind. The cat lady presented a benign front to the world even
though Mallory suspected there was far more to her than met the eye. ‘We should get going,
then.’
Boris nodded, raised his thumb and forefinger to his mouth and whistled. There was a
moment’s silence followed by the thundering of hooves along the cobbled streets. There were
many benefits to having a Fae spriggan in service to her, and the ability to magically summon
transport at a moment’s notice was one of them.
‘I don’t know what I’d do without you,’ she said.
His tone was dry. ‘I’m certain that you’d manage. In two years, nine months and fifteen
days’ time, when my favour to you is complete, you will manage.’
‘Not that you’re counting the days or anything.’
‘I’m counting the days, the hours and the minutes. But you’re not bad for a boss. I’ve had
worse.’
‘I’m a great boss,’ Mallory retorted. At least she tried to be. ‘And just to prove it, you can
head off for the night once I get to Vallese.’
Boris swept a bow. ‘Your wish is my command, my lady.’

* * *

Vallese, an expensive Italian restaurant in one of the smarter suburbs of Coldstream, was
the sort of place that you were supposed to dress up for. Mallory’s grubby shoes and casual
clothing might not have raised eyebrows at Chester Longchamps’ place but she knew she’d feel
out of place at the restaurant. If there’d been time she would have gone home to change, but it
was what it was.

She patted down her colourful clothing, which at least didn’t look too creased, but there
was no point attempting to do anything with her hair. Her springy brown curls had a mind of
their own and past experience had taught Mallory that it was better to let them be.
As she approached the restaurant door, she mentally reviewed the information she’d
retrieved for Kit McCafferty. The cat lady had wanted to know what the Witches’ Council were
discussing in their daily meetings that week. In theory, that information was restricted to council
members only but Mallory hadn’t needed to approach the likes of Nicola Sturgess to find it out.
Late last year she’d helped a young witchling find a job at the grand council headquarters and he
was still paying off that debt in small incremental favours.
It had been an easy matter to ask him to find out what was top of the council members’
agenda. He’d recently been tasked with serving coffee and cake during their breaks and
eavesdropping on their conversations took no effort on his part, though some mysterious
shenanigans concerning a particular Fetch who’d been arrested for murder earlier in the day had
delayed matters somewhat.
Obviously Mallory wasn’t planning to tell Kit just how easy it had been to get the
information; those sorts of secrets were hers alone.
The scent of red roses tickled her nostrils and she was mindful of the small candles dotting
the fringes of the red carpet that led to Vallese’s interior. The skirt she was wearing was beautiful
but cheap and she’d likely flare up like a vampire in sunlight if the hem caught any of the
flickering flames.
She nodded appreciatively at the tuxedoed violinist at the entrance and smiled at the maître
d’ who appeared mildly panicked at her approach. She delved into her memory for his name –
John? Jack? Something like that. She chewed her lip and concentrated. James. That was it.
He’d worked for Vallese for years and was a loyal employee. She’d made an approach to
cultivate him as a useful source of information about the guests who passed through the
restaurant’s hallowed doors but he’d refused immediately. He took his job seriously and
considered blabbing to be a betrayal of the highest order, regardless of what information his boss
passed over to her with loose-lipped ease. James was one of the good guys. He’d not even taken
any offence at her approach, just declined politely and changed the subject.

Mallory held up her hands to forestall any polite remark he might voice at her lack of a
dinner reservation. ‘Good evening! I’m not here to eat,’ she told him. ‘I have a meeting with one
of your guests. I just need a moment of Kit McCafferty’s time.’
‘Mr Vallese did not mention that you would visiting us tonight, Ms Nash.’
‘He doesn’t know, and there’s no need to bother him. As I said, I’m here on business. I’m
not looking for any food.’ She paused. ‘Though a glass of wine might be nice.’ Vallese’s cellar
was extensive, and if there was one thing of which Mallory heartily approved it was a wide
selection of wine.
James continued to fret. ‘Mr Vallese will want to know…’
This was the problem when you’d worked for a lot of different people in the city: you often
rubbed up against them when you were dealing with other clients. Not everyone was as
circumspect as James, and Mallory doubted that Kit would appreciate the restaurant owner
overhearing their conversation.
‘Please,’ she interrupted. ‘I am sure he’s busy in the kitchen. Don’t bother him.’
She craned her neck so she could peer into the well-lit restaurant. Kit was in the far corner
– at the best table of the house, in fact. The purple-haired woman was staring into the distance
looking vaguely bored. Opposite her sat a werewolf.
Mallory blinked. That wolf was Alexander MacTire, alpha of the MacTire pack. Huh.
She’d learned a lot about him from a potential werewolf client only a few weeks earlier who had
told her that MacTire was yielding to the demands of his pack and actively searching for a mate.
Mallory wouldn’t have put Kit and MacTire together as a couple; in fact, she was certain
that Kit was involved romantically with Thane Barrow, who was a far better match for her.
Unless the cat lady was hedging her bets, which seemed unlikely, this was probably a business
meal and not a romantic interlude. It was a strange venue for an official meeting but perhaps
Alexander MacTire wanted to show off; from what little she’d heard about him, that seemed a
distinct probability.
‘I’ll just nip in and out,’ Mallory told the maître d’. ‘Five minutes, tops.’ Before he could
protest further, she slipped past him and went inside. Sadly, she only managed a few steps before
she was accosted by a frowning waiter whom she didn’t recognise.
‘Can I help you, ma’am?’ he asked in a polite clipped tone that was only one degree away
from gazing up and down derisively at her somewhat dishevelled appearance.

Mallory pointed at the table. ‘I need to speak to one of your guests for a few minutes. Kit
McCafferty. She’s over there.’
‘You can wait outside until they’ve finished their meal. Then, if Miss McCafferty wishes
to speak to you, I am sure she will do so.’
Mallory held her ground. ‘She’s expecting me.’ The waiter wrinkled his nose. ‘I am going
over to speak to her,’ she told him softly. ‘Unless you want to throw me out and ruin everyone’s
evening, it is going to happen.’
James was gesturing vigorously from the other side of the front door to attract the waiter’s
attention and tell him that Mallory was more than welcome. Unfortunately the poor man didn’t
notice. ‘Fine,’ he sighed at the apparently shocking imposition on his time. ‘Wait here for one
moment.’
Mallory smiled. As the waiter went to speak to Kit, she turned to James and waved him off
through the glass. She’d got what she wanted and his involvement would only complicate
matters.
She watched as the waiter nodded to Kit, and Alexander MacTire stood up and headed for
the restroom. Excellent. Without waiting any longer, she strode forward. ‘Hey, Kit!’
The cat lady offered her a friendly smile that was definitely tinged with relief; it appeared
her intrusion was more than welcome even though Kit had clearly dressed up for the occasion.
She looked good; Mallory hoped that Alexander MacTire appreciated her efforts.
She sat on the chair he’d vacated before offering up a white lie to excuse her tardiness.
‘Sorry I’m late – it took longer than I expected to get the information you needed. The Witches’
Council has been in disarray all day.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘Something about one of their own
getting arrested for murder, which I believe you know about?’
Kit also raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re well-informed.’
Mallory’s smile stretched wider. ‘That’s my job. Anyway, I’ll knock a month off your
waiting period because of the delay. If I don’t come to you for the return favour within the next
eleven months, you are released from further obligations. Is that okay with you?’
‘Sure.’ Kit looked delighted at the suggestion.
Pleased that she’d been right about Kit’s relaxed attitude, Mallory leaned forward, took a
slice of bread from the basket and started munching. The last thing she needed was for her
conversation to be interrupted by her stomach growling. Although she’d told James the truth

about not wanting any food, now she was inside the restaurant with its delicious aroma of garlic,
tomato and oregano she realised she was desperately hungry. Far too often she became so
absorbed in her work that she forgot to eat.
‘So,’ she said. ‘You wanted to know what was top of the council agenda this week. Despite
the spanner in the works with the murder arrest, there’s one topic that’s been consuming the
witches.’
She swallowed a mouthful. Yum. Thank heavens for focaccia – it would keep her going
until she managed to get home and heat up a proper meal. ‘This is great bread.’ Without
thinking, she leaned forward and picked up the nearest wine glass, drinking from it and swirling
the goodness appreciatively around her mouth. ‘Good wine, too. A Tuscan merlot?’
‘So I’ve been told.’
‘Tasty. Very full-bodied. I like the notes of fig.’
A tiny frown marred Kit’s forehead. ‘The council?’ she prompted gently.
Mallory jumped guiltily: it had been a long day but that was no excuse for getting
distracted by good bread and even better wine. ‘Oh, yes. They’re preoccupied with silphium. In
fact, the witch who’s been arrested for murder – Fetch Daniel Jackson? – had been tasked with
retrieving it.’ She paused and watched Kit, whose expression suddenly displayed studied
nonchalance. ‘Interesting, wouldn’t you say?’
‘What the hell is silphium?’ Kit asked.
Before Mallory could explain, a male voice answered. ‘Silphium is the most desirable,
most potent, most magical herb that has ever existed.’
The werewolf had it in one. Mallory flicked a look in MacTire’s direction. He was dressed
formally, in a navy suit and pink shirt that perfectly set off his tanned skin. There were a few
glinting silver hairs visible in his dark locks that indicated his growing maturity, though she
knew he was only in his early forties. His sculpted cheekbones, brief shadow of stubble and
arresting amber eyes added to his appeal.
Alexander MacTire was an incredibly handsome man but Mallory wasn’t fool enough to
fall for a pretty face. The werewolf alpha was definitely dangerous. Even if she hadn’t been
aware of his standing, she’d have recognised him as someone who was used to being in a
position of authority. Brooding masculinity rippled off his skin as if in dark waves directed at her
alone.

Mallory glanced at Kit, who didn’t appear perturbed that MacTire had joined the
conversation. She shrugged and nodded at him. ‘What he said.’
‘It’s also been extinct for the last two thousand years,’ he added.
Mallory winked. Alexander MacTire didn’t know everything, and that was surprisingly
satisfying. ‘Supposedly. Although perhaps “dormant” would be a better word. Whatever – it’s
priceless. If it existed today, Preternaturals would kill not just for its power but for the money a
tiny silphium cutting could command.’
‘Kill for it?’ Kit asked.
‘Oh yes.’ Mallory noted the agitation that was now visible in Kit’s twitching fingers. She
didn’t blame her; from what Mallory had learned, silphium was both extraordinarily powerful
and extraordinarily dangerous. Still, if anyone knew how to deal with such a desirable herb,
Mallory reckoned it would be Kit McCafferty.
‘I’m quite certain. Rivers of blood would run through the streets of Coldstream if
somebody possessed silphium.’ Mallory took another sip of the wine and then, in a bid to diffuse
the tension, she said, ‘This really is an exquisite merlot.’
MacTire crossed his arms. ‘That’s my wine,’ he informed her.
Oops. Mallory tightened her toes briefly then decided to brazen it out. It was, after all,
what she did best. She drained the glass then asked in an overly bright voice, ‘Did you choose
it?’ He glowered darkly so she doubled down. ‘It’s delicious!’
MacTire remained unamused. ‘That’s also my chair.’
‘Oh.’ She hadn’t anticipated that the werewolf alpha would err on the side of grumpiness
and that had been a mistake on her part. She was usually adept at anticipating clients’ needs and
analysing their emotions. Then again, Alexander MacTire wasn’t her client.
She glanced around. ‘You’d think an upmarket place like this could afford more chairs.’
She caught the snooty waiter’s eye and gestured for help.
If anything, MacTire’s irritation increased. ‘Five more minutes,’ Kit said to him. ‘I want to
find out more about this silphium stuff.’
Something about her tone made Mallory realise that this wasn’t a mere business dinner;
she’d got it wrong and she was interrupting a romantic evening by candlelight. ‘Oh no!’ she
blurted out. ‘Are you on a date? Have I gate-crashed? I’m so sorry. I’d hate to interrupt a
budding romance.’

There was a definite growl in MacTire’s voice when he answered. ‘On that count you’re
safe.’
Mallory felt a flash of relief that she’d not ruined Kit’s evening; if she was honest, she was
equally relieved for Kit’s long-term future. The congenial cat lady could do better than this
posturing alpha. Far better. ‘Ah.’ Mallory nodded at him. ‘Your hunt continues, then.’
His eyes glittered dangerously. ‘What do you mean?’
There was no point in pretending she didn’t know so Mallory shrugged. ‘Your search for
the perfect mate. You’ve not found her yet.’
MacTire looked furious though Kit appeared amused. ‘Don’t look at me – I didn’t tell
Mallory I was having dinner with you. She had no idea who I was coming here with. In fact, I’ve
never mentioned you to her.’
‘Kit’s right,’ Mallory agreed cheerfully. ‘I figured it out all by myself. Go me!’
The waiter arrived with a third chair and MacTire sat down. His movements were
controlled and careful but when he gazed at her with those assessing amber eyes Mallory felt a
shiver of discomfort. ‘And who are you?’ he demanded.
She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he was unnerving her. ‘Mallory Nash,’
she said. ‘And you are Alexander MacTire.’ She raised her glass towards the waiter. If she was
going to stay for even another five minutes then more wine was definitely called for. ‘Could we
get another bottle here?’
After receiving a clipped agreement from MacTire, the waiter scurried off while Kit did
her best to offer a more detailed explanation. ‘Mallory is a broker,’ she said. ‘Of sorts.’
‘Secrets and favours,’ Mallory added, in case MacTire assumed she was some sort of
financial whizzkid. ‘Not stocks and shares.’
Kit went on. ‘I asked her to find out what the Witches’ Council is worrying about this
week in return for an as-yet unspecified favour.’
MacTire frowned. ‘Risky.’
Bristling at his ongoing scrutiny – and obvious judgement that she was a wrong ’un –
Mallory said, ‘There are caveats as to what Kit will do for me in return. There are always
caveats.’

MacTire leaned back his chair, his amber eyes hooded. Suddenly he appeared less irritated
and more intrigued, as if Mallory were a new species of creature he’d only just discovered. ‘How
do you know about me?’ he asked silkily.
She felt herself relax; as long as he was asking questions and not growling at her, she
reckoned she was onto a winner. ‘Let’s say that a potential client came to me not long ago and
asked for a favour – she not only wanted you to notice her but also consider her for the position
of First Mate. I’m only telling you because I declined to help for reasons we won’t go into.’
There was too much that could go wrong when clients’ love lives were involved, and
Mallory had no interest in setting up blind dates. Besides, something about the woman who’d
approached her for help in snagging MacTire had rubbed her up the wrong way. She’d had a
cold, mercenary attitude towards nabbing one of the most eligible bachelors in Coldstream that
was nothing to do with romance and everything to do with power and wealth.
Mallory had considered her options, researched how she might approach the situation and
eventually decided against proceeding. Manipulating love wasn’t her style. Now that she’d met
MacTire in person, she was even more glad she’d refused.
She realised that Kit might be concerned about her loose lips but Mallory was more than
capable of keeping quiet when a situation called for it. ‘My real clients’ business is sacrosanct,’
she explained, ‘and I’m not in the habit of gossiping. I won’t go blabbing about your request to
anyone, Kit.’
Unfortunately Alexander MacTire wasn’t interested in her promises to Kit McCafferty.
‘Who?’ he demanded of her. ‘Who asked you to do this?’
Mallory waved a hand dismissively. ‘I’m not going to tell you that.’ He could throw any
number of lupine tantrums and her lips would remain sealed.
A note of triumph crept into his voice. ‘You declined because you couldn’t help her.
Right?’
As if. ‘Wrong.’ MacTire was starting to irritate her now. ‘I knew exactly how to achieve
what she wanted, I just didn’t choose to do it.’
MacTire snorted. ‘How? How would you have done it?’
Kit intervened, doing her best to steer the conversation back to the real reason for
Mallory’s intrusion. ‘If we could get back to the matter of this silphium…’

Mallory barely heard her. For reasons she couldn’t quite explain, she couldn’t drag her
attention away from MacTire. His arrogant amber eyes seemed to penetrate all her defences. She
tilted her chin and reverted to brash confidence. I’m not intimidated by you, she told him silently.
Growl all you want.
MacTire’s mouth twitched. You can’t fool me with any of your tricks, he seemed to reply.
I’m in full control of my own life. I’m the manipulator here. I’m in charge. Not you.
The sommelier appeared with a fresh bottle of wine.
‘Thank you,’ Kit said.
Neither Mallory nor MacTire broke their gaze. Fine. If he wanted to know how she’d have
done it, she would tell him. ‘It’s the annual Wolf Ball next month.’
‘So?’
This was going to be good. ‘You’re attending the ball with your beta wolf, Samantha, as
your date.’
Out of the corner of her eye, Mallory spotted Kit’s jerk of surprise. MacTire betrayed little
but Mallory was certain she’d also shocked him. ‘When you arrive at the steps of the Grand
Hotel, it would be an easy matter to distract Samantha. While she’s busy, my potential client
would appear dressed in blue because it’s your favourite colour. I’d also advise her to wear a
natural perfume based on roses because that would grab your attention. Then she’d make her
approach. I didn’t iron out all the details because I didn’t take her on as a client, but I expect it
would have been something along the lines of a little drama where she helped an elderly guest in
front of you so she appeared both strong and compassionate.’ She shrugged. ‘But I’m only
conjecturing.’
MacTire’s lips curled up in derision. ‘It wouldn’t have worked.’
She grinned. He underestimated her abilities. Considerably. ‘I beg to differ. It definitely
would have worked – up to a point, at least. Even my wiliest machinations can only go so far.’
She took another sip of wine and tried not to let her grin turn into a smirk. ‘There would at least
have been consensual sexual congress. Beyond that, I can’t say.’
The alpha’s sneer vanished and his mouth dropped open. Mallory did her best not to preen.
‘Okay-dokey,’ Kit said loudly. ‘About that silphium…’
Mallory gave an embarrassed laugh; she wasn’t here to score points against Alexander
MacTire. She straightened her shoulders and turned her attention to her actual client. ‘Yes, of

course. Sorry, Kit. We can go elsewhere to discuss it privately, if you wish.’ It would be
preferable to continue this discussion without MacTire’s attention laser-focused on her.
‘It’s fine,’ Kit said. ‘Go on.’
Damn. Mallory smiled brightly. ‘Alright.’ She focused on Kit and told her everything
she’d learned about silphium. There was a lot for her to take in. ...