The Cold Kiss of Death

by Suzanne McLeod

  He smiled broadly, flashing his fangs. ‘I was beginning to feel a tad concerned for you, my dear. I have been attempting to awaken you for quite some time now.’

  ‘Go away,’ I said, only it came out more gawwwrr.

  ‘I knew you’d be delighted to see me.’ He patted my red satin-covered thigh. ‘And just to put your mind at rest, I am not a dream, nor some drug-induced hallucination’ - he lifted my unresisting hand up from where it lay on the bed - ‘in spite of the morphine in your body.’ He flicked the shunt and the sharp pain came again.

  ‘Grreeoffmee,’ I slurred, wishing he would go pop! or whatever dead-dream vampires were supposed to do.

  ‘I see that you are finding this hard to accept.’ He released my hand and we both watched as it thudded onto the mattress and bounced. ‘I must admit, I did myself at first, but I have become used to the idea that I am not truly dead.’

  The pain in my hand receded and I tried to roll over in an effort to go back to the sparkling mist and end the nightmare. Or at least in my mind I did. My body stayed where it was. My own horrified eyes stared down at me as I realised I couldn’t move, my heart thudded slow and heavy in my chest and fear crawled into me on shuddering, drug-muted claws. Maybe this wasn’t a dream.

  ‘Iwatchedgoblinsscatterashes.’ My words still slurred, but I was getting a little more control now.

  ‘Yes, so you did. That was rather an unpleasant surprise.’ He smoothed a hand down his blazer lapel. ‘It was a much more pleasant revelation when I realised I had not quite shuffled off this mortal coil’ - he flashed fangs again - ‘or, in my case, immortal coil.’

  ‘Happywithyoudoingshufflingbit,’ I muttered in disgust.

  He sighed. ‘The medication is stifling your thoughts, my dear. It is annoying; I particularly wished to converse with you. Allow me to remedy it.’ He picked up my hand again and jerked out the shunt. I struggled in cotton wool-wrapped terror as he sniffed my inner wrist. ‘Your blood is as deliciously sweet as ever, even with the drugs.’ His two needle-thin venom fangs extended between his sharp canine teeth. Gripping my forearm tightly, he plunged all four fangs into my flesh.

  Pain ripped through me and my arms and legs twitched like a dying fish as my brain’s message to fight struggled to reach my muscles. I screamed, but he clamped his hand over my face, muffling the sound as he pressed my head back into the black satin pillows. Then the world turned hazy and silver as his venom flooded my blood and hit my heart like a sledgehammer, and the pain dissolved in the rush of promised pleasure. My heart beat faster and faster. Heat and lust suffused my body as the venom-induced adrenalin sensitised every inch of my skin.

  He reared up his head and inhaled deeply. ‘You know how this works, don’t you, my dear? With so much of my venom in your blood, your body will continue to crave sexual release, but it will unable to reach it other than through my feeding.’ He leaned over and pushed aside the negligée, smiling as he pinched my left nipple. I arched into his hand, the pain/pleasure nearly destroying me. ‘Of course, it would be quite crass of me to take advantage of you in this condition, when you are unable to defend yourself.’ The Earl gave a satisfied sigh and licked a spot of my blood from his bottom lip. ‘But it is edifying to know I haven’t lost my touch, as it were.’

  I swallowed back the urge to beg, trembling uncontrollably as my body tried to cope with the venom. It’s like any other addictive substance: the more you get, the more you need - for vamps, it’s a great way to ensure your food follows you around like little blood-bloated sheep: a quick hit of venom with every bite keeps the sheep happy and healthy, and unwisely trotting back for more.

  The Earl had given me more than a quick hit. If I’d been human, I’d be halfway to a heart attack. And that’s the bottom-line reason why fae blood is such a sought-after commodity by the vamps; it’s not our magic, or that we taste sweeter than humans.

  We just don’t die so easily.

  There’s so much more fun to be had when your victims can survive whatever torture you choose to inflict. And leaving me primed and desperate was just another form of torture.

  ‘Bastard,’ I finally managed to gasp.

  ‘Now, now, my dear.’ He placed a warning hand on my stomach. Sharp need rippled through my body, forcing another desperate moan from my throat. ‘I would prefer you to keep a civil tongue in your head; our time together will be so much more enjoyable if you do.’

  I gasped a couple of breaths, willing myself to ignore the cravings itching through my veins. The venom had cleared the clouds of the drug from my mind and my body. If I moved fast enough, maybe I could escape—

  I still couldn’t move.

  Fear blasted full-force into me.

  The Earl could do anything he wanted with me.

  Panic constricted my throat.

  I couldn’t stop him.

  I gulped for air, calm, wanted to scream again, stay calm, tears pricked my eyes. I opened them wide, not wanting them to fall, not wanting to give him the satisfaction, but felt their wetness roll down the side of my cheek.

  He watched me, his blue eyes cold, detached.

  Another tear followed.

  He leaned over me - his breath in my face was musty and stale - and pressed his index finger to the corner of my eye. He followed the path of the teardrop, stopping when he reached the terrified pulse under my jaw, which beat slow and weak against him. He inhaled, his nostrils flaring in satisfaction. ‘Good. I see you finally understand the situation, my dear.’

  ‘What do you want?’ I whispered, hating the catch in my voice.

  ‘I would like us to watch the news together.’ He pinched my cheek, then lifted a remote control and pointed it at the wall in front of the bed. A soft hum filled the room and a large painting of an over-endowed nude male reclining on an uncomfortable-looking chaise longue smoothly gave way to a huge plasma screen.

  ‘Ah, here is the delightful Inspector Crane,’ the Earl said cheerfully. ‘I believe she has been searching for you, my dear.’

  I stared numbly at the screen as I slowly pulled myself back from the yawning chasm in my mind. After a time the patrician lines of Detective Inspector Helen Crane’s face came into focus. I recognised her severe expression, her blonde hair pulled back into a tightly contained bun. She looked every inch the ‘I’m in charge here’ fortysomething poster woman for the modern police force, guaranteed to encourage ambitious new recruits everywhere. Factor in that she was a powerful witch, not to mention high up in the Witches’ Council and she so wasn’t someone to have as an enemy.

  Trouble was, neither of us liked the other. We’d butted heads during the Mr October murder, and it wasn’t just because she’d wanted me to stay out of the investigation. No, our main bone of contention was Finn, my boss. At some point in their past, DI Helen Crane and Finn had jumped the broom together, and even though he said it was over, anyone could see she wasn’t of the same opinion. It didn’t matter that my relationship with Finn was nebulous at best; if DI Crane had been here, her feelings towards me where anti enough that I had no doubt she’d be cheering the Earl on from the sidelines.

  I was thankful she was just on the TV.

  And as she headed up the Metropolitan Police’s Magic Murder Squad, seeing her giving some sort of news conference outside the MMS headquarters, Old Scotland Yard, wasn’t any sort of surprise. The Earl turned the volume up.

  ‘—nothing more to report on the disappearance of Genevieve Taylor, the sidhe fae who is believed to have information about the tragic death of Tomas Eriksen, a local baker and businessman,’ Inspector Helen was saying. ‘Mr Eriksen was a much-liked and well-respected figure within the community of Covent Garden, and he will be sorely missed. Should anyone have information about the whereabouts of Genevieve Taylor, we ask them not to approach her for their own safety, but to call Old Scotland Yard immediately on the number now showing on the bottom of the screen. All calls will be treated as confidential.’

  ‘Detective Inspector Cra
ne,’ someone shouted, ‘is it true that the sidhe is a suspect in the murder of Tomas Eriksen?’

  Flashbulbs popped. The inspector’s three jade brooches and dangling garnet earrings glittered and for a moment I thought I could almost see the spells she’d stored in the gemstones. ‘We want Ms Taylor to help us with our enquires—’

  ‘Inspector, Kim Jones for the Daily Mail here, what evidence do you have that the sidhe murdered Mr Eriksen?’

  ‘If she’s not the killer,’ came a shout from the crowd, ‘why are you saying she’s dangerous?’

  The inspector held up her hands, her collection of rings looking like expensive knuckledusters. ‘It is believed Ms Taylor was injured when the bakery exploded, and is thus not fully cognisant of her surroundings; we don’t think she would deliberately hurt—’

  Shock sliced through me. ‘The bakery exploded?’ I blurted.

  ‘How else did you think you were injured, my dear?’ The Earl muted the sound. ‘I understand there was a lot of loose flour around; the news bods have had an expert on to explain the chemistry, something about starch being easy to burn and dust catching fire at the slightest of sparks, and then, boom!’ He threw his hands in the air to illustrate his point. ‘The explosion looks quite extensive.’

  Questions jumped into my head; I picked out the most important. ‘Was anyone hurt?’

  ‘Only yourself and Malik al-Khan, who is sadly much worse off and unlikely to be around in the near future to provide you with any aid.’ He smiled happily and briefly squeezed my thigh, causing another wave of craving to wash painfully over my body, effectively silencing my other questions. ‘Oh look, this is my favourite part,’ he said, pointing the remote at the plasma again. Through lust-blurred vision I recognised the bakery. The CCTV recording showed the back of someone - me - dressed in running shorts and sweatshirt talking to the florist’s lad. I glanced around, giving the camera a good look at my profile and then stripped off my sweatshirt ... The date-time stamp on the picture flipped to around half an hour later when the front of the shop exploded outwards, spraying large amounts of broken bricks, debris and dust into the air. Bright orange flames started to flicker amongst the devastation. The TV screen switched back to a picture of a silent talking head.

  ‘You do have a capacity for upsetting people.’ The Earl brushed a speck from his knee. ‘It really is rather careless of you, my dear.’

  I stared at the TV, my mind sifting through everything. Was he right? Had I angered someone enough for them to kill poor Tomas just to set me up? Or was there some other reason? Whatever it was I wouldn’t know until I - or the police - found his murderer. Trouble was, if I walked into Old Scotland Yard without an alibi, DI Crane would have me banged up faster than I could say I’m innocent. She’d already convicted me in her own mind, and very nearly to the world. No way was she going to be looking for anyone else, let alone another sidhe, to pin Tomas’ death on - especially when I was the only sidhe in London. And then there was the fact that I am sidhe fae: unlike a human, there’d be no sitting in jail serving my time for me, just a quick one-way trip to the guillotine.

  The Earl was gazing at me expectantly, and since he appeared to be offering me the carrot after effectively threatening me with his fang-tipped stick, I dutifully asked the question. ‘What’s the deal?’

  ‘Direct and to the point as usual. It is one of the several aspects I cherish about you, my dear.’ He licked his lips. ‘But of course, business before pleasure.’ He waved at the TV screen. ‘I can make this problem go away.’

  Surprise, surprise. ‘How exactly?’

  ‘Why, friends in high places.’ He gave a quick frown. ‘Or is it low?’ Then he smiled as if I should get the joke. I didn’t. ‘Well, anyway,’ he carried on, ‘friends who have the same ideals that I do, and who are, very rightly, concerned about the current situation.’

  It was my turn to frown. ‘What situation?’

  ‘Why, my tragic demise, of course.’ He squeezed my thigh and a slither of lust made me gasp again. ‘My passing has left a breach in London’s vampire community. I fear the lack of true leadership will result in utter chaos. All my careful planning, my nurturing of our current status, will be destroyed by incompetence.’

  ‘What the—?’ I stopped at the Earl’s admonishing look, conscious of his hand on my leg. ‘I don’t understand what you’re talking about.’

  His expression turned condescending. ‘Allow me to explain, my dear. I have worked tirelessly this last eight hundred years to ensure vampires here in my country are both respected by and respectful of humankind.’ He adjusted his cuffs. ‘It is how we were able to successfully recover our human rights; it is why we have not been hunted almost to extinction as in the Russias and the East. It is why we do not have to barricade ourselves into our castles as they do in the rest of Europe.’ He spread his arms wide as if to a larger audience. ‘To ensure that continues, I conceived the idea of vampires contributing to the entertainment and media industries, and thus elevating ourselves from the common perception of blood-sucking parasites subservient to the Witches’ Council to revered celebrities with the power to influence the human world as we so desire.’

  Megalomaniac soap-box, much!

  ‘With my presence gone and me no longer the dominant voice,’ he carried on, ‘I fear that the reactionary elements within our society will force a situation where we have to return to hiding our faces, to pretending that we are something we are not in an effort to live lives of precarious comfort.’

  I narrowed my eyes. ‘That still doesn’t tell me what you want.’

  ‘You are my blood-bond, Genevieve.’ He beamed at me. ‘You will be my avatar.’

  ‘What?’ I was still none the wiser.

  ‘All will become clear, my dear.’ The Earl waved a dismissive hand at the French doors. ‘Sadly, though, our time together has run out. Dawn approaches, so I will leave you to rest until later.’ He smiled his charming smile and then vanished.

  Stunned, I stared at the empty air, not entirely sure if his fang-filled grin had remained like the Cheshire cat’s.

  Then I realised I could move.

  I had to get out of here, wherever here was. I struggled to sit up, my hands slipping on the stupid satin sheets, my arms and legs feeling like they belonged to someone else, the numbers on the monitor at the side of the bed flashing ever faster as my heart beat a crescendo in my ears—

  The bedroom door opened.

  A man walked in carrying a large wooden tray, a worried frown on his fortysomething chalk-white face. He wore jeans and a rumpled T-shirt and white gauze bandages were wrapped thickly around his wrists and elbows. He stopped at the bottom of the bed and looked at me from eyes magnified like a startled owl’s behind his wire-rimmed glasses. His hands were trembling enough that the contents on the tray chinked. Then the frown disappeared and he smiled, showing even white human teeth.

  ‘Oh good, you’re awake, Ms Taylor.’ Little wooden legs clicked out under the tray as he placed it down on the bed. ‘I was beginning to get concerned about you.’

  Chapter Seven

  I stared at the tray’s contents: a chilled bottle of Cristall - my brand of vodka - sat next to two glasses, one empty, the other filled with orange juice; a small porcelain dish of liquorice torpedoes, and what looked like a BLT sandwich. Other than the red rose in a cut-glass bud vase, the tray held all my favourites - if it wasn’t for the fact that he was a vamp’s flunky, I’d be worried I’d picked up a stalker instead of a slightly worse-for-wear jailer.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ I demanded.

  Owl Eyes flinched as if I’d hit him. ‘Doctor Joseph Wainwright. Joseph. Didn’t Malik tell you—?’ A high-pitched alarm cut him off and we both looked at the heart monitor. The little red numbers were flashing 302: 302 beats per minute. I pulled the electrodes off my chest, wincing as the skin ripped away with them. What the fuck were they stuck on with? Superglue? The red numbers blinked out, the heart graph flatlined and the mo
nitor’s alarm started squawking loudly. I slapped it quiet.

  ‘Whose blood-pet are you?’

  His eyes were wide with shock. ‘You should be dead with a heart rate like that.’

  Duh: not human. ‘C’mon, Doctor Joseph Wainwright - Joseph - which vampire is your master?’

  ‘Malik al-Khan, of course.’ His frown returned.

  ‘Not the Earl?’

  ‘The Earl’s dead—’

  ‘The Earl was just here talking to me,’ I snapped. ‘He bit me—’ I stuck out my wrist to show him, then jerked it back and peered at it. There were no fang holes.

  ‘It’s the morphine,’ Joseph said in a conciliatory voice. ‘It can cause—’