Cosette tugged again, more insistently this time. I got the message; she wanted me to go with her. With a reluctant look at the crap game, I let her pull me away and out to the museum entrance. As soon as I stepped outside, she pointed up to the street, and then flashed out of existence.
A female stood at the top of the entrance stairs. She stared arrogantly down at me from under the dark brim of her fedora hat, her tall, graceful body clad in a smart russet trouser-suit. Her eyes shone startlingly green, the colour of new leaves in spring, no whites, no pupils. Behind her stood a short, chunky male, his brown pinstripe suit at odds with his rain-wilted straw Panama. His eyes shone the same spring green as his companion’s. Neither had any eyebrows, which made their pale faces look oddly unfinished, and both were obviously bald under their hats, but then, pruning the twigs off their scalps was a long-standing tradition. Shit. What had I done to deserve being waylaid by a pair of dryads?
‘Ms Taylor?’ The female tilted her head and her domed forehead lined in a slight frown. ‘Ah yes, I see now,’ she murmured. ‘The Glamour is very good, Ms Taylor; no wonder the trees took some time to locate you.’
Damn tree spirits, they had their spies everywhere. All it took was a breath of air and info could pass from one side of London to the other faster than it took to ask, ‘What’s that rustling noise the leaves are making?’
Fedora spoke again. ‘I am Sylvia. My mother, the Lady Isabella, wishes to speak with you.’
‘What about?’
Fedora’s mouth thinned in disapproval at my blunt question, but she still answered. ‘She is disturbed by the current unrest in London. It appears to be getting less comfortable for fae as the days and nights go by.’
‘Tell Lady Isabella,’ I said flatly, ‘that I’m sorry for whatever problems she is having, but I’m not sure that my speaking to her right now is going to help.’
‘I think you’ve misunderstood me, Ms Taylor. I am afraid this isn’t a request, and if necessary’ - she snapped her fingers, and Chunky in his limp Panama moved to stand at her side - ‘I will have to use force.’ Her smile was more a baring of her brown-stained teeth than anything friendly. ‘Although of course it would be better if you accompanied us quietly.’
And of course, going quietly was only better for her, not me! I let my shoulders slump, briefly looking round to see how many more dryads were skulking round. I picked them out by their hats. A tall, slightly bent-over male in a black Stetson to the left, a pair of skinny saplings wearing knitted beanies - yellow and green - the other side of the road, and to the right
... I couldn’t see. The corner of the building had me in a blind spot.
Time to hustle.
I placed my foot on the first step. ‘I really don’t want any trouble, you know, Sylvia,’ I said, keeping my voice soft and calm. ‘But I would like to phone my boss. I don’t want him to worry.’ I took another step up, showing willing.
‘You may contact your employer in the car, Ms Taylor.’ She indicated a glossy green Rolls Royce a few yards along the road.
‘Fair enough.’ I pasted a resigned look on my face, looking up at her and Chunky, and made a show of patting my pockets. Which way to make a break for it, left or right? The car was left, all the easier to bundle me up and into if I went that way. Of course, they’d have to catch me first. So it looked like right was the preferred escape route, even with the blind spot. I exaggerated a frown, then held my hands out, empty. ‘Damn! I’m sorry, Sylvia, but my phone’s not in my jacket pockets.’ It was in my jeans, so not a lie. I jerked my head back. ‘Maybe it’s in the museum?’ I raised my voice in question.
Her pale face narrowed in annoyance, then she breathed sharply in through her nose. ‘Malus, help Ms Taylor retrieve her phone. Quickly, please.’
Chunky nodded and started down the steps.
‘Hey, I’m really sorry about this.’ I smiled sheepishly, took another couple of steps up to meet him, then shot my arm up as if to catch him, saying loudly, ‘Watch out, the steps are slippery from the rain.’
He started and looked down, hands reaching out instinctively as I’d hoped, and I grabbed his wrist and yanked. He overbalanced, teetering forward, then toppled, doing a diving belly-flop into the museum, hitting the ticket desk Panama-hatted-head first.
Fedora’s mouth gaped open in surprise. I took the rest of the steps in a leap, bent forward and head-butted her hard in her stomach. She fell back, landing with a spine-cracking crunch on the pavement, a whoosh of air whistling from her open mouth. I jumped over her trouser-suited legs and ran.
I went right, racing past the shocked face of the two Beanies, and jinked to one side, only just evading the grappling arms of a giant oak-sized guy with a purple-patterned bandana tied low over his mahogany-skinned forehead. I picked up pace and sprinted along Clink Street. The cobbles were still wet from the earlier rain, the air chill with moisture and the early evening greyness was dissolving into streetlamp sodium that spilled halos of light onto the ground.
My heart was beating fast and adrenalin was pumping through my body as I wondered what the hell Lady Isabella was up to. Okay, so maybe her life was out of kilter with the anti-fae demos, but that was no reason to send her dryads out to kidnap me. Had she been the one to booby-trap the phouka’s dice? I stretched my legs, sucked air into my lungs and felt my body settle into a familiar fast-run mode. One good thing about running regularly: a couple of days’ forced bed-rest doped up on morphine hadn’t dented my fitness much. I could keep this pace up for a good few miles, but I could hear the dull boom of feet behind me and the rhythm sounded as practised as mine. I was almost sure it was the guy in the bandana chasing me; the others had looked too stunned to react that quickly - and Bandana Guy had been the only one who’d tried to stop me. I didn’t check behind; I was either faster than him or not and looking back wasn’t going to change that.
The buildings on my left ended abruptly and the bulk of the Golden Hind filled the gap, its masts rising into the star-spiked sky. A crowd of City types heading for post-work drinks at the pub beside the boat spilled across the narrow street in front of me. I waved my arms, grinning like a lunatic, and shouted ‘Whoo hoo! Girl coming through,’ and they laughed goodnaturedly as I dodged between and past them.
A few seconds later I heard irate shouts of ‘Watch it’ and ‘Hey, man!’ and ‘Getoutheway!’ behind me: sounded like Bandana Guy hadn’t managed to dodge quite as quickly. I raced on - but the trouble was, I could keep running, but I needed somewhere to run to, somewhere where a dryad couldn’t go. Dryads were fae, so a threshold wasn’t going to stop them like it would a vampire. A gust of wind blew past me, and in seconds rain started pelting me in the face like an ice-cold shower. Iron and steel would stop most fae, but the dryads were born in this world, their trees grew in the soil, drank whatever chemicals polluted the rain. My arms pumped and I could feel the wet blonde ponytail of my Glamour slapping against my leather jacket as I ran. Dryads had no problem with cars, but trains ... they didn’t like trains. None of them used the Tube. And there were no trees to spy me out; underground I’d be safe from the tell-tale whispers of the rustling leaves.
I reached the fork in the road: the left went round underneath London Bridge, but it took me further away from the nearest station and kept me out in the open. To the right was the quickest way to the Underground, but as I veered to go that way, I realised right wasn’t an option: two tall, gangly men were racing towards me with long, ground-eating strides. Both wore turbans wrapped around their heads. Maybe if they hadn’t been running, or if their faces hadn’t glowed with an odd pale luminescence like freshly stripped wood, or if their leaf-rustling cries hadn’t whistled past my ears, I might not have seen them - but seeing them wasn’t going to make them disappear.
‘Shit,’ I breathed out as I changed direction, sprinting left. ‘Pulling in reinforcements is so not fair, guys.’
The road curved in a deep bend and I took the straight quick line across pavem
ent and grass and jumped a low-walled frontage. Rounding the corner I saw the quiet street stretching under the bridge and away into the distance. Three sets of echoes matched the pounding of my own feet. The driving rain stung my face and soaked cold into my shirt. Ahead I could see the green and blue flashes of the pavement lights under the bridge: straight on took me into the City, an area the dryads were uncomfortable in because of its lack of trees and multitude of hard surfaces, but it wasn’t the smart option, not when I didn’t know it well. But if I remembered right, there was a way up onto the bridge and back to the nearest Underground: Nancy’s Steps.
A ferocious snarl raised every hair on my body. In the gloom ahead a large dog - almost the size of a Great Dane - appeared as if from nowhere and stood stiff-legged in the middle of the road, barring the way. My pulse leapt in my throat and I nearly skidded to a stop - then, with uncertain relief, I recognised the unworldly glow that emanated from the dog’s coat like a silver aurora borealis. The dog was Grianne, the phouka: she had got the message from the crap game after all, even though I’d called it wrong. The only problem was, I didn’t know if she was on my side or not; things were never straightforward where Grianne was concerned. But hey, it’s not everyone that ends up with a faerie dogmother who hates them.
She barked, loud and insistent, a sound that reverberated through the quiet street around me. Humans would only hear the bark; I heard: ‘Hurry up, child, the trees are gaining on you.’
Like I really needed her to tell me that! I gritted my teeth and pushed my legs harder.
The phouka snarled again, baring long black fangs that a true dog would never have, then turned, loping towards the steps this side of the bridge, and disappeared. I caught up; the steep flight rose up to the road above. I grabbed the handrail and flung myself after her, half climbing, half leaping. My lungs were starting to burn. Above me the phouka bounded, sharp claws scratching loudly on the stone and the silver glow from her coat casting welcome light back into the dim stairwell.
Second landing. Behind me I heard shouts, then more of the whistling, rustling noise grated against my ears: the ground-eating legs of the tall pale-faced turban guys were taking the steps two at a time. Shit. I swallowed back an edge of panic and, my heart hitting against my ribs, my thigh muscles bunching with effort, I concentrated on getting to the top.
As I reached the last few steps, vicious snarls and growls erupted, quickly followed by horrified yells and human screams, which almost drowned out the growling. I ran onto the pavement to find the phouka crouching over one of the beanie-hatted dryads on the ground, savaging its throat. The other Beanie Hat was screeching in rage. It kicked out, catching the phouka in the stomach. The phouka yelped and went flying, landing in a scrambling, whining heap at the feet of stunned bystanders.
‘Hey, you!’ I yelled, pleased in some detached part of me that I still had enough breath. ‘Leave that poor dog alone!’
The yellow Beanie Hat whipped round, lips curled, face twisted in a snarl that would have done the phouka proud, and sprang at me. I half-crouched, judged my moment, then shifted low and let Beanie Hat’s own momentum help me heave her over my back. She crash-landed against the bridge’s stone parapet with a noise that sounded like branches snapping in the wind and lay still. The other Beanie lay moaning on the ground, yellow-tinged sap trickling from the wounds on his throat. The onlookers stared, huddled under their umbrellas and muttering, their eyes darting from Beanie to Beanie to me, indecisive.
‘Quickly, child,’ the phouka said as she trotted to my side, ‘tell me where the faeling you’ve rescued is hidden before these vermin regain their senses.’
‘It’s not a faeling this time, Grianne.’ I looked down at the phouka. ‘There’s another sidhe in London, and a human has been murdered. I need to know who’s opened a gate—’
‘Enough, I will attend to this.’ The phouka growled, ears flat against her skull. ‘Meet me here tomorrow as the sun is cresting.’ A wet nose pushed into my hand. ‘Now run, child, the other trees are coming. I will detain them.’
For a second, I laid my palm over her rain-wet silky head, wondering what her help was going to cost me, but—‘I owe you one, Grianne.’ Her eyes blazed yellow and feral as she dipped her muzzle in acknowledgment, then I turned and raced towards the Underground.
Chapter Twelve
I hit London Bridge Station still running, slapped my Oyster card over the reader and raced down the escalators into the rush of warm air that signalled a train arriving: Jubilee Line westbound to Waterloo and Stanmore. I tucked myself in by one of the doors, my feet braced, my body swaying with the juddering carriage. My heart slowed and I started to feel uncomfortable, my sweat-and-rain-damp clothes feeling sticky in the hothouse air of the packed Tube train. I wrinkled my nose, hoping I didn’t reek too much of exertion and panic, a smell that would be all-too-attractive to any vamps out on the prowl.
I doubted the dryads would follow me underground, but they hadn’t looked like they were going to give up their kidnap the sidhe idea anytime soon, so just to be sure, I scanned the packed commuters searching for anyone in a hat. My gaze skimmed a big man in a homburg, bushy grey hair poking out round his ears, and automatically dismissed him as human. I passed over a couple with matching camo berets, and a group of Jews in their kippah skull-caps. Why were the dryads chasing me? And why had Cosette warned me about them back at the Clink? Not that I wasn’t grateful; if it hadn’t been for her, the dryads might have cornered me, but ...
I swallowed back my frustration at the delay. Still, if nothing else Grianne should have some info for me in the morning.
We reached Waterloo and I jumped off and started running again, speeding through the curved roof tunnels, heading for the Northern Line. I wasn’t the only one; half a dozen other commuters raced with me, desperate to catch their own trains. I was just desperate to get somewhere safe, and fast, and I didn’t stop until I had flung myself, panting, into the next train. The next stop was Embankment. The doors parted with a clunking sucking sound and I got off, peered up and down the platform and made my way up to the exit. Then I hesitated; I’d been heading back to Tavish almost on autopilot, thinking I’d stay there until it was time to meet Grianne the following morning, but once I was there, doing nothing but hanging around would be a complete waste of time. Not to mention there were a lot of trees to pass between the Underground and the RAF monument.
I leaned against the wall and phoned Tavish ... No answer. I tried Finn next, and as he picked up I heard voices humming in the background.
‘It’s me, Finn,’ I said. ‘I’ve got a whole copse of trees chasing after me, wanting to take me to their leader! What the hell’s going on?’
‘Ah yes, I see, that is a problem. Can I ask you to hold for a moment please?’ His next words were muted. ‘Sorry, I’m going to have to deal with this. I’ll try not to take too long.’ A door opened, then slammed shut and the background thrum of voices silenced. Finn came back on the phone. ‘Just so you know, I’m at Old Scotland Yard,’ he said quietly. ‘What happened to the party you were supposed to meet?’
‘I just told you, the dryads.’
‘Where are you now?’
‘Embankment Underground. I tried Tavish but there’s no answer.’
‘Unfortunately my colleague isn’t available tonight.’ Voices rose in the background again. ‘Another matter has come up that needed to be dealt with urgently. I’m not sure I’m going to be able to help you either, not until after midnight. I’m going to be tied up until then.’
Not literally, I hoped.
‘Can you get away?’ I asked. ‘Just to let me into Tavish’s? The entrance doesn’t work on its own for me.’
‘That’s not such a good idea,’ he said. Someone else laughed: a deep rumble that sounded like a troll. ‘That particular course of action could be dangerous.’
‘Dangerous! Okay, Finn, stop messing about and get somewhere where you can talk.’
The phone cut o
ff and I stared at it, anxiety churning inside me. Why dangerous—? The phone rang.
‘Okay, I’m outside now.’ He sounded slightly breathless. ‘There’s too much water at Tavish’s; the naiads might try the same thing as the dryads.’
‘What the—? Why the hell do they want to kidnap me?’
‘It’s because of the human’s murder. They all think you killed him, and they want to take advantage of it.’
‘Okay, now you’ve totally lost me. How can they take advantage of me—?’ I stopped, suddenly conscious of the people in the station milling round me. ‘—of that,’ I finished.
‘Gen, it’s complicated...’ He hesitated, then said, ‘You know about the droch guidhe - the curse - don’t you?’
‘Yeah.’ I frowned. ‘The local sidhe queen cursed London’s fae to know the grief in her heart when she lost her son to the vamps. But what’s that got to do with anything right now?’
The Cold Kiss of Death Page 14