The Cold Kiss of Death

by Suzanne McLeod

  I grabbed the mass of cotton-wool balls - Security Stingers ~ the Ultimate Intruder Deterrent - and threw them at him, willing them through the air. Please let this work, I prayed, as the spells zoomed towards him like a swarm of bees. The majority crashed or stuck to the wall behind him, but some whizzed and buzzed around his head, trailing streams of fine sticky threads that drifted like fibre-glass in the air. He gave a casual wave of his hand, as if batting them away, and they crashed with all the others against the wall.

  He turned to give me an amused, slightly puzzled look.

  My heart sped in my chest as my hand closed round the lumps of putty: Sticky-Sleep spells. I pulled them out, dropping the backpack and the knife, and started lobbing them at him. A couple hit the stone altar, splattering like chewing gum; one caught Bobby on the cheek and burst into a blaze of white powder. I winced; that was going to knock him out for a good eight hours - if he was still around to be knocked out, of course - but the rest slammed harmlessly to the wall behind the Earl.

  ‘Genevieve, did you really think those paltry little magics would affect me?’ He gave a long-suffering sigh and looked behind him at the wall. ‘And to be honest, my dear, your aim is not what it might be.’

  I dropped my shoulders in defeat.

  He was right; they were cheap little spells, nothing more than anyone could buy at the witches’ market. But I couldn’t think of anything else. And at least if my plan worked, it might save some of them. It was better than just giving in.

  Moth-girl sat back on her heels and wiped the back of her hand over her mouth. She gave me a scared, tremulous smile, then cautiously sneered at the Earl.

  He walked over to my body, laid out on the waist-high stone altar. He took careful hold of the soul-bonder knife with his thumb and forefinger and pulled it out, then placed it next to my body’s hip. I clenched my fists as an even more desperate idea came to me. If I could get to the knife ...

  Then he shoved his hand inside my body’s chest and yanked out a struggling Cosette and held her up, dangling her by her neck.

  ‘Hello, Gwen, my dear,’ he said, this time flashing fangs as he smiled. ‘I am so delighted to meet up with you again. I was devastated after we missed each other last year - as I am sure that you must have been. It has been such an age since we last conversed, has it not?’ He snapped his fingers and Joseph’s ghost appeared, his owl-like eyes blinking behind his glasses. ‘And here is your charming son, Joseph. You have kept him out of the limelight, but I must say, I am overjoyed to make his acquaintance at last.’

  Then he opened his mouth ...

  I blinked—

  ... and they were both gone.

  The Earl was now looking down at Tavish. The tranqed kelpie slept on peacefully, his gills flaring with each breath he took, one hand outstretched as if pointing towards Bobby and Rosa. I’d seen him sleep like that, nestled into the mud and sand of the riverbed.

  ‘A soul-taster, no less.’ The Earl smiled merrily at me. ‘My, my, there really is an abundance of riches here, is there not, my dear? The gathering of shades and souls out there—’ he waved a limp hand towards the open doorway—‘four vampires, three tasty little humans, two necromancers, a soul-taster, and a long-lost sorcerer.’ He almost sang the list, making it sound like a cheerful little Christmas carol.

  Suddenly he was standing next to me.

  I swallowed again, my mouth dry as dust, my throat still painful.

  ‘Then of course, there is you,’ he said softly. ‘But I fear we are still missing someone.’ He circled behind me, trailing a fingertip across the back of my neck. I froze, my heart stuttering in sudden terror. The snakes woke up, slithering and shivering under my skin. ‘My, you have been enterprising,’ he went on, still speaking softly. ‘It has been a long time since a sidhe has fully consumed a soul, and I do not believe one has ever consumed a soul belonging to a sorcerer - a soul that has already been marked as mine.’

  ‘What do you want?’ I asked, my voice harsh.

  ‘What do I want?’ As he leaned in to whisper in my ear a musty sulphur stench seared along my cheek. ‘I want an avatar, my dear, someone to do my business in this mortal world, someone whose body is more resilient than a human’s, someone whose body will not grow old ... Someone who will always be here for me.’

  ‘I am not that someone,’ I said, clenching my hands to stop from screaming.

  ‘No?’ He sounded thoughtful. ‘Then choose one, Genevieve.’

  ‘Choose one what?’

  ‘A soul, of course.’ He stepped back and spread his arms wide. ‘There are more than enough on offer.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well then, I shall take them all.’

  ‘W—ait a b—leedin’ minute ’ere,’ stuttered Moth-girl, stumbling to her feet, her dress fluttering like frightened wings. ‘If she ain’t gonna choose, then I get to. You c’n take me.’

  ‘Shut up, Moth—Sharon,’ I snapped.

  ‘No, I knows ’ow this works,’ she hissed. ‘If I’m willin’ to sacrifice, then he don’t get t’take any of ’em ovvers. Only fing is—’ Her voice cracked and she stopped for a moment, then went on, ‘You’ve gotta promise to look after my Daryl - ’e’s smart enuff, but ’e’s a bit soft, see.’

  ‘All terribly commendable, I must say.’ The Earl gave her an amused, patronising smile. He leaned down to her and whispered, ‘So you’re willing to spend eternity suffering in the fiery pits of Hell to save your friends, are you?’

  She gulped. ‘It ain’t a real pit, is it?’ she whispered back. ‘Me Gran allays said as ’ow it’s jus’ the vicar’s make-believe so’s we’d be good.’

  ‘Hell is what you make it,’ he said solemnly, then as he straightened, he chuckled. ‘Or maybe Hell is what I make it. But unfortunately, my dear’ - he touched her forehead with his finger - ‘your basic information is wrong. You see, the willing sacrifice only works when you are dealing with gods, and I, luckily, am not a god, but a demon, and that whole righteous, holier-than-thou martyrdom that the willing have just takes all the profit out of the job. And thus that particular rule does not apply to me.’

  ‘Bleedin’ ’ell,’ Moth-girl cried, ‘so what’s the point in ’er choosin’?’

  ‘Trick or treat, Sharon,’ I murmured, bending down to pick up the ghost knife, then walking slowly to stand next to my body, still going over the flimsy plan in my head. Nerves twisted in my stomach; I kept expecting him to stop me - then I decided he was probably arrogant enough to let me try whatever it was I was going to do, since I couldn’t possibly win against him.

  I really hoped he was wrong.

  ‘He wants me to think that I can save the rest by choosing just one,’ I carried on. ‘That’s the treat - but the trick is: it’s actually the other way round. Only the one I choose will live, so long as I do what he wants, of course. Isn’t that right, demon?’

  ‘It appears the joke is against me, my dear,’ the Earl sighed. ‘I was so looking forward to that part of the proceedings. So now I believe I will rescind my offer of a boon.’

  ‘’E can’t do that, can ’e?’ Moth-girl cried, frantic.

  I looked at the wall behind Rosa and Bobby. The spells caught there glowed like pinholes of light against the dark stone, their magics small and insubstantial. Was it going to be enough? Not that it made much difference; it was the only option I had. It either worked or it didn’t.

  ‘I’m a demon, my dear.’ He shot his cuffs and smoothed the lapels of his jacket. ‘There is no blessed blood and bone to curtail me, it is All Hallows’ Eve, and so, I am delighted to say, I can take any soul not already claimed by another.’

  ‘Wot, even them’s not dead yet?’

  I focused on the heart of all those tiny spells, concentrating my will.

  ‘Well, perhaps not technically,’ he said, smiling, flashing fang, ‘but life - human life particularly - is such a transient part of our existence.’ He stood in front of Grace and brushed his knuckles gently down her cheek, th
en hooked his finger into her scrubs. ‘This one is the only soul here barred to me.’ He pulled out a gold chain; a small pentacle glinted on the end of it. ‘But then again,’ he smiled cheerfully, ‘I can still have fun dismembering her along with all the rest of you.’

  I cracked the magic.

  The wall exploded inwards, throwing brick and rubble across the room, and a torrent of murky water gushed through a hole the size of a drain cover, sweeping all before it.

  The Thames had come to join us.

  Tavish and the vamps would be okay; they could survive under water, and so could the souls and shades, since they were already dead. It was the three humans I feared for most; I prayed Grace, Moth-girl and the florist’s lad could all swim better than me.

  Within seconds the water was swirling around my knees, then it was up to my thighs. I turned to face the Earl, my heart pounding with fear and hope.

  He stood in the gushing torrent, the faintly amused smile still on his face, as if the water was nothing more than a childish trick I’d played on him.

  Fuck, this so had to work.

  ‘Demon,’ I shouted over the thundering waves, ‘under River Lore, all souls here belong to the kelpie, and so I claim.’

  His face shifted, his eyes blazing into burning red holes, his mouth stretching into the blackness of the abyss, the water bubbling and boiling into steam around him as he advanced towards me. I grabbed the soul-bonder knife in my other hand and, praying to whatever gods might be listening, waited until he was close enough, then stabbed both blades up and into his chest.

  The River Thames closed over my head.

  Epilogue

  I woke to a sky that glittered and twinkled with rainbow-coloured lights, only this time it wasn’t an angel that peered down at me out of the mist, but something else, something oddly smooth and unformed, as though it had yet to be sculpted into something finished. I blinked, and the face above me resolved itself into something more normal; the rainbow lights reflected wetly in the highly polished skin, the mouth split in a wide smile revealing worn stumps of brown-coloured teeth, and I recognised Mr Travers, my landlord.

  ‘Hello, Genny,’ he rumbled loudly above the bangs and shrieks of the fireworks. A drop of water collected on the end of his shiny nose and fell to splatter on my chin. ‘Good to see you back in the land of the living.’ More fireworks exploded into a cacophony of multi-coloured stars above his head.

  My stomach rebelled and I rolled over, retching and coughing, the rank taste of sulphur and the river souring my mouth.

  ‘That’s it, better out than in.’ A large hand thumped my back. ‘Your insides will thank you for it ...’

  Now I stand in the gardens of St Paul’s Church in Covent Garden. It’s quiet here, the traffic a muted rumble as if far away. The sun is shining, but the November wind is cold, a harbinger of the winter to come. The grass is crisp with frost beneath my feet and my breath steams into the air. A memory of water boiling and bubbling around me tries to intrude and I push it back, shut it in the box in my mind and turn the key. The demon is gone. For now. The snakes lie quiet beneath my skin and Mr Travers smiles, a sad, careful smile, as he offers me a pink paper candle holder on a stem. I wrap my numb fingers around it and hold it up in front of me like a torch of hope.

  All Soul’s Day.

  We are here to pray for the dead.

  Mr Travers holds a taper to the small tea-light I clutch, and I watch as the wick flares with a tiny bright flame. My hand trembles and his face creases into deep, concerned lines. Anxious dust puffs above his head ridge and he glances around as if seeking help. But then his soft beige eyes come back to mine and he smiles his slow, careful smile and pats my shoulder.

  The service starts, the words rising and falling around me like the ebb and flow of a distant sea.

  The trolls came to our rescue that night, jumping from their Hallowe’en party on the bridge, straight down into the murky river. Mr Travers has refused to leave my side since he pulled me out from under the bridge’s foundations. He tells me that we fae are all heroes now, you only have to look at the papers. One tabloid shouted: ALL HALLOWS’ FRIGHT NIGHT: SIDHE v. DEMON. Another ran with NAIADS AID WITCHES IN THEIR MIDNIGHT HOUR OF NEED ... working together to cast a circle through earth and water and air to prevent the demon escaping to terrorise London. Of course, not all the reports were as positive: LONDON BRIDGE IS FALLING DOWN ... AGAIN - Bridge closed for foreseeable future while structural repairs are carried out. The cost to the taxpayer ...

  The florist’s lad - his name is Colin - is recovering at HOPE from a combination of shock and minor cuts and bruises. They’re also monitoring him for any less-than-healthy effects of his October swim in the River Thames.

  Bobby and Rosa are both still missing. The general consensus is that their bodies were taken by the current, and since neither was aware at the time - Rosa because her soul is bonded to her locket, Bobby thanks to the Sticky-Sleep spell I’d accidentally tagged him with - they would have been at the mercy of the river. The naiads have searched in all the usual places, but so far their bodies haven’t been found. Of course, it’s possible that Rosa could endure an extended period underwater; she’s at least two centuries old, but Bobby’s chances are less optimistic. A group of his fang-fans are holding a candlelit vigil from sunset tonight until tomorrow’s dawn.

  Sharon, my Moth-girl, didn’t make it. The naiads found her body under the rubble that exploded out of the wall. So far her ghost hasn’t surfaced among the shades and spirits the naiads say are again haunting the tunnels in the bridge’s foundations. Darius - her Daryl - is holed up at the blood-house in Sucker Town where she lived with the other Moths. I never actually made the promise to look out for him, but I’ll be keeping it anyway. Soon.

  Ex-Police Constable Janet Sims has been charged with the murder of Tomas, her baker boyfriend - the redtops are calling it a crime of passion - and the murder of Witch Wilcox, her maternal grandmother. Mr Travers tells me they are debating whether she is to be burnt at the stake or not. Technically she’s not a witch, just a witch’s daughter, but now she has her granny’s power, she’s too dangerous to leave mouldering in a jail cell, however magically protected it might be.

  The Fabergé egg has not been found.

  Movement around me draws my attention back to this cold, bright, November day.

  The witches are noticeable by their absence.

  My gaze slips past the assembled trolls towards the side of the church, where London’s fae are gathered. A sleek silver-coated dog sits to attention at the front, her pointed ears pricked forward, her grey eyes watchful and quiet. Lady Meriel is next, her waterfall of hair almost translucent in the daylight; half a dozen of her naiads, dressed in sharp sharkskin suits and human Glamours, are fanned out behind her.

  Then there is Lady Isabella, a black pill box hat perched high on her forehead, the clipped skin of her head gleaming pale green like the first weak shoots of spring. She leans on the arm of a tall dryad, his black Stetson hanging down his back, a stubble of twigs dotting his own forest-green skull. The dryads who attacked me have survived, but only through her personal intervention. They have returned to their trees to finish their healing.

  Off to one side is Finn, flanked by two of his brothers; they are all standing solemn and tall in their tailored black suits, their horns barely noticeable above the dark blond waves of their hair. Mr Travers tells me Finn spent All Hallows’ Eve in the cells at Old Scotland Yard; Detective Inspector Helen Crane arrested him for obstructing the police in their duty. She’s since dropped all charges. I haven’t spoken to him. Not yet. But I know he waits for my answer to his suit, much as the droch guidhe waits in my mind for my own decision.

  Tavish stands alone, his green-black dreads beaded with black, wraparound shades hiding the silver of his eyes, his long black greatcoat shifting restlessly in the wind.

  He tells me Malik is fine.

  Then, between one breath and the next, the world is silenced
.

  And the phouka, Grianne, stands before me in her human form, the ash-grey tips of her ankle-length fur coat quivering in the stillness.

  ‘Clíona, my queen, wishes me to convey her deep appreciation for the safe return of her lady.’ Grianne’s voice is low, her own gratitude echoing through it. ‘She would offer you this as a reward.’ She holds out her hand and a gold apple materialises on her palm; the faint scent of liquorice catches my senses.

  I stare at it blankly.

  ‘You are not the first fae to suffer salaich sìol, child,’ she continues gently, ‘and the purge does not always remove the vampire’s taint. But if the apple is not to your taste,’ she clicks her teeth together and silver-painted blackberries appear in the apple’s place, ‘I have these.’ Their juice stains her palm with the darkness of a vampire’s blood. ‘Try one,’ she urges, softly.

  In the far reaches of my mind, a quiet warning whispers about fairy tales, temptation and poison. I hesitate.

  ‘I would not waste your death on poisoned fruit, child.’ She smiles, black fangs sharp, an eerie yellow glow lighting her pale grey eyes and the wind brings me a whiff of her butcher’s shop scent. ‘My word: there is no harm.’