Suzanne McLeod - The Cold Kiss of Death

‘Er, I don’t think—’

‘I know the younger trolls do it,’ he rushed on, his face cracking with worry, ‘and some of the concrete ones, but I didn’t want to look silly or anything. What do you think, is it a good thing or not? And I’m not sure if it will hurt; some of these new methods aren’t always the best, are they?’

I blinked, not sure if I was qualified to give beauty tips to a troll; and I liked Mr Travers, no way did I want to give him the wrong advice. But the only troll I knew well was my friend, Hugh—Detective Sergeant Hugh Munro—and he was in the Cairngorms with his tribe, recuperating after being injured in the line of duty. Hugh was more of a traditionalist, but thinking of him ... ‘Well,’ I said, frowning, ‘I know a troll who’s got himself polished, he works for the police, Constable Taegrin’s his name.’ And Constable Taegrin might possibly know where I could find a necro, so ... ‘I could ring him and see if he’ll talk to you about it, if you want?’ I added.

‘That would be great, thanks Genny!’ Mr Travers’ face split in a relieved smile. ‘I knew you were the best person to ask.’ He held the bag out again. ‘Another butter pebble?’

I accepted politely and he ambled almost silently away down the hall, mumbling about finding a dustpan and brush. Feeling slightly bemused, I tucked both sticky pebbles into a carrier bag, together with my wet shoes, then turned to contemplate the offending mailbox; my personal pigeon-hole was full as usual. No wonder Witch Wilcox was complaining.

The eerie theme tune from Halloween drifted tinnily through the hallway and it took me a second to realise it was my phone ringing. The ring-tone wasn’t my choice, just an irritating consequence of my job working for Spellcrackers. com. I’d cleared out a gremlin crew from Tower Bridge and the critters had retaliated by springing a techno-hex on my phone. I’d been trying to crack the hex for over a week, never mind it was nearing All Hallows’ Eve and sort of appropriate—having the phone run through a selection of horror film ring-tones was so not professional; it unsettled too many of the clients. I grabbed the phone from the back of my running shorts but my irritation turned to a grin as I checked the caller ID.

‘Grace,’ I said, then remembered why she was calling; my vamp-mail problem was worrying her, and while I loved her to bits for checking I was okay, neither of us needed the extra stress. I tried for a distraction. ‘Don’t suppose you know any necros, do you?’

‘I’m a doctor, Genny, not an information service,’ she said in her usual no-nonsense voice. ‘Plus, I don’t think a necro’s going to help you if that medium didn’t. I told you, wait until Hallowe’en; you’ll be able to talk to your ghost then.’

Wrapping the towel round my shoulders, I shuddered. ‘There is no way I’m spending that night in a churchyard. That’d be like asking you to stay in the same room as a spider.’

‘Humph! Well as you keep telling me, spiders can’t hurt anyone, and the same goes for ghosts. Plus it’s a cheaper, quicker option than a necro,’ she pointed out. ‘Then again, HOPE is likely to be busy that night, so you might not have time to visit a churchyard.’

HOPE is the Human, Other and Preternatural Ethical Society’s clinic. The clinic treats Vampire Venom and Virus infection, or 3V, to give it the more politically correct moniker, as well as anyone who falls foul of magic. Grace was one of the Speciality Registrars there—it was where we’d met and become friends—and she was right; Hallowe’en is always like half a dozen full moons wrapped up in one. All the loonies—human and Other—would be out, and HOPE would end up dealing with the fallout, in addition to more than its usual number of anxious humans wondering if Getting Fanged had been the cool choice after all.

‘Don’t tell me,’ I said, hopping on one leg then the other as I pulled off my wet socks. ‘I’m going to be asked to come in and work.’

‘I don’t think there’s any asking involved,’ she laughed. ‘That new admin manager’s got you and all the rest of the volunteers pencilled in on the rota.’

‘That’s because someone showed him the CCTV tape from last year.’ I tucked the sodden socks into the carrier bag. ‘The one where the Chelsea Witches’ Coven are having hysterics ’cos their darling daughters thought it might be fun to go partying over in Sucker Town.’

Getting Fanged at one of the vamp celebrity clubs is safe enough—the only time the vamps go into the red is when it involves blood, not cold hard cash—so no one ends up with 3V from visiting them; just with the odd blood-loss hangover from overenthusiastic donating. But Sucker Town is a popular destination on All Hallows’ Eve and the rules are different there. Vampires give trick or treat a whole new meaning.

‘They were lucky the vamps gave them a wide berth and none of them got bitten, let alone infected,’ Grace huffed. ‘Stupid, irresponsible idiots. Let’s hope the lecture they got about the downsides of 3V and G-Zav’—the venom-junkies’ methadone—‘made an impression and we don’t have a repeat this year.’

‘Hope so,’ I agreed wholeheartedly, having first-hand experience of those same ‘downsides’ myself since my fourteenth birthday—just over ten years ago now. Being dependent on G-Zav is so not a fun way to live but it beats the alternative of being some sucker’s blood-slave.

Or at least I always thought it had.

Now I wasn’t so sure.

‘Anyway, apart from being rattled by your ghost,’ Grace said cheerfully, interrupting my wavering thoughts, ‘how’s my favourite sidhe this wet and windy evening?’

I snorted. ‘Given that I’m the only sidhe in London and the only one you know, your bedside manner sucks.’

‘And talking of vampires?’ Her voice rose with the question.

‘None of the suckers jumped out at me, so I’m still here, still taking the tablets, and I’ve still got my requisite eight-plus pints of blood.’

‘I can tell most of that by the fact you’re on the phone,’ she said drily.

I grinned. ‘Your powers of deduction are second to none, Grace.’

‘Now we’ve got past the rather excessive compliments,’ she said with more than a touch of snark, ‘let’s get back to the vampires and how many invitations today.’

I poked at the invitations filling my mailbox and said, ‘About the same,’ hoping she would accept that. Trouble was, now that every vamp and their blood-pet knew about my 3V infection it made me an even more attractive meal ticket than before. So far, it was just invitations—ultra-polite requests for my company at various celebrity-studded functions, all sent in identical expensive cream envelopes—but the hard knot in my stomach told me it probably wouldn’t be long before the vampires dispensed with the postal option and started delivering their ‘invitations’ in person. And didn’t that give me something fun to look forward to.

‘How many?’ Grace asked, her voice as sharp as surgical steel.

Dogs and bones have nothing on Grace when she wants something, so I gave in. ‘Hold on a min.’ I slid the phone onto the mailbox and dug out the latest batch, squinting at them malevolently in the dim light. Genevieve Taylor, Bean Sidhe, was written across the top envelope in a bold, rust-red script. Holding the envelope to my nose, I sniffed, and the faint scent of liquorice and copper made my mouth water—the sender had mixed his or her blood into the ink—but then, the vampires don’t miss a trick when it comes to self-promotion. Ignoring the annoying throb that the scent raised into life at the curve of my neck, I ran my finger over the envelope edges, counting, then picked up the phone. ‘Nine today,’ I said.