Suzanne McLeod - The Cold Kiss of Death

‘Two more than yesterday!’ I could hear the worried tap-tap of her pen in the background. ‘That’s not good.’

‘Tell me about it,’ I muttered. ‘I feel like I’ve got this big sign round my neck: Exclusive trophy sidhe ~ latest must-have accessory for those of the fanged persuasion —next thing you know they’ll be queuing round the block. That’d really make the witches throw their cauldrons out of their prams.’

Grace’s sigh echoed down the phone. ‘Talking of witches, have you heard yet if the Witches’ Council are going to reinstate their protection?’

‘I don’t think I’m high on their list of priorities.’ I dropped the invites on the top of the mailbox, thankful Grace couldn’t see me cross my fingers at the evasion.

‘But it’s been ages, they should have been able—’ I winced as she went on accusingly, ‘You haven’t asked them, have you? Why not, Genny? And please don’t tell me it’s some obscure faerie pride thing.’

‘It’s nothing to do with pride, Grace.’ I picked at a loose thread on the towel, pulling it as it unravelled. ‘There’s just no point, that’s all. You know the only reason the witches gave me back my job at Spellcrackers was because of the Mr October murder fiasco. And it’s not just the job, but my flat too.’ No way could I live in Covent Garden without the Council’s permission. ‘I’d really be pushing my luck if I asked for anything more.’ Never mind the witches were probably going to succeed in getting me evicted anyway at this rate ... but I kept that to myself.

‘I still think you should ask, Genny,’ she said. ‘It would put a stop to your stupid idea about coming to some sort of arrangement with that vampire—’ The sound of her office phone ringing interrupted her and she said hurriedly, ‘Gotta go, love you.’

Feeling guilty relief at not having to rehash the next part of the conversation, I tucked the phone away and pursed my lips at the pile of invitations. I turned the top envelope over; the red wax seal on the back was impressed with the shape of a clover leaf. That told me it was from Declan, master vampire of the Red Shamrock blood, one of London’s four blood families. The conniving Irish bastard so didn’t know when to quit. Quickly I checked the seals on all the rest, but the one I was half-dreading, half-hoping for, the one from the vampire I wanted to ‘come to an arrangement’ with, still wasn’t there.

Malik al-Khan.

Nearly a month since he’d last put in an appearance.

I was beginning to wonder if he ever would.

And if he didn’t, then all my ‘conversations’ with Grace about ‘arranging’ to solve my 3V problem the vampire way instead of the medical one would be for nothing. Malik was the only possibility; I didn’t trust any of the others. Not that I really trusted Malik, but ...

I ripped the envelopes in half, pulled open the junk mail bin under the mailboxes and shoved them in, then slammed the door shut.

My only wish was that I could dispose of the vamps themselves as easily.

I closed my eyes and massaged my temples, trying to ease my ever-present headache; popping G-Zav tablets like they were sweeties might be keeping a precarious lid on my venom cravings, but the side-effects were about as pleasant as being roasted alive over a dwarf’s furnace. Sighing, I put the towel in the carrier bag with my socks and shoes, then headed for the stairs, the pervasive smell of garlic increasing as I climbed.

The real puzzle was why some enterprising vamp hadn’t just gone straight for the caveman thing, knocking me over the head and dragging me off by my short sidhe hair. Of course, it’s illegal for a vamp to use any form of coercion—physical or psychological—without their victim’s consent (not that vamps have victims any more, now they’re called customers , a.k.a. fang-fans). And the vamps are good at playing the law-abiding game, so the last time one of them won a one-way trip to the guillotine for unlicensed feeding was back in the early eighties.

But the humans don’t think we fae need the same protection as humans, not when the vamps can’t mind-lock us or trick us with their mesma unless they’d infected us , and not when we’re often seen as more dangerous than the once-human vampires. Then there’s the fact that we fae are even more of a minority than the blood-suckers; a minority that’s not as politically aware and not always as pretty. So it’s not surprising we get a less-than-fair hearing when it comes to human justice.

Or that we end up as fair game for the vamps.

What we really needed was a great public relations manager. Idly I wondered if the one that had kick-started the vamps’ Gold-Plated Coffin promotion was still around. Not that I had the money to pay for a no-expenses-spared PR campaign. I could only just afford my rent, and that was with the subsidy I got from working for a witch company.

I stepped onto the third-floor landing and the garlic stench almost overpowered me. I stopped to cough, glaring at Witch Wilcox’s door. Of course, I wouldn’t need the subsidy if she succeeded in getting me evicted.

‘Ow!’ Something stung my bare calf. I hopped and slapped at my leg, then looked at her door.

Crap. It wasn’t just the garlic she’d laid on a bit thick; she’d added to the Vamp Back-Off spell sprayed on her door and the magic now spread over the landing like an enormous sea anemone, its deep purple body fanning out into a multitude of paler violet-coloured fronds that rippled through the air and circled a dark hole that looked disturbingly like a gaping mouth.

‘That’s different,’ I muttered in amazement. The thing looked more like a trap than a vamp deterrent, and my calf was throbbing like someone had branded it with a red-hot poker. Whatever the spell was, no way did I want to tangle with it.

Carefully, I inched my way along the landing, keeping my back tight against the wall. As I moved, the fronds shifted, questing towards me as if they’d caught my scent. I breathed in sharply as one whipped past my stomach and ducked as another narrowly missed slashing across my cheek, the eye-watering smell of garlic and bleach trailing behind it. Then as three more of the lethal fronds flailed after me, I turned and bolted for the stairs, carrier bag clutched under my arm. I jumped, yelping, as the spell stung the back of my neck, then as I almost missed the steps, I managed to grab for the banister and safety.

I sat down heavily on the stair, breathing shakily as I checked the welt on my calf; the skin wasn’t broken, it was just swollen, red and painful. Gingerly, I touched the back of my neck. It felt the same. What the hell was the daft old witch doing, casting ... whatever that anemone thing was? It seemed excessive, even with her paranoia about her beloved granddaughter—never mind the fact that even if a vamp managed to bypass the Ward on the building’s main door, none of them could pass over her threshold; unless of course she was stupid enough to invite them in. I glowered down at the spell. The fronds were undulating lazily now, but I got the impression they were just watching and waiting.

‘It would serve the old witch right if I cracked her spell,’ I grumbled, rubbing my sore leg. Trouble was, true spellcracking blasted the magic back into the ether, which made for a quick clear-up—except the cracking also blasted apart whatever the spell happened to be attached to. Somehow I didn’t think I’d get away with turning the witch’s door into a pile of jagged splinters. I could always tease it apart, the safer, if more laborious, way of dismantling spells, but that would take more time than I was willing to spare. And she’d just replace it anyway.