Suzanne McLeod - The Cold Kiss of Death

‘So, Hannah, what is your reason for being here?’ I said, echoing Malik’s question.

She walked over to me and stood looking at the gyrating dance crowd below. ‘They’re like chickens in the fox house, aren’t they?’ she laughed, the sound scornful. ‘Totally unaware of the dangerous possibilities that surround them. But we’re not like that, are we, Genevieve?’ Her fingers toyed with the silver death’s head pendant that nestled at the base of her neck. ‘We know how unpredictable life can be—unless of course we have a helping hand.’ She blew on the glass, misting it with her breath, then waved her palm over the now-opaque window. ‘Allow us to see ,’ she murmured.

Within the glass a picture appeared: a room similar to the one we were in. Declan and Elizabetta were standing facing each other and a crystal wine glass—half-full of dark purple-red liquid—sat on a small table between them. Elizabetta held out a thin silver knife—more ornate than Malik’s, the blade already bloodied—and smiled up at Declan. Anticipation was written all over her currently young face. Declan’s blue eyes crinkled in an answering grin as he took the blade, then he held his arm over the glass and in a movement almost too fast to see, sliced along the vein that bulged blue under his pale Irish skin. His dark blood dripped down from the cut to merge with that already in the glass.

‘They agree to support each other, to spill blood together.’ Hannah spoke quietly next to my ear.

Declan offered his still bleeding wrist to Elizabetta as she offered hers to him and together they spoke, lips moving in silent unison. Then with a ritualistic deliberation, they bent their heads to each other’s wrists and drank.

‘Now they agree to share the spoils,’ Hannah said in a throaty whisper.

‘Spoils meaning me, the sidhe me, of course,’ I said, my matter-of-fact tone belying the apprehension that crept over me. The picture fogged and disappeared. I turned to look at her. ‘Neat little show, Hannah, but it’s not exactly breaking news or anything, is it?’

‘Maybe not, but I think it’s always better to know what your enemy is up to, even if all it does is confirm one’s own suspicions.’ She indicated the bag on the sofa. ‘That way, one doesn’t fall prey to false promises.’

Ri-ight: Elizabetta’s outfit, or whatever it was. I strode over to the bag, which clanked as I unzipped it and pulled it open. I lifted out what was lying on top: a gold neck collar with a long heavyweight gold chain attached to it. The chain looked like it could pull lorries. It ended in a wide gold wrist-cuff. I pursed my lips. ‘I HOPE this isn’t some sort of muscle-man bondage crap.’

‘Look at the rest, Genevieve.’

I pulled it out: an elaborate gold-metal bikini, which could double as a handy chastity belt if the leather thongs that kept it on were replaced with padlocks. Attached to the metal briefs was a fall of red material that was going to end up a tripping hazard, let alone the fact that it did nothing in the modesty stakes. It all looked vaguely familiar ... As I imagined wearing it all—gold bikini, metal collar and chain—the iconic movie image of the enslaved princess chained to her fat, bloated alien captor clicked into my mind.

‘Elizabetta wants me to kill Malik then.’ I made it a statement.

Hannah chuckled. ‘Her exact message was, “Slaughter the monster, and I will welcome you and yours into my blood with open veins.”’

‘Open veins,’ I mused. ‘Interesting choice of words.’

‘The movie is one of Elizabetta’s favourites, and knowing Rosa’s fondness for chains ...’ Hannah shrugged. ‘Elizabetta decided the costume was appropriate. You do understand what she means, don’t you?’

‘Yes. Elizabetta is offering her protection if Rosa kills Malik and swears fealty to her.’ I hefted the metal collar; the thing was heavy, even for my enhanced vampire strength. It was some sort of gold-plated steel, maybe. ‘And of course, if Rosa took the deal and she was still the vampire that Elizabetta thinks she is, she would bring a sidhe with her.’ I lifted my lips in a half-smile. ‘The irony is, Rosa is not that vamp, so old Liz is going to be one very disappointed sucker.’

‘You’re rejecting her offer then?’ Hannah asked, sounding only mildly interested.

I gave her my best do I look stupid? look. ‘C’mon, Hannah, even if I were the actual Rosa, I would have to be suicidal to trust her, wouldn’t I?’

‘As I said,’ she gave me a rueful smile, ‘we are both aware of the dangerous possibilities that exist.’

‘Which is something I could’ve worked out on my own.’ I narrowed my eyes. ‘So if all this info is supposed to make me produce the Fabergé egg in gratitude, it’s not working. Why don’t you tell me something I don’t know ... like why you really want the egg?’

‘The egg is a highly valuable item, Genevieve’—she slyly arched one carefully drawn-in brow—‘surely you Googled it on your computer.’

I smiled, knowing it didn’t reach my eyes. ‘As I said, it’s a neat little trick, spying on people like that.’ I waved at the now clear glass. ‘But you see, the egg wasn’t the only thing I Googled. You don’t need that sort of money, do you, Hannah? Not when your net worth is in the same bracket as a small African country.’

She smoothed her hands down her body, giving me a coquettish look from under her lashes. ‘One can never be too rich or too thin, isn’t that what that American said, the Duchess of Windsor?’

I cast a judicious eye over her well-endowed curves. ‘Too thin doesn’t appear to be in your remit, so why don’t you stop playing games? There’s no way you want the egg for its monetary value, and to be honest, if I were going to sell it, I could do that myself.’

She clasped her hands together, then, taking a deep breath—almost popping out of her bustier—she nodded, as if to confirm something. ‘Very well, I will explain why it is so important, but first I need to show you something else.’ She blew on the glass window again. ‘It is a memory, one I find ... distressing, but—Well, you’ll see.’

The mist cleared and another picture formed in the glass. It was like looking the wrong way down a telescope at first, then it rushed closer until two figures, as large as life, were displayed across the plate-glass window. Candles cast flickering lights over the rounded brick ceiling above them and the mural of a barren landscape with its distant, rocky mountain painted on the wall behind them. The figures stood inside a circle marked out in red on the concrete floor, either side of a stone plinth on which was lying a sheet-shrouded body. The material draped close enough to show the body was female. One figure was the Earl, blond hair flopping over his forehead as usual, his arm raised, but motionless, as if frozen in action. His cold azure eyes were assessing as he looked at the other figure. She leaned on her stick, the hood of her cloak pulled back from her fleshless, yellowed skull; the rich purple velvet falling from her shoulders to the floor couldn’t hide the twisted hunch of her spine. I recognised her too. She was the Ancient One.

Hannah spoke, a harsh guttural language I didn’t understand, and the words raised goosebumps over my flesh and sent a shiver rasping down my spine.

The Earl’s arm flowed into movement and he grasped the shroud and peeled it back from the body. The body was Rosa, naked and statue-still, her long black hair curling over her shoulders, her fists clenched in pain or anger, her eyes staring open, lips drawn back from her fangs.

‘It is truly astonishing,’ the Earl said in his aristocratic voice. ‘The body still shows no ill effects after two years of the sidhe using the spell.’ He stroked his hand down over Rosa’s stomach and dipped his fingers into the bloody wound that marked her left hip. He brought his hand close to his nose, sniffed, and sucked his fingers clean, sighing with obvious enjoyment. ‘And the blood tastes even sweeter than the last time.’ He smiled benevolent approval at the Ancient One. ‘Your magic is exceedingly good, Crone. I really should commend you.’