Suzanne McLeod - The Cold Kiss of Death

I turned on my heel and left.

Five days isn’t a long time to be away from home, but I’d missed it. Shoving that less-than-cheerful thought aside, I looked, and looked , around the communal hallway and up the stairs, checking for any new spells that might be lying in wait. Nothing. I pushed the main door shut without activating the Ward; the police needed to get in, after all. Taking a deep breath, I inhaled beeswax and faint musty earth—the scents of the goblin cleaner and Mr Travers, my landlord—almost buried beneath the less pleasant reek of Witch Wilcox’s garlic and bleach-laced Back-off spell: garlic for vamps, bleach for fae, so Tavish had told me.

The spell was going to be a problem. How was I supposed to knock on the old witch’s door if I couldn’t get near it? Still, determination had to count for something. And if the sidhe was with her, better I got her back to Grianne before the police turned up, even if it meant I’d probably spend the next few days sitting in a cell waiting for Grianne’s queen to sort it all.

I ran quietly up the stairs and stopped a couple of steps shy of the third-floor landing and looked again.

Sure enough, the anemone spell’s violet-coloured tentacles undulated over the landing. As I studied it, the dark gaping mouth in the centre of the anemone thing puckered up to a small round hole and then expanded, blowing me something that looked disturbingly like a kiss. Damn! The spell had been hanging around long enough to develop a sense of humour! I really hated it when the magic did that—I usually ended up being the butt of its jokes.

‘Well, if it isn’t the little sex-deprived bean sidhe ,’ a rough voice drawled. ‘We’ve been waiting for you to turn up. Got ourselves a nice little party all planned.’

Adrenalin flooded my body as I looked up towards the voice. A male, a purple bandana tied round his clipped head, was leaning over the banister; he was the dryad who’d chased me from outside The Clink museum: Bandana. He grinned, revealing teeth stained brown from bark-chews, his eyes glinting the anaemic yellow of dying autumn leaves.

I went for the important question, keeping my voice light and slightly bored. ‘Who’s invited to this party then?’

‘A couple of close friends.’ He rubbed his jaw, leaving streaks of pale green where he’d scratched away his surface skin. Then he leaned further out, looking down through the narrow gap that separated the stairs from the landing. ‘I think you might have met them in passing.’

I looked down quickly. The lanky turban-headed dryad was making his way up towards me, his red turban bobbing with each long stride, and following him was a straw Panama above a pair of wide pinstripe-suited shoulders. Yep, friends all right; though not mine, obviously. Panama stopped to catch his breath, then squinted up.

‘Hi.’ He gave me a fat-fingered wave. ‘Nowhere for you to run to now, bean sidhe ,’ he said, much too happily. ‘I liked the blonde bimbo look better, but then, this isn’t about looks, is it?’

‘Not where you’re concerned, Shorty,’ I said sweetly.

His face screwed up in anger and he started thudding up the stairs again. Red Turban hooked a long arm round Shorty’s stocky neck and yanked him to a halt. ‘Cool it,’ he said in a surprisingly high voice. ‘The bean sidhe is not to be damaged, remember.’

Good to know they planned to pull their punches. Shame for them I had no intention of reciprocating the go-easy policy.

Red Turban released Shorty and looked up at me, his expression cold. Then he patted Shorty on the back and said, ‘I can show you plenty of other ways to get maximum enjoyment out of her body, whatever it looks like.’

Not if I can help it, you won’t! I thought, determined. Red Turban’s twin popped his blue-turbaned head over the banister above me and gave me an equally cold stare. Ambushed! How lucky was I? Then another dryad—this one in a yellow beanie hat—sneered as he hung over the banister next to Blue Turban and Bandana. So, five of them in total.

A low rustle, like leaves shifting in the wind, filled the stairwell. Crap, now they were talking together—not that I needed to understand what they were saying to work out their objective, not when they’d got me cornered and outnumbered.

This was so not good.

My gut twisted with nervous tension as I tried to come up with some sort of plan. The police would be here soon, and hopefully Finn. If I could hold the dryads off until they arrived ... I had two options—up or down—and neither looked promising, not when up meant getting past the witch’s anemone spell—

I turned to face the two below me and the rustling rose in volume. Red Turban tapped Shorty on his Panama hat again and up they came, Red Turban’s long legs eating the stairs two at a time, Shorty puffing red-faced behind him.

A creaking noise above had me itching to look up, but I ignored it, concentrating on the two below. I was only going to get one chance at this; either it worked, or I was in serious trouble. I grabbed the banister and braced myself. Time stretched as I took a calming breath.

Red Turban was seven steps away ...

A double thud like the duhm duhm of a heavy heartbeat sounded behind me. I pricked up my ears, hoping for a third, but it didn’t come. Shit. I’d hoped all three of them would jump or run down together, but it looked like the good luck wasn’t all on my side.

Five steps ... Red Turban paused, a puzzled look in his maple-red eyes, no doubt wondering why I was ignoring the two at my back.

I swallowed. He’d find out any second—

Right on cue the screaming started: a high-pitched noise like storm winds shrieking through winter trees.

Two dryads down, three to go.

Red Turban’s eyes flicked to the scene behind me. His momentary distraction was what I’d been waiting for and I jumped down two steps and used the banister to propel me up. As I leapt I kicked out and jammed my feet into his chest, and it made a satisfying crack like branches breaking. One good thing about dryads: hit them with enough force and their bones splinter like brittle wood. Air puffed like dust between Red Turban’s surprised lips and he fell backwards, long fingers grabbing for the banister—but he missed and, arms flailing, knocked into Shorty like a tall, lanky domino, sending the smaller dryad barrelling back down the stairs where he crumpled in a heap on the landing below. I landed back on my own feet with a thump that jarred my whole body and tightened my grip on the banisters.

Three down, two to go.

Red Turban shook his head and started to pull himself up; I kicked out again, swinging my foot into his temple. Another gunshot-loud crack reverberated above the screeching dryads behind me and Red Turban collapsed. This time he stayed down, limp and still. Then the screeching cut out, leaving behind only silence.

Only one dryad left now.

Then my good luck ran out.

A disturbance in the air behind me warned me, but too late as thick muscled arms clamped like a steel trap around my torso and lifted me from my feet. ‘I’m impressed, bean sidhe ,’ Bandana said in his rough drawl, his breath hot and moist against my skin. ‘I like a girl with a bit of fight in her. It makes the sex more interesting.’ He shoved his hips forward, pushing his erection against my butt. ‘And you’re a fucking feisty one.’

I’ll give you fucking feisty , I thought, jerking my head forward then ramming it back as hard as I could. It connected with a gratifying crunch as my skull shattered his nose. He let out a gurgled roar and staggered back, falling, still hugging me to him like I was his favourite blow-up doll. He landed on his back and the fall vibrated through me, stealing what little breath I had left. We slithered and bumped our way down the stairs, coming to an abrupt stop as we crashed into Red Turban’s unconscious body.