Suzanne McLeod - The Cold Kiss of Death

‘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.

Iwoke 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.