Suzanne McLeod: The Cold Kiss of Death

I stare at it blankly.

‘You are not the first fae to suffer salaich sìol , child,’ she continues gently, ‘and the purge does not always remove the vampire’s taint. But if the apple is not to your taste,’ she clicks her teeth together and silver-painted blackberries appear in the apple’s place, ‘I have these.’ Their juice stains her palm with the darkness of a vampire’s blood. ‘Try one,’ she urges, softly.

In the far reaches of my mind, a quiet warning whispers about fairy tales, temptation and poison. I hesitate.

‘I would not waste your death on poisoned fruit, child.’ She smiles, black fangs sharp, an eerie yellow glow lighting her pale grey eyes and the wind brings me a whiff of her butcher’s shop scent. ‘My word: there is no harm.’

Her word is more than her honour; the magic sees to that. Not that the numb part of me truly cares. I pick up one of the berries. My mouth waters as I inhale its warm fragrance and I place it between my lips. Ripe juice flavoured with liquorice bursts on my tongue and I close my eyes as it trickles like sweet blood down my throat. A haze of well-being, stronger than I expect from one small fruit, shivers through my body.

‘See child, no harm,’ Grianne murmurs as her black-tipped nails place another berry in my mouth. ‘My queen would also offer you sanctuary.’ She has raised her voice. ‘Her offer is extended for a year and a day; as long as you refuse to bear a child.’

A ripple of emotion runs through the gathered fae.

The phouka’s promise and threat is clear to all.

The queen has given me her protection . She has also, intentionally or not, given me a year and a day to find a way to break the droch guidhe, other than the fae’s current solution ... but then I will need to make my choice.

Sanctuary or death.

When I sleep, I dream.

Once again I stab the knives into the demon.

Once again his mouth opens and the abyss yawns deep and dark below me.

Once again I start to fall ...

And Grace wraps her hands around mine and pulls, and the knives slide from his chest, black blood pumping into the water like swirling ink. She pushes me down onto the altar, presses me back into my body and leans over me, smiling. Her curls float like a dark halo around her head. Her eyes are resolute, unwavering, determined; her hands are confident but gentle as she fastens the pentacle around my throat. Above and behind her the darkness of the abyss rears up, reaching ...

Now I stand in the gardens of St Paul’s Church. I look up at the cloudless blue sky above and watch as a lone black crow glides through all that emptiness. The same emptiness that fills my every thought, my every cell, and all my soul.

All Soul’s Day

I am here to pray for the dead.

I am here to pray for Grace.

My heartfelt thanks go to those who have helped this book on its way.

To Fiona MacKenzie for her endless enthusiasm, pep talks and splashes of red; Alison Aquilina for the ‘feelings’; Malcolm Angel for the ‘action’; Judy Monckton for those all-important questions; Doreen Cory for those ‘bon mots’! And Paul Knight for finding Tavish’s perfect ‘home’.

To the Gollancz crew for their dedication, to John Jarrold for his belief and support, and especially to Jo Fletcher, for all her fantastic work in continuing to make my books so much better.

To Norman for being the wonderful, patient person he is and for making this, my second book, truly possible.

And last, but not least to all those readers who have told me how much they enjoyed The Sweet Scent of Blood , a huge, huge thank-you; it means more than you can ever know.