Suzanne McLeod - The Sweet Scent of Blood

His eyes snapped open, pupils dilated with fear, and choked out a cry of terror.

‘Rosa—’ Stone rattling on glass sounded behind me.

I swallowed back my own fear, my own urge to run. There was no way I could leave Gazza, not with a wounded vampire only feet away.

I reached out my hand to him, but he batted it away, wriggling back from me, dragging his trousers up over his hips.

A groan sounded behind me and heart aching, I fought the urge to go to Malik, to heed his call still drumming through my blood.

I crawled after Gazza, and he scrambled back again, moaning and swinging his fist wide. Ducking under the blow, I grabbed his wrist. ‘Be still,’ I hissed, using my touch on his skin to send the command into his mind. He froze, shivering with fear.

‘A pretty trick, my love, to spite me so.’ Malik’s breath burnt along my cheek, I flinched though I knew he wasn’t there. ‘You always had such pretty tricks ...’

Mesma. It’s only mesma.

‘ Run home! ’ I ordered Gazza, and snatched my hand from his skin.

Gazza staggered to his feet and reeled drunkenly away towards the alley’s entrance.

With my heart thudding in my mouth, I turned, curling ready into a crouch. Malik slumped against the alley wall, the pearl handle of my knife a shiny exclamation point in the black shadow of his body.

‘S-s-s-silver, Rosa.’ He hissed, the accusation sliding over my skin like molten oil.

For one long moment, I stared, desolate ... then I forced my legs to flee.

Ifled with vampire speed, urged on by the predawn light fading the darkness from the sky. My feet flew over pavements, leapt over barriers, careened round corners, buildings distorted before my eyes and the discordant sounds of early morning traffic buzzed in my ears. Half-seen pedestrians blurred as I passed them by, silent and unheeded.

Like Gazza, I was running home.

Had I wounded Malik enough to kill him? My knife was silver and I’d struck for his heart, but had I pierced it? Counting the landmarks that meant I was nearly home, I sprinted past the Law Courts on my right and Somerset House to my left— but I hadn’t felt the life leave his body —I turned off the Strand and headed for Covent Garden— not like the last time I’d killed a vampire —I darted between St Paul’s Church and the Apple Market, feet still flying, tiny wings of hope fluttering inside me. Why they should be was something I chose not to think about too closely.

I reached the ladder in the church’s garden and sprang up, closing my hand round the cold metal rung. I concentrated on climbing. I had to get to the top before the sun hit the horizon, before the spell reverted, leaving me dead while the new day started. Halfway up my heart thudded, then went silent. I stopped, leaned my forehead against the ladder and closed my eyes. It was a long way back down, nearly thirty feet, and I couldn’t risk falling, couldn’t risk being found. Closing my eyes, I willed my heart to start again. I needed it to beat now. I needed to get home. It stuttered inside my chest, weak and irregular. I lifted my hand and staring fixedly at the brown brick wall, I climbed.

The wall disappeared.

Confusion made me sway and my fingers clutched the metal rungs painfully hard. I gazed across the gravel in front of me, then the soft scents of lavender and rosemary and lemon balm greeted me and I realised I’d reached the top: this was my roof.

I crawled over the ledge, the sharp stones digging into my hands and knees, and collapsed, too tired to go any further. A bright yellow caterpillar concertinaed past my fingertips, flashing his black inner body. Footsteps crunched in the gravel.

My heart stopped.

I lifted my head and gazed towards the east where the sun stretched pale fingers above the horizon. A shadow fell over me, tall and broad, then as it crouched down and the risen sun spilled over my skin, the fires of the dawn consumed me.

The scent of gardenias drifted over me. I had fallen asleep on the floor, my head pillowed on my building bricks and their sharp edges were digging into my cheek. A hand touched my shoulder, gentle and familiar. I hugged my favourite toy, a grey towelling elephant, and tried to snuggle deeper into dreamland.

‘Genevieve, moy angelochek. ’ Hands lifted me into the air and Matilde, my stepmother settled me onto her hip. ‘You must wake now.’

I was dreaming of a time when my world was simpler. I knew that time was long-gone, but still I burrowed my face into Matilde’s gardenia-scented neck and curled my fingers into her long golden hair.

‘Why do you lie on the floor like a peasant, moy malish ?’ Her hand patted my back. ‘Is the bed your father gave you not comfortable enough?’

I stuck my thumb in my mouth and mumbled, ‘Tired.’

‘Too much playtime, I’ll guess.’ She hitched me higher. ‘But now we have a surprise for you, your father and I.’

‘Like surprises,’ I murmured.

‘First we must make you presentable.’ She plucked at my brown cord dungarees. ‘Little girls should wear pretty dresses, and have ribbons in their hair.’

I took my thumb out of my mouth and gazed sleepily into her large blue eyes. ‘Bessie says I get mucky.’

‘Mucky.’ Matilde mimicked the nursemaid’s northern tones and then smiled. ‘A bath will wash away the muck.’

I reached up to pat her face and smiled. ‘Surprise first, Tildy?’

She laughed open-mouthed, her fangs white and sharp and her eyes sparkling like sapphires. ‘No, no, moy malish , you will have your bath first. Save your charms for your father’—she kissed me on the lips—‘for I am wise to them.’

‘Not want bath,’ I pouted.

‘I do not want a bath,’ she corrected me, sounding out the words.

I stroked her neck, rubbing my fingers over the tender swollen bite there. ‘I do not want a bath, Tildy.’

‘Very good,’ she smiled, and carried me out of the room that was my nursery.

Matilde held me by the hand as she led me down the hall towards my father’s study. With each skip I took, I could see my new shiny black-patent leather shoes decorated with their green satin bows, dancing along beneath the flounces of my new green dress. I bobbed my head in time with the tap, shuffle, tap sounds that bounced back at me from the grey stone walls.

We stopped outside the dark oak door. Hundreds of candles in wall brackets flickered like fireflies on either side of the doorway.

Matilde slowly crouched down and balancing carefully on her high heels, smoothed the green Alice-band that tied back my hair. ‘Your hair is so beautiful, moy angelochek , the colour of fresh blood cascading over our beloved golden domes.’

I leaned in, kissed her pale powdered cheek. ‘At the Kremlin, Tildy?’

She smiled, though I could still see the sadness in her face. ‘Yes, like my so—beautiful home in Moskva.’ Moisture tinted the whites of her eyes with pink. ‘One day we shall travel to see it. You and I. Teram Palace, the Cathedral of the Assumption—’

‘Ivan the big bell,’ I giggled.

She rubbed her nose against mine. ‘ Da, da, moy malish .’ Then her expression turned serious. She touched a finger to my eyes, my ears, my mouth and my heart. ‘Your father has a guest, Genevieve. You must be very much the young lady and remember the manners I have taught to you.’

I touched the black opals that collared her neck. ‘What about the surprise?’

Her fingers twitched at my dress, dusted a nonexistent smudge from my shoe. ‘You shall have your surprise later, little one.’

We were marooned in an empty acre of grey flagstoned floor, lit by the red glare of a fire I couldn’t see. My father, tall and blond and aristocratic, was dressed in his special black suit with the satin lining, the one that matched Matilde’s sapphire-blue eyes.