Текст книги "The Cold Kiss of Death"
Автор книги: Сьюзан Маклеод
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Текущая страница: 23 (всего у книги 23 страниц)
‘I’m a demon, my dear.’ He shot his cuffs and smoothed the lapels of his jacket. ‘There is no blessed blood and bone to curtail me, it is All Hallows’ Eve, and so, I am delighted to say, I can take any soul not already claimed by another.’
‘Wot, even them’s not dead yet?’
I focusedon the heart of all those tiny spells, concentrating my will.
‘Well, perhaps not technically,’ he said, smiling, flashing fang, ‘but life—human life particularly—is such a transient part of our existence.’ He stood in front of Grace and brushed his knuckles gently down her cheek, then hooked his finger into her scrubs. ‘This one is the only soul here barred to me.’ He pulled out a gold chain; a small pentacle glinted on the end of it. ‘But then again,’ he smiled cheerfully, ‘I can still have fun dismembering her along with all the rest of you.’
I crackedthe magic.
The wall exploded inwards, throwing brick and rubble across the room, and a torrent of murky water gushed through a hole the size of a drain cover, sweeping all before it.
The Thames had come to join us.
Tavish and the vamps would be okay; they could survive under water, and so could the souls and shades, since they were already dead. It was the three humans I feared for most; I prayed Grace, Moth-girl and the florist’s lad could all swim better than me.
Within seconds the water was swirling around my knees, then it was up to my thighs. I turned to face the Earl, my heart pounding with fear and hope.
He stood in the gushing torrent, the faintly amused smile still on his face, as if the water was nothing more than a childish trick I’d played on him.
Fuck, this sohad to work.
‘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.
Epilogue
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 guidhewaits 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.
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.
Acknowledgements
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.
