The Cold Kiss of Death

Chapter Eleven

I stood outside Tavish’s tent and stared up at the tall sand-dune covered in pale pink heather rising before me. It blocked out any sight of the sea.

‘So what happened there?’ I asked, bemused.

‘I think that was you, Gen,’ Finn murmured quietly. ‘Tavish mentioned something about you interfering with his magic. He didn’t sound too impressed.’

‘But I haven’t done anything,’ I said.

‘’Course you did, doll,’ Tavish snorted. ‘When you were digging your pretty toes intae my beach.’ He gave my shoulders a quick squeeze. ‘Seems the magic’s taken a fancy tae you.’

I frowned, I knew Between was malleable, but this was Tavish’s patch. I thought back to earlier, when I’d been watching him scooping out a sand-basin. I’d known he was doing magic, but I hadn’t realised my wishful building of a small ridge of sand would result in anything like this—no wonder Tavish wasn’t impressed, never mind I’d threatened his computers!

I looked down at myself. He’d already got his own back.

I’d asked for a Glamour to change my appearance. I’d been hoping for something nondescript. What I’d got was a blonde-bimbo look with boobs so big that I could fall flat on my face and still be a foot away from the ground. Okay, maybe that was a slight exaggeration, but hey, Page Three was not going to be saying no to me any time soon. Of course Tavish had denied any ulterior motive, saying that it wasn’t his fault; he’d based the spell on the white bikini-clad model advertising a luxury holiday resort in the same brochure his sandy beach came from. After that little magical hiccough, I’d insisted on real clothes so he’d emailed a local shopkeeper who owed him a favour, then called the shirt, jeans, leather jacket and trainers I was now wearing. Mind you, I’d had to keep on the white bikini that had appeared with the Glamour plaited into my hair, since he’d forgotten the real underwear I’d also asked for. Still, the bikini was better than nothing, and he had called a brand new pay-as-you-go phone and an Oyster card, as well as giving me a thick wad of twenties.

‘Come see your door, doll.’ Tavish took my hand and pulled me across the sand.

The door that had materialised into being when I’d thrown the Knock-back Ward at Tavish and Finn still stood where the spear had landed. I walked a complete circle around it. It had changed. The bars and padlocks and chipped paint had given way to something that looked more like an office door, with frosted glass in the top half. Behind it I could see people-shaped shadows walking past. I reached out and grasped the handle—

—and stepped out of the end of a narrow alley and onto the wider street. Apart from one elderly woman who started, no one noticed me appear out of thin air, but then, they were all hurrying along, heads down against the driving rain. After an odd moment of disorientation, I realised I was on Clink Street and almost exactly where I wanted to be. I stuck my own head down and started dodging the puddles, grateful for the trainers. I dashed past a side road, catching a glimpse of the Golden Hind, the replica Tudor warship in which Sir Francis Drake sailed around the world, and briefly wondered if they’d managed to evict the selkie who’d been squatting in the captain’s cabin for the last fortnight. I reached the Clink and almost slipped down the small flight of worn stone steps that led into the museum. I paid my admission and walked slowly through the exhibits towards the large back room.

A concrete troll sat at a big wooden table, rolling a crapshoot of plastic dice back and forth between his large slab-like hands. He was old—or at least he’d had a hard life; his nose was missing a chunk and his age cracks had been filled with blue-coloured grout, making his pitted concrete skin look like it had a map of wriggling blue lines drawn on it. It reminded me of the blue oxygen-starved veins of a hungry vampire. The troll’s name was Blue, unsurprisingly appropriate, and the info plaque in front of him stated that trolls had been used as jailers at the Clink as far back as the fifteenth century. Of course, being an interactive museum, Blue was dressed for the part in a shapeless woollen frock-coat, ragged knee-length trews and a thick dirty-cream woven shirt. Half-a-dozen roughly dressed humans hovered behind Blue; I wasn’t sure if they were interactive too, or just hanging around in the hope of a game.

The place has a reputation for gambling, which was why I was here. Only it wasn’t money I was hoping to win.

Blue looked up as I sat down opposite him, his mouth splitting into a thin crevice of a smile that didn’t manage to hide his ill-fitting set of human dentures. ‘’Ello, miss, wot can I do yous for, then?’

I folded my hands together on the table, allowing the edge of a twenty to show. ‘I want to cast the bones.’

‘Can’t say as casting bones is a game, miss.’ He took a blue tea-towel-sized hanky from his pocket and dusted off his bald head. ‘But yous can always ’ave a go at playing the dice if yous like.’

‘I like,’ I said.

Ignoring the plastic set he’d been throwing, he rummaged in his coat pocket and produced three pairs of dice. He laid down the first set; they were a mottled amber shot through with gold. ‘Jawbone of a fire-dragon,’ he rumbled softly. The second pair were black, the corners rounded smooth. ‘Shoulder blade of a mountain troll.’ He handled them reverently, his forehead creasing so deeply that a thin sliver of blue grout popped out and powdered on the table. He set the last pair down, whispering, ‘Hip of Phouka.’ The dice glimmered faintly with silver light; their original owner was still alive.

‘What’s the game?’ I asked calmly, my knuckles whitening with the effort it took not to just reach out and grab the last pair of dice and call to the magic in them.

Blue shook himself. ‘Craps do yous?’

I nodded. ‘Fine by me.’

The air flickered around Blue and in a couple of moments both he and the rough-looking men were surrounded by about twenty more, some more distinct than others. I shuddered. The place was full of ghosts. I’d forgotten the museum was a known hangout for them, and this group was way more sentient than the ones under London Bridge. I watched them warily from under my lashes, not wanting to attract their attention any more than I had to. They sported a motley collection of chains, shackles and hangman’s nooses, and one clomped nosily round in a large metal boot. I doubted they were the real deal, just locals who liked the accessories.

‘You calls an’ I rolls, miss. Three correc’ calls and yous wins.’

The ghosts pressed forward, merging through and past the living men as they gathered round the table to watch the proceedings.

I relaxed slightly. They were here for the game, nothing malevolent. ‘Ready when you are,’ I said.

‘Place yous bets, ladies and gents,’ Blue rumbled. ‘Roller is Blue.’ He laid his hanky carefully on the table on his right. ‘An’ caller is the pot.’ An anaemic-looking man placed a small metal bowl to Blue’s left.

I tossed my twenty into the bowl.

The crowd shuffled and muttered and a pile of translucent coins appeared on Blue’s blue hanky. A few notes were stuffed into my pot, some solid and others less so. The betting system didn’t make any sense to me, but most of the punters were ghosts, so who was I to complain?

‘Wot dice do yous choose, miss?’ Blue peered at me from his small blue-glass eyes.

‘Hip of Phouka,’ I murmured.

The others disappeared back into his pocket. Blue gently picked up the Hip of Phouka bone dice and held them out to me. ‘Yous want to kiss ’em for luck, miss?’

My heart stuttered in indecision for a moment, then I nodded. It was a tradition: if you called on a wylde fae for help, you needed to offer them a promise. The phouka’s preference was for flesh. Bending forward, I kissed my lips to the dice. The phantom taste of raw, bloody meat made my stomach roil with nausea. I sat back, taking a deep breath and swallowing my horror.

The phouka was well known for liking her food überfresh.

Using a tall plastic beaker, Blue scooped the dice up and slapped one large hand over the cup. Shaking it vigorously, the dice rattling around inside like a hangman’s skeleton, he said, ‘Call.’

‘Big Red,’ I called.

The crowd murmured with approval.

Blue nodded sagely and rolled. The two bone dice tumbled out onto the table: a four and a three.

‘Big Red it is.’ He scooped and shook and rattled again. ‘Call.’

‘Midnight.’

The crowd muttered, sounding less encouraging this time.

Blue did the sage nodding thing and rolled again. The dice stopped precariously near the table edge, both showing a six. ‘Midnight is it.’

A collective sigh hummed through the room.

‘Last call,’ Blue rumbled, a fine grey dust rising from the neatly drilled holes in his scalp as he rattled the dice.

‘Snake Eyes,’ my mouth said before I’d made the decision to speak.

The crowd stilled, suddenly silent. Snake Eyes was bad luck, a losing throw; I’d been planning on calling an ace and deuce. I clenched my hands, angry—stupid to have kissed the dice without looking first—but it was too late now, I’d called.

Blue rolled, and I watched with sick inevitability as the first die stopped with one dark pip showing, then the other bounced and landed with two pips uppermost.

‘Ace and Deuce,’ Blue rumbled, carefully pocketing the dice and then drawing the pot of money towards him. ‘Sorry, miss, no winnin’ this time, yous lost.’

Fuck. Playing the crapshoot was supposed to be just a formality if you weren’t human. And the Glamour was on the surface only, it couldn’t affect the outcome. Someone had tagged the dice with some sort of spell. I scanned the crowd—living and ghosts—but nobody’s face registered any more interest than was normal.

I produced another twenty and forced a smile. ‘Let’s try again.’

‘No can do, miss.’ Blue shook his head sadly. ‘If yous don’t win first go-round, yous don’t get no more chances ’til next sundown.’

I crumpled the twenty in my fist. Damn. No way did I want to wait until tomorrow night—

A chill hand wrapped its fingers around mine and tugged at my arm. I turned to stare into the big empty eyes of Cosette, the child-ghost who was haunting me. I froze, my heart pounding as I struggled with the urge to tear my hand from hers and jump up and run like the hounds of Hell were after me.

Cosette tugged again, more insistently this time. I got the message; she wanted me to go with her. With a reluctant look at the crap game, I let her pull me away and out to the museum entrance. As soon as I stepped outside, she pointed up to the street, and then flashed out of existence.

A female stood at the top of the entrance stairs. She stared arrogantly down at me from under the dark brim of her fedora hat, her tall, graceful body clad in a smart russet trouser-suit. Her eyes shone startlingly green, the colour of new leaves in spring, no whites, no pupils. Behind her stood a short, chunky male, his brown pinstripe suit at odds with his rain-wilted straw Panama. His eyes shone the same spring green as his companion’s. Neither had any eyebrows, which made their pale faces look oddly unfinished, and both were obviously bald under their hats, but then, pruning the twigs off their scalps was a long-standing tradition. Shit. What had I done to deserve being waylaid by a pair of dryads?

‘Ms Taylor?’ The female tilted her head and her domed forehead lined in a slight frown. ‘Ah yes, I see now,’ she murmured. ‘The Glamour is very good, Ms Taylor; no wonder the trees took some time to locate you.’

Damn tree spirits, they had their spies everywhere. All it took was a breath of air and info could pass from one side of London to the other faster than it took to ask, ‘What’s that rustling noise the leaves are making?’

Fedora spoke again. ‘I am Sylvia. My mother, the Lady Isabella, wishes to speak with you.’

‘What about?’

Fedora’s mouth thinned in disapproval at my blunt question, but she still answered. ‘She is disturbed by the current unrest in London. It appears to be getting less comfortable for fae as the days and nights go by.’

‘Tell Lady Isabella,’ I said flatly, ‘that I’m sorry for whatever problems she is having, but I’m not sure that my speaking to her right now is going to help.’

‘I think you’ve misunderstood me, Ms Taylor. I am afraid this isn’t a request, and if necessary’—she snapped her fingers, and Chunky in his limp Panama moved to stand at her side—‘I will have to use force.’ Her smile was more a baring of her brown-stained teeth than anything friendly. ‘Although of course it would be better if you accompanied us quietly.’

And of course, going quietly was only better for her, not me! I let my shoulders slump, briefly looking round to see how many more dryads were skulking round. I picked them out by their hats. A tall, slightly bent-over male in a black Stetson to the left, a pair of skinny saplings wearing knitted beanies—yellow and green—the other side of the road, and to the right

... I couldn’t see. The corner of the building had me in a blind spot.

Time to hustle.

I placed my foot on the first step. ‘I really don’t want any trouble, you know, Sylvia,’ I said, keeping my voice soft and calm. ‘But I would like to phone my boss. I don’t want him to worry.’ I took another step up, showing willing.

‘You may contact your employer in the car, Ms Taylor.’ She indicated a glossy green Rolls Royce a few yards along the road.

‘Fair enough.’ I pasted a resigned look on my face, looking up at her and Chunky, and made a show of patting my pockets. Which way to make a break for it, left or right? The car was left, all the easier to bundle me up and into if I went that way. Of course, they’d have to catch me first. So it looked like right was the preferred escape route, even with the blind spot. I exaggerated a frown, then held my hands out, empty. ‘Damn! I’m sorry, Sylvia, but my phone’s not in my jacket pockets.’ It was in my jeans, so not a lie. I jerked my head back. ‘Maybe it’s in the museum?’ I raised my voice in question.

Her pale face narrowed in annoyance, then she breathed sharply in through her nose. ‘Malus, help Ms Taylor retrieve her phone. Quickly, please.’

Chunky nodded and started down the steps.

‘Hey, I’m really sorry about this.’ I smiled sheepishly, took another couple of steps up to meet him, then shot my arm up as if to catch him, saying loudly, ‘Watch out, the steps are slippery from the rain.’

He started and looked down, hands reaching out instinctively as I’d hoped, and I grabbed his wrist and yanked. He overbalanced, teetering forward, then toppled, doing a diving belly-flop into the museum, hitting the ticket desk Panama-hatted-head first.

Fedora’s mouth gaped open in surprise. I took the rest of the steps in a leap, bent forward and head-butted her hard in her stomach. She fell back, landing with a spine-cracking crunch on the pavement, a whoosh of air whistling from her open mouth. I jumped over her trouser-suited legs and ran.

I went right, racing past the shocked face of the two Beanies, and jinked to one side, only just evading the grappling arms of a giant oak-sized guy with a purple-patterned bandana tied low over his mahogany-skinned forehead. I picked up pace and sprinted along Clink Street. The cobbles were still wet from the earlier rain, the air chill with moisture and the early evening greyness was dissolving into streetlamp sodium that spilled halos of light onto the ground.

My heart was beating fast and adrenalin was pumping through my body as I wondered what the hell Lady Isabella was up to. Okay, so maybe her life was out of kilter with the anti-fae demos, but that was no reason to send her dryads out to kidnap me. Had she been the one to booby-trap the phouka’s dice? I stretched my legs, sucked air into my lungs and felt my body settle into a familiar fast-run mode. One good thing about running regularly: a couple of days’ forced bed-rest doped up on morphine hadn’t dented my fitness much. I could keep this pace up for a good few miles, but I could hear the dull boom of feet behind me and the rhythm sounded as practised as mine. I was almost sure it was the guy in the bandana chasing me; the others had looked too stunned to react that quickly—and Bandana Guy had been the only one who’d tried to stop me. I didn’t check behind; I was either faster than him or not and looking back wasn’t going to change that.

The buildings on my left ended abruptly and the bulk of the Golden Hind filled the gap, its masts rising into the star-spiked sky. A crowd of City types heading for post-work drinks at the pub beside the boat spilled across the narrow street in front of me. I waved my arms, grinning like a lunatic, and shouted ‘Whoo hoo! Girl coming through,’ and they laughed goodnaturedly as I dodged between and past them.

A few seconds later I heard irate shouts of ‘Watch it’ and ‘Hey, man!’ and ‘Getoutheway!’ behind me: sounded like Bandana Guy hadn’t managed to dodge quite as quickly. I raced on—but the trouble was, I could keep running, but I needed somewhere to run to, somewhere where a dryad couldn’t go. Dryads were fae, so a threshold wasn’t going to stop them like it would a vampire. A gust of wind blew past me, and in seconds rain started pelting me in the face like an ice-cold shower. Iron and steel would stop most fae, but the dryads were born in this world, their trees grew in the soil, drank whatever chemicals polluted the rain. My arms pumped and I could feel the wet blonde ponytail of my Glamour slapping against my leather jacket as I ran. Dryads had no problem with cars, but trains ... they didn’t like trains. None of them used the Tube. And there were no trees to spy me out; underground I’d be safe from the tell-tale whispers of the rustling leaves.

I reached the fork in the road: the left went round underneath London Bridge, but it took me further away from the nearest station and kept me out in the open. To the right was the quickest way to the Underground, but as I veered to go that way, I realised right wasn’t an option: two tall, gangly men were racing towards me with long, ground-eating strides. Both wore turbans wrapped around their heads. Maybe if they hadn’t been running, or if their faces hadn’t glowed with an odd pale luminescence like freshly stripped wood, or if their leaf-rustling cries hadn’t whistled past my ears, I might not have seen them—but seeing them wasn’t going to make them disappear.

‘Shit,’ I breathed out as I changed direction, sprinting left. ‘Pulling in reinforcements is so not fair, guys.’

The road curved in a deep bend and I took the straight quick line across pavement and grass and jumped a low-walled frontage. Rounding the corner I saw the quiet street stretching under the bridge and away into the distance. Three sets of echoes matched the pounding of my own feet. The driving rain stung my face and soaked cold into my shirt. Ahead I could see the green and blue flashes of the pavement lights under the bridge: straight on took me into the City, an area the dryads were uncomfortable in because of its lack of trees and multitude of hard surfaces, but it wasn’t the smart option, not when I didn’t know it well. But if I remembered right, there was a way up onto the bridge and back to the nearest Underground: Nancy’s Steps.

A ferocious snarl raised every hair on my body. In the gloom ahead a large dog—almost the size of a Great Dane—appeared as if from nowhere and stood stiff-legged in the middle of the road, barring the way. My pulse leapt in my throat and I nearly skidded to a stop—then, with uncertain relief, I recognised the unworldly glow that emanated from the dog’s coat like a silver aurora borealis. The dog was Grianne, the phouka: she had got the message from the crap game after all, even though I’d called it wrong. The only problem was, I didn’t know if she was on my side or not; things were never straightforward where Grianne was concerned. But hey, it’s not everyone that ends up with a faerie dogmother who hates them.

She barked, loud and insistent, a sound that reverberated through the quiet street around me. Humans would only hear the bark; I heard: ‘Hurry up, child, the trees are gaining on you.’

Like I really needed her to tell me that! I gritted my teeth and pushed my legs harder.

The phouka snarled again, baring long black fangs that a true dog would never have, then turned, loping towards the steps this side of the bridge, and disappeared. I caught up; the steep flight rose up to the road above. I grabbed the handrail and flung myself after her, half climbing, half leaping. My lungs were starting to burn. Above me the phouka bounded, sharp claws scratching loudly on the stone and the silver glow from her coat casting welcome light back into the dim stairwell.

Second landing. Behind me I heard shouts, then more of the whistling, rustling noise grated against my ears: the ground-eating legs of the tall pale-faced turban guys were taking the steps two at a time. Shit. I swallowed back an edge of panic and, my heart hitting against my ribs, my thigh muscles bunching with effort, I concentrated on getting to the top.

As I reached the last few steps, vicious snarls and growls erupted, quickly followed by horrified yells and human screams, which almost drowned out the growling. I ran onto the pavement to find the phouka crouching over one of the beanie-hatted dryads on the ground, savaging its throat. The other Beanie Hat was screeching in rage. It kicked out, catching the phouka in the stomach. The phouka yelped and went flying, landing in a scrambling, whining heap at the feet of stunned bystanders.

‘Hey, you!’ I yelled, pleased in some detached part of me that I still had enough breath. ‘Leave that poor dog alone!’

The yellow Beanie Hat whipped round, lips curled, face twisted in a snarl that would have done the phouka proud, and sprang at me. I half-crouched, judged my moment, then shifted low and let Beanie Hat’s own momentum help me heave her over my back. She crash-landed against the bridge’s stone parapet with a noise that sounded like branches snapping in the wind and lay still. The other Beanie lay moaning on the ground, yellow-tinged sap trickling from the wounds on his throat. The onlookers stared, huddled under their umbrellas and muttering, their eyes darting from Beanie to Beanie to me, indecisive.

‘Quickly, child,’ the phouka said as she trotted to my side, ‘tell me where the faeling you’ve rescued is hidden before these vermin regain their senses.’

‘It’s not a faeling this time, Grianne.’ I looked down at the phouka. ‘There’s another sidhe in London, and a human has been murdered. I need to know who’s opened a gate—’

‘Enough, I will attend to this.’ The phouka growled, ears flat against her skull. ‘Meet me here tomorrow as the sun is cresting.’ A wet nose pushed into my hand. ‘Now run, child, the other trees are coming. I will detain them.’

For a second, I laid my palm over her rain-wet silky head, wondering what her help was going to cost me, but—‘I owe you one, Grianne.’ Her eyes blazed yellow and feral as she dipped her muzzle in acknowledgment, then I turned and raced towards the Underground.