The Cold Kiss of Death

Chapter Eighteen

We were in a lift; the foxed mirrored panels lining the sides gleamed with polish. I recognised the lift—I’d spent an uncomfortable twenty minutes in one just like it with the Earl when he’d still been London’s head honcho vamp and not the scattered ashes and star of my morphine-induced nightmares that he was now. That lift allowed VIP patrons to bypass the crowds to get to the private bar above the Blue Heart’s foyer, so it looked like we were still in the Blue Heart, although I wasn’t sure where. I checked the control panel and the small key in the lock and the dimmed lighting confirmed that the lift was shut down. We weren’t going anywhere until that key was removed, and until then no one could find us. I looked from my own wide-eyed reflection to Malik’s shadowed darkness behind me, both our images reflecting into the distance.

The myth about vamps and mirrors is just that: a myth. Although I had no doubt Malik could hide his reflection as much as he could hide anything else if he wanted to. I turned to face him.

‘The idea of a distraction was so we could escape,’ I said drily.

He gave me one of his impassive stares. ‘Leaving would not help us achieve our objective.’ The last of his shadows dissipated, leaving the blue veins standing out in stark relief under his pale skin.

‘And staying to get made into shish-kebabs by old Liz out there isn’t going to achieve much either.’

‘Elizabetta is a setback, but not an insurmountable one if we keep within sight of the other blood-families until matters are settled.’

‘You know, I’m really beginning to hate being moved around like some pawn on your own bloody chess board,’ I muttered.

‘I did not want to involve you in this, Genevieve.’ His expression turned pensive. ‘I only wished to find Rosa and have her resolve this state of affairs with me. But we both agreed the necessity of bringing this business to a quick close. I did inform you it would be dangerous.’

‘Yeah,’ I sighed, accepting the rebuke. ‘I know, but I didn’t think they’d try and kill you, just that there might be the usual vamp grandstanding.’

‘But they fight to gain a sidhe’—in other words, me—‘as their prize. I am the obstacle to them accomplishing that, so of course they will use any excuse to try and kill me.’

When he said it like that, it sort of made sense. ‘But you said no one would go against you?’

‘And none would if I were at my full strength and there were no benefit, but while I am depleted like this, they can smell the weakness in me.’ As he pushed back the wing of black hair I saw a slight tremor in his hand. ‘As Elizabetta said, if I were to die before Rosa bowed to my hand, she would be left vulnerable, and you would be ripe for the picking.’

‘I don’t understand that.’ I frowned, unease slipping down my spine. ‘Why does Rosa doing the fealty thing make a difference? I mean, they can still kill you both, or us both afterwards, can’t they?’

‘Rosa has gained her autonomy. Under our laws, should anyone desire her property, they would have to challenge her and defeat her before witness. If one of us gives up our autonomy, then it is our master who takes up the challenge.’

‘Yeah, which brings us back to Square One,’ I sighed. ‘They’d have to challenge you, and old Liz looks like she’s ready to go for it.’

‘No, not me,’ he said quietly. ‘The Autarch.’

‘What?’ Shock and fear and disbelief sliced through me. ‘You mean that if Rosa bows to you, I effectively become the property of that psychotic sadist again?’

‘It would seem that way—’

I grabbed handfuls of his jacket. ‘I am not going back to him, do you understand me?’ I spat out. ‘You had your chance at making me and you threw it away. Try it again, and I will kill you, or anyone else who tries, or I will kill myself. I will not become Bastien’s property. Not. Ever. Again!’

He covered my hands with his own and my fear receded under his icy touch.

‘Genevieve.’ His voice was soft, insistent. ‘Calm yourself. I said it would seem that the Autarch would be the one to challenge over your ownership. It is believed that I still owe him my oath.’

‘But you told me once’—when I’d thought he’d come to take me back to the Autarch—‘that you hadn’t called him master for the last twenty years,’ I said, jerking my hands from his icy hold, rubbing them together to warm them. ‘And stop manipulating my reactions like that.’

‘I apologise. I wished only to assuage your fears.’ He inclined his head. ‘It is true that I do not call Bastien master any longer, but publicly it still suits us both that the blood-families think I bow to him. It boosts his status that others think he can force me to his hand, and I do not have to concern myself with challenges from others. And all would think carefully of his displeasure before attempting to assassinate me.’

‘Slight problem then! Old Liz doesn’t seem too worried about his displeasure just now.’

‘She no doubt thinks that if she could court the Autarch’s favour by offering you to him, he would take expediency’s hand and congratulate her on my removal,’ he said calmly. ‘Of course, she may believe, like the others, that sidhe blood brings with it enough power that she could survive any challenge, including his.’

‘Let me get this crystal-clear.’ I narrowed my eyes. ‘Once Rosa is seen to have done this bow, all the other vamps will think I belong to the Autarch except him and you?’

‘That is so,’ he agreed.

‘So if he wants me back, he has to challenge you, or you can give me to him?’

‘Yes.’

My gut contracted as I briefly wondered if Malik would fight for me if challenged, or just hand me over if the Autarch came calling. Then I decided it wasn’t something I wanted to worry about right now. I had more immediate fears, one of which was getting out the other side of this mess alive. And the vamp leaning tiredly against the side of the lift didn’t look like he could swat a kitten, let alone another vampire swinging a five-foot blade, so I wasn’t sure how useful he was likely to be.

I pursed my lips and asked the question that was bothering me. ‘If you knew Liz or someone might have a go at you because you’re weak, why didn’t you feed before coming here?’

‘None who have already gained their autonomy would offer, and I am unable to feed on those that belong to another blood-family, without their master’s permission. Hence the blood-tithe I requested.’

‘But there’s plenty of free-range junkies wandering around in Sucker Town—I mean, it’s not like they all belong to someone, is it?’

‘My lineage is that of revenant, Genevieve; you know this. I feed only on other vampires. If I feed directly from humans it could endanger too many lives, either through my own needs, or if I were to inadvertently pass my version of the Gift on to them. That is the curse that Elizabetta hoped to awaken.’

Revenants are consumed only by their need for blood; their lust is never fully sated. Malik’s past words came back to me, then I recalled what he’d said to Elizabetta when she was goading him to bite me. If I have truly embraced my curse, you would have me start a bloodbath.

‘You mean you never bite a human?’ I said, stunned.

‘Very rarely, and never when I am as depleted as this.’

‘So the only way you can feed is if they give you permission? ’

His eyes darkened. ‘It is the only way. Anything else is not honourable.’

The various ramifications of that barrelled into me like a stampeding hoard of goblins. Was that why he’d only ever sunk fangs into my hand, or my lip, and never my throat? Was that why he hadn’t fed from me? What happened if they let him starve? Would he turn back into some sort of bloodthirsty monster and go on a killing spree? Never mind he was dependant on those he knew would kill him if they could? Other questions crowded in but I couldn’t even begin to untangle them. Instead something else Elizabetta said raised a tentative thought in my mind.

‘She’s right about my blood; the magic in it does give a power boost.’

He spread his hands wide. ‘It appears so. Without the donation you gave Joseph this morning, I would not have recovered as quickly as I have.’

‘But you’re still hungry,’ I persisted, ‘and still weak.’

‘Once I have fed again, my strength will return.’

I debated offering my wrist, even half-lifted my arm, but he held up his hand.

‘I do not ask for your blood, Genevieve,’ he said, softly. ‘Elizabetta may have refused me the blood-tithe, but the Golden Blade is only one of the four blood-families. All I require here is your assistance as Rosa, as we agreed before.’

Relieved that he’d refused my half-hearted offer, I said, ‘Okay, but I’m changing here and now, while no one else can interrupt.’

I waited for him to argue, but instead speculation flickered across his face. ‘What about this spell you wear?’

‘You need to snap the hair off about halfway down to break the Glamour, then I can use the other spell to change.’ I turned so I faced away from him. My blonde reflection was nearly as pale as his.

‘Hair is not an easy thing to snap.’ He smoothed his hand over my ponytail. The spell leapt to his touch and heat pooled inside me. I frowned, unsure if it was his mesma, or the magic itself.

‘Well, unless you’ve got a pair of scissors—’

‘I have this.’ He held up a thin, sharp-edged knife; the handle was intricately carved from black onyx, the silver blade etched with an overlapping sickle design that shimmered as if drawn in blood. ‘Will this do?’ His question was low against my ear.

‘Yes ...’ My own voice came out scratchy. My mouth was dry, the air around us heavy and tense. Damn, what the hell was the matter with me? I licked my lips and swallowed, then tried again. ‘Yes.’ The word was firmer this time.

He smiled, and something predatory flickered in his eyes and my stomach dropped into freefall. Then he grasped the length of hair and slowly drew the knife across it. He held his hand out to the side and let the pale strands fall; they drifted like thistledown, slowly dissipating back into the ether before they reached the floor. My image in the silver wall shifted and warped, ballooning out, then shimmering back to tall and stick-thin, as if I stood before a fairground mirror. I gasped as the rest of the magic peeled itself away in one long, relieved sigh, like I’d removed too-tight clothes and only now realised how uncomfortable they’d been. I inhaled, my lungs filling with Malik’s dark-spice scent, stretching my spine like a cat as my reflection finally settled back to the true me—or at least the Frankenstein’s daughter me, with my short-cropped hair and multi-hued patchwork of healing skin.

‘Genevieve.’ Warmth slipped over my skin like the last breath of summer. His eyes flared, incandescent with—not anger nor rage, but something else: a slow burn of sorrow. His hands on my shoulders turned me towards him and he traced a cool finger along my jaw.

‘Why have you not healed?’ he asked with a frown, and pushed aside the collar of my blouse, touching the bruises that marked my chest. ‘I gave you my blood, and you have your own magic.’

‘I’ll heal soon enough.’ I shifted away, trying to ignore the tingling from his touch, ‘Once everything else is out the way.’

The glow in his eyes snuffed out. ‘Yes, you are correct. I will let you continue.’ He stepped back and the lift suddenly seemed to have way more space. His lips twitched, almost as if he’d read my mind, and I wondered briefly if he still could, then shrugged the thought away.

I toed off my trainers, unzipped my jeans and started to push them down over my hips, then hesitated; the spell-tattoo was back on my left hip, but the white bikini had disappeared along with the blonde ponytail. Damn, should’ve asked Tavish for real underwear and not settled for the magical stuff.

‘If you are concerned for your modesty,’ Malik’s voice was amused, ‘I can always turn my back.’

‘Like that’s going to make a difference with all these mirrors, ’ I huffed. ‘Anyway, that’s not it. My underwear is gone and the jeans are too small to put back on once I’ve changed, so I’m not going to be wearing much. I know this is a vamp club, but wandering round in just a short blouse is going to be noticeable for all the wrong reasons!’

‘You will have other clothes soon,’ he said. ‘It will not matter.’

‘Not to you, maybe, but it does to me.’

He smiled. ‘Then you shall have my jacket, of course.’

I gave it the once-over. It would probably be more of a mini-dress than anything, but it would do. I removed the jeans, lifted the edge of my shirt and ran my fingers over the hard circular ridge of the spell-tattoo, then over the Celtic design knotted at its centre. Its power shuddered through me as if it had been waiting, crouched and ready to pounce like a starving beast.

‘This magic—’

Malik’s quiet voice startled me, and I jerked my hand from the tattoo.

‘What will it do?’ he asked

Surprise made me blink. ‘It will change me to look like Rosa. You know that.’

‘The magic you employed at the bakery knocked you unconscious before its adverse effects caused the explosion.’ He gave me an enquiring look. ‘Will this affect you in the same way?’

‘No nothing like that,’ I muttered, restlessness itching down my spine as the tattoo pulsed like a second heart, growling like a ravenous spirit for my attention. It needed blood. ‘I need your knife.’ I looked up, expectant.

‘For what end?’

I shot my left hand out to him. ‘Cut it, straight across the lifeline. Make it deep.’

He stared at my hand as if it might bite him.

‘Just do it,’ I ordered, impatience scraping along my nerves. ‘Now!’

He frowned. Around us his myriad mirror images frowned with him, their eyes dark and shadowed, my own images all hard angles and demand, my eyes glowing fever-bright gold, pupils narrowed to vertical slits as the magic gripped me. For a second I saw a third face in amongst all those that stared back at us; Cosette’s face—filled with a strange eagerness; then Malik’s hand darted out, almost quicker than I could see, and slashed a deep wound across my palm. Nothing—then pain, brief and brilliant, forced a cry from my mouth as my blood welled, copper-bright and willing, the honeyed-metallic scent alluring. A shudder vibrated through Malik and his hands clenched into tight fists at his sides, but my mind had no time to care about him. The tattoo screamed out to me, desperate, hungry, and I covered it with my hand, smearing the viscous blood into the spell. My heart slowed until it was beating sluggishly, shallowly. My lungs were burning for lack of air ... ... uneasiness slid into me, something wasn’t right; the spell usually worked quicker than this. Desperately I clenched my fist, squeezing more blood from the wound, shoving it into the spell-tattoo. This time the blood ran slick and wet into the twisted design, flooding over its edges and misting red over my body. My skin tightened as if I’d walked into a frigid winter’s night.

I tore the blouse off and ran my hands over my borrowed body, revelling in the full lush curves, the hourglass indentation of my waist, the delicate lace of blue veins decorating the pale, almost translucent skin. Long black hair curled halfway down my back and large gentian-blue eyes watched me, arrogant and smug, from my reflection. Rosa was—or at least her body still was—one überbeautiful woman. Was that why Malik Gifted her?

At that thought I raised my eyes; his were empty, emotionless pools. I could hear his heart now, its beat slow, weak, and I could taste his hunger like sweet copper on my tongue. His rich scent saturated the small confined space, mixing with the tang of honeyed blood, making my head swim with desire, my belly coil with anticipation. I inhaled his hunger, the jagged edge of it grinding like a whetstone against my own thirst. I wanted, needed blood. It had been so long since I’d taken it, forcing myself to settle for venom. Then my prey had been human venom-junkies or captured fae, and I’d only ever drunk enough for my needs, or to rid them of their infection. But Malik wasn’t human, and he wasn’t fae. I stared at him, listening to the whisper of his blood, knowing that I could take whatever I wanted from him and the certainty that he would let me as he’d always done seeped into my consciousness. He wouldn’t—couldn’t—deny me; his guilt over what he’d made me wouldn’t allow him to. The thoughts swimming like leeches in my mind were both alien and familiar to me and as I traced my fangs with the tip of my tongue, I tried to separate things out, to choose which was my thought.

But the hunger wouldn’t let me.

It wanted him, now.

I smiled, a practised, seductive curve of my lips, and slowly moved closer to him. I raised my hands to the first button on his jacket and released it. His jaw tensed and he looked almost wary, but he did nothing to stop me. I worked my way down, two, three, four, five buttons, then pulled the jacket open and pushed it from his shoulders. As it fell with a soft thud to the lift floor, I grabbed his black silk T-shirt and ripped it, exposing the pale, perfect skin, the lean muscles, the silky triangle of black hair arrowing down to his taut abdomen. I leaned in, pressed my lips to the firm flesh over his heart and, opening my mouth, let my fangs indent his skin. He trembled and I raised my eyes to find him gazing down at me, pinpricks of desire blazing in his pupils. Satisfaction spiralled fast inside me.

I kissed my way down his body, my lips seeking the scar that marked him below his heart, the one I’d given him, the one he hadn’t healed, even though he could. Blood bloomed beneath his skin, the scar flushing red like a rose. I struck, quick and hard, the sharp points of my canines piercing his firm flesh, into the heart of the rose, and glorious blood filled my mouth, tasting like spiced nectar and liquorice and sweet Turkish delight as it slipped down my throat, spreading a glittering chill that rushed me towards that edge, almost but not yet tripping me over into mindless, dazzling pleasure. Reluctantly I drew my mouth away and laved at the small wounds, feeling his stomach quivering under my tongue. His blood and hunger hummed inside me like a promise and I straightened, sliding my palms up to run them over his shoulders, my fingers digging into the corded muscles, then I moulded my body to his, crushing my softer breasts against his hard, cold chest. He groaned, and the sound reverberated inside me as his breath spilled along my cheek. I threaded my fingers into his hair and pulled his head back, then rose on the balls of my feet to place my mouth over the slow pulse beating below his jaw. His musky scent teased my nose and I licked his thin skin, long wet strokes, tasting salt and the copper tang of his sweat, as my jaw ached with need. I wanted to fill my mouth with more of the glittering taste of his blood, wanted it so desperately that the torture of holding back was an exquisite pain. He shuddered as his solid, thick length pressed into the softness of my belly. Lust slicked damp and liquid between my thighs, desire swelling my breasts and hardening my nipples into rigid, painful points.

And I wanted more than his blood in my body.

I hooked my leg around his waist, opening myself to him, lifting myself up to rub against the thick length of him, the coarse fabric of his trousers abrading my sensitive, swollen flesh. I sucked at his throat, pulling the soft skin into my mouth, anticipating the moment when my fangs would pierce his skin. A tremor of pleasure echoed through me, and I ground myself against him again, wanting to feel him thrusting inside me, wanting his blood spurting down my throat, wanting his fangs penetrating my body.

I slid one hand down, following the silky arrow of hair until my fingers closed on his belt. I picked urgently at it, freeing the buckle, the throbbing heat between my legs growing ever more frantic—

‘No.’ Hard fingers manacled my wrist, stilled my hand. ‘I do not want this.’

I struggled against his hold, my mouth working, my hips almost jerking with need. He couldn’t say no, I had to have him inside me, had to!

He yanked my arm behind my back, wrenching it upwards, straining my shoulder, the pain like a lover’s pledge. His other hand caught me by my hair, ripping me away from his throat.

He couldn’t deny me, I wouldn’t let him!

I hit out, catching his chin with the heel of my hand, banging his head back against the lift side, and kicked my heel into the back of his knee, screaming my frustration. He stumbled, falling, his hold on my hair tearing, his hand yanking my arm higher up and popping the shoulder joint. We hit the floor, my body beneath his. Pain exploded like a fire-burst across my back and ricocheted down my spine. I screamed again, lips curling back from my fangs, wanting to tear into his throat, wanting to coat myself in his blood, wanting to fuck him ...

I wrapped my legs round his thighs, locking my ankles together, bringing him hard against me. He stared down at me, rage lighting his black pupils, his own lips pulled back, all four of his fangs sharp and gleaming. I struggled beneath him, goading him; pain flared in my shoulder, building pleasure between my legs. He growled low and yanked my head to the side, stretching the tendons in my neck, exposing my throat.

Deep inside me a sliver of fear chilled the lust raging through my body.

He twisted my arm higher and pain bloomed hot and razor-sharp in my shoulder. Eagerness replaced the fear.

‘Break it and fuck me,’ I pleaded, my hips spasming against him with desperate lust even as a distant part of me recoiled in shock at my words.

The fury in his eyes turned to hot flames, flames that licked over my body as if to scorch the flesh from my bones. ‘No,’ he snarled, ‘I will not.’

‘Break my arm and fuck me,’ I screamed into his face. ‘It’s what you want, isn’t it?’

‘Be still,’ he ordered, staring down at me, his eyes fixed on my throat, and in the silence I waited, frozen on his command, desperate for him to grant me pain, needing it, knowing that for him to hurt me was the only way he could bring me pleasure.

‘Please, Malik, I beg—’

‘You will not say it.’ The sorrow in his voice twisted like barbed wire round my heart. ‘I will not allow it ... you are not her.’ He lowered his mouth to mine, touching my lips briefly with his. ‘You. Are. Not. Rosa.’

Then he was gone.

The wire pierced my heart, leaving it bleeding, and I curled in on myself, hugging my knees to my chest, his grief battering against me as if it were a horde of Beater goblins. Tears of shame pricked my eyes that I hadn’t pleased him. I struggled to hold them back but they seared down my face, drowning me in hopelessness. Then the feelings were gone, shut off like a tap, replaced by an ice-cold stillness like the depths of frozen water.

I blinked and looked up.

Malik stood there, looking calm and remote. He pointed to his jacket lying in a heap on the floor. ‘Get up and put it on,’ he said, his voice expressionless.

Silently I grabbed the jacket and scrambled up; contorting so I could pull it on past the distant pain in my shoulder. The silk lining settled over my skin like a soothing caress. Using my good arm, I lifted my hair from where it was trapped by the jacket, feeling bewildered, almost numb as I clumsily buttoned it closed.

What had just happened? Or rather, why had it happened? Why had I asked—no, almost begged him—to hurt me? The feelings had felt like mine, but I was pretty sure they’d been Rosa’s. Fuck. There really was something wrong with the spell; why else would I experience her memories and her desires twice in one night? This was so not fucking good.

I wiped the tears from my face with the jacket cuff and shoved the thoughts away. The pain in my shoulder was almost gone as the spell healed it. All I had to do was get through this fealty thing tonight, then I’d never use the spell—never use Rosa’s body—again. I’d find some way to cut myself off from it, from her.

‘What happens now?’ I asked, a part of me still bemused by my own calmness, even though I could feel Malik smoothing over my thoughts.

He turned the key in the lift and it dipped slightly, taking my stomach with it, before the lights flickered on and it started to ascend. ‘We shall prepare for the oath, then once that is over we will go to the police station.’

The lift halted, the door gliding open. Blue carpet patterned with small silver hearts stretched down a long, empty corridor lined on one side with steel doors. I gathered the remnants of our clothes as he bade me, then followed him past half a dozen of the doors, my bare feet sinking into the thick carpet, until Malik stopped at one of them. He stilled, then lifted his chin, sniffing the air.

‘It appears we have company waiting for us,’ he said softly. ‘This is not a good sign.’

But before I could ask who, the door slid away into the wall and I had a brief moment of déjà vu. Hannah Ashby, dressed in her vamp-groupie outfit of pumpkin-coloured velvet bustier and black net skirt, stood in the opening.

‘Malik al-Khan, and the ever-delightful—Rosa.’ She arched one perfectly-drawn-in black brow in a conspiratorial fashion. ‘Don’t you think it might be better to enter instead of loitering about in the hallway?’ She gave a low chuckle, then stood back and ushered us past her.