The Cold Kiss of Death

Chapter Thirty

The stench of putrefying flesh invaded my nose as skeletal fingers squeezed my throat, choking me, and a heaviness compressed my chest. Pain and blackness were eating at the light in my mind. A brief thought flickered in the encroaching darkness: being dead wasn’t much different to being alive; there were still some who could hurt you if they wanted to badly enough.

‘Have you managed to get her into the locket yet?’ A woman’s voice, far away.

‘I told you I’d let you know, Hannah.’ Anger and frustration, and something fervent in the male’s voice.

‘Hurry it up,’ the woman said, ‘there’s less than an hour to midnight.’

A tug on my hand. ‘Into the locket, Ms Taylor. Now!’ The command came again.

‘No—’ I whispered, the same answer I’d given him before. The fingers squeezed my throat tighter, squeezing out the light.

‘We wouldn’t be having this problem if you’d waited for me in the first place, Hannah,’ the voice said curtly.

‘Why don’t you put her in the Fabergé egg with all the others?’ the woman asked.

‘Because if I open the egg to put her in, I’ll let the rest of them out again.’ The voice was scathing this time. ‘You stick to your spells, Hannah, and leave me to worry about the shades and souls.’

‘I would do, if you could handle your side of things efficiently.’ She was closer, sounding suspicious. ‘You’ve been trying to persuade her for so long that I’m beginning to wonder if you’re not enjoying this a little too much.’

The light narrowed to a pinhole and panic fluttered in my mind like a terrified flock of garden fairies. The skeletal hands weren’t going to—

‘Stop.’ I heard the command and the pressure on my throat eased up.

Relief flooded through me, pushing back the darkness, letting the light in, and though the weight on my chest still pressed me down, I drifted like a feather, the voices rising and falling around me, indistinct and unimportant.

Gradually I settled back into myself.

I kept my eyes closed. There was no point opening them, not when it would only encourage fucking Necro Neil to get his tame ghost torturer to have another go—and if I didn’t open my eyes, I didn’t have to look at my torturer’s plague-eaten face—its missing nose and rotten black stumps of teeth were still freaking me out. I lay there, trying to ignore Scarface the ghost sitting on my chest, pretending to be more dead than I was, thankful that at least the ghost’s pain-inflicting skills were limited to strangling and suffocating me; he hadn’t enough personality left to implement Necro Neil’s more inventive—and considerably less wholesome—ideas.

Never mind giving myself nightmares from trying to posses my own body, as Moth-girl had predicted: if I got out of this I would have more than enough of them to last until I hit my third century.

Of course, that was if I got to see another dawn.

And that was looking less likely every time Scarface’s bony fingers closed round my throat.

‘Well, Ms Taylor,’ Necro Neil’s eager voice was accompanied with a tug on my hand, ‘you look like you’ve recovered enough for me to ask you again: will you go into the locket?’

‘No,’ I croaked in a whisper, not entirely sure why he couldn’t force me.

The ghost shifted his position on top of me and I braced myself ready for the next attack.

‘That’s our guest,’ Hannah said, excitement colouring her voice. ‘Come on, leave her for now. She can’t escape again, not with the added Containment spell I’ve put on the place.’

‘I thought you said you could handle him on your own.’ Necro Neil’s words carried a sullen edge.

‘I can—but better to be safe than sorry. We don’t want anything going wrong at this late stage, do we?’

‘No,’ he said, and their voices faded into nothing.

I felt carefully around for the ghost knife. It had still been in my hand when Scarface and half a dozen other ghosts had jumped me when the red thread deposited me back at Necro Neil’s shiny black shoes. No one had tried to take it away from me—but then, no one had needed to, not when there were ghosts enough to sit on every limb ... but now only Scarface was left, perching on my chest like some malevolent spirit.

A bony finger poked me in the cheek and I flinched, but kept my eyes closed. The reek of rot made my stomach give a dry heave. A voice rasped next to my ear, ‘Grab ... go.’

Grab go. The words didn’t make sense.

‘Wake,’ the voice rasped again. ‘Ghos ... grab ... go.’

Ghost-grabber? Was he saying Necro Neil was gone? Why? Warily, I opened one eye and squinted up at Scarface. ‘What?’ I whispered.

His lipless mouth opened wide, the scar on his cheek splitting like a second pair of lips to reveal the glistening bone.

‘Up.’

Was he telling me to get up? ‘Can’t,’ I croaked, ‘you’re sitting on me.’

One dried eyeball rolled in its socket. ‘Sor ... ry,’ he rasped, and shuffled off me.

Relieved, I lifted my arm and rubbed my throat; being strangled had hurt at the time, but it didn’t appear to have left any lasting injuries to my ghostly form.

‘Up ... help.’ Scarface was crouched beside me now. A bony finger poked urgently at my shoulder. ‘Grab ... back ... soon.’

Mystified at being let go, but not enough to question it, I rolled over and pushed myself up onto my hands and knees. The knife was still there. I picked it up. The handle felt warm and solid, almost comforting, even if it only worked against other ghosts. I scrambled to my feet and looked around. Scarface was shuffling away into the distance, just the same way he had when I’d watched him during the ghost survey ...

And it was in the same arched tunnel—the same tunnel where all the ghosts had been gathered ... Only the place was brightly lit now, and the ghosts were gone; all that remained was the Fabergé egg, which sat in solitary splendour in the middle of a large circle marked out in red sand. Curled up next to the egg was the florist’s lad, still tied hand and foot, a fresh black eye decorating his tear-stained face.

It looked like the demon welcome mat was laid out, all ready to go.

I headed over to the circle and stopped at its edge. The boy’s chest rose and fell; he was either unconscious or asleep. I was betting on the former. I stuck out my hand, but my palm flexed against an invisible wall and when I looked down, there were flecks of green and chunks of grey dotted with rusty stains mixed in with the red sand: yew, to stop the dead from passing, and consecrated bone splashed with sanctified blood to contain the demon.

Not a circle I could pass in my ghostly form. I’d have to find some way to come back for the boy before midnight.

Who was the guest? Maybe whoever it was could help, or at least provide a distraction. I headed for the breeze-block wall at the end of the tunnel, keeping close to the side and carefully skirting round the pile of cordoned-off old bones, I eased through the open doorway and peered into the room beyond. It was the one with the wall painting of the barren landscape, where Hannah had performed her kamikaze ritual and taken over my body. There were people inside, live ones, and I ducked back, then mentally snorted at my stupidity. I was a ghost, and Necro Neil was the only one who could see me—and without his ghostly minions he couldn’t touch me, not until midnight. I crept inside, then stopped, keeping my eye out for him.

Hannah was walking towards me, sweeping the long train of a ballgown in burnt-orange and black—her Hallowe’en fetish was still showing—with her hair piled up in some sort of beehive style that sported a coronet-thing sparkling with amber and diamonds. For a second I almost didn’t recognise my body under the dress, new hairdo and make-up. At least she hadn’t managed to give me a boob job in the last few hours. When I finally dragged my eyes away from my own body, I realised who was walking with her.

Malik al-Khan.

My ghostly heart thudded: why was he looking at her with his usual impassive expression on his perfect, pretty face? Didn’t he realise that it wasn’t me in my body but Hannah? And why wasn’t he killing her? I clenched my fists. I wanted to shout at him to get on with it, but knew he couldn’t hear me. Then my heart thudded for a different reason. What if Moth-girl hadn’t woken up? What if she hadn’t managed to find him, or pass on my messages?

Damn. Plan A wasn’t working; time to find another one.

I scanned the room, but I couldn’t see Necro Neil anywhere. I looked back at Hannah, wearing my body. She had her hand tucked into Malik’s arm. They made a striking couple, her in her ballgown, him in what had to be a hand-tailored evening suit and shirt, both black, the only relief the triangle of smooth, pale skin at his throat where he’d dispensed with the bowtie.

‘Here she is.’ Hannah stopped in front of an alcove—Rosa’s alcove.

I moved forward until I was standing near enough to watch both them and the vampire lying in soulless state on her altar of stone. Candles lit the interior of the alcove, casting wavering shadows over the white shroud that covered Rosa’s body.

Malik drew back the sheet with the hand not claimed by Hannah and stared down at the grimacing, fangs-drawn vampire, his eyes as unemotional and opaque as black glass. ‘You are certain you will be able to restore her soul to her body?’ he asked.

Hannah smiled and patted his arm. ‘Of course, Malik. I told you, with the soul-bonder knife you gave me, all I need is a small spell. It takes a matter of seconds.’

Malik had given her the knife? She hadn’t stolen it? And he knew ‘I’ wasn’t me! What the hell was going on here?

‘And Joseph is correct? She has not been harmed?’ he asked, still with no change of expression.

‘There is no wound other than where her flesh was taken for the original spell.’ Hannah lifted the sheet to show the bloody circle on Rosa’s hip. ‘But that will heal once she is herself again.’ She let the fabric fall.

‘Once her soul is returned, her body will become her own again, will it not?’ He turned to her. ‘There will be no tie between her and this body you now wear.’

Anger warred with confusion and I felt the sharp edge of betrayal slice inside me.

‘None at all,’ Hannah assured him.

‘Good.’ Satisfaction flickered so quickly across his face that I though I might have imagined it. He stroked a finger along her jaw. ‘What of the sidhe’s soul? What has become of that?’

‘There’s no need to worry.’ She took his hand and cupped his palm to her cheek. ‘After tonight, her soul will be gone. Then this body and the power in its blood will be fully mine.’ She lifted her chin and pressed his palm to her throat. ‘And it will be my pleasure to share it with you, in any and every way that you desire.’

He smiled, wide enough to show a glimpse of fang. ‘Then I fear you are wearing too many clothes,’ he said softly, trailing a line down to her cleavage. ‘Shall I tear this from you, or would you prefer to remove it yourself?’

A hopeful suspicion started to edge out the anger and confusion inside me.

She laughed, a low, husky sound. ‘Soon, Malik.’ She stilled his hand. ‘Have patience; it will be better if we wait until after midnight. We will have more time then.’

‘No, I have waited long enough for this body.’ His eyes gleamed, predatory. ‘And now the prize is within my grasp, I do not wish to play second fiddle to your demon.’ He threaded his hand into her hair, tugged her head back and melded his lips to hers. She made a low moan of appreciation, her hands rising to grasp his shoulders, her body visibly shuddering. His hand tightened on the silk dress, then he ripped it down to her waist, the sound violent in the quiet alcove. He placed his palm between her breasts, over her heart, and she trembled, her fingers clutching desperately at his arms, and whimpered.

An answering shudder rippled through him.

I watched, gripping the ghost knife, as a long-ago memory surfaced and cut away the last of my confusion.

The forgotten memory told me he was killing my body, his cold kiss searing like fast-freezing ice through my veins, stealing my breath, stopping my blood from flowing and my heart from beating.

It was how he’d killed me when I was fourteen, how he’d managed to give my lifeless body back to the Autarch all those years ago ...

... while his bond with my soul had kept me from fading.

I took a breath, releasing the tension in my gut.

He was doing what I wanted him to.

Hannah’s body stilled. Her hands dropped away and her knees sagged until Malik’s mouth on hers and his hand on the nape of her neck and over her heart were the only things keeping her from falling. A shimmer moved under her skin, her head turned—only it wasn’t her head, but a transparent shade—and pulled away from his kiss, pushing at his shoulders, trying to break his hold.

Slowly he raised his head and I saw his eyes, incandescent with flame.

Now I needed to do my part.

Gripping the ghost knife, I plunged it into my body’s back—

—and a screech of rage shattered the quiet. Hannah’s ghost stumbled backwards, then swung round to face me. I stabbed her again, under the ribs and up into her heart, as she’d stabbed herself when she’d stolen my body. I used the knife and my hand to push her back until she was wedged between me and the stone altar behind her. She clawed at my face and yanked at my hair as I thrust the knife higher, then buried my face in her neck, biting and tearing at her throat, going for the carotid. She might not be living flesh, but neither was I, and Moth-girl and Scarface had taught me that while ghosts couldn’t touch the living, they had no problem killing those already dead. Hot blood spurted over me, blinding my sight, filling my mouth with its salt-copper taste, and I fed, mindless, desperate, insatiable, drinking it down, as some instinct told me I had to take it all and let not one drop remain in her body, not if I wanted her truly dead.

The blood slowed and thinned, turning as liquid as water, and her flesh dissolved under my hands until the taste was faint, almost insubstantial, and I held nothing more than wisps of air. And still I reached out, to trap each fleeing wisp and shred it with my fingers, until even the scent of her vanished into the darkness.

I slid down and huddled against the side of the stone altar, feeling sated, bloated with power that writhed around my bones, like snakes slithering in ecstasy through my body.

It was not an easy feeling, and yet it was seductive, and with a promise of more, if I would just let it in—

‘Genevieve?’

My murmured name intruded on my languor and slowly I raised my head. Tavish was frowning down at me, his delicate black gills flaring at his throat.

‘I am calling her back to her shell, kelpie, but I no longer sense her presence.’ Malik’s voice attracted my attention: he was kneeling over my limp body, his hands pressed to my bare chest. ‘Is her soul still here?’

‘Aye, she’s here, vampire,’ Tavish said softly, crouching down in front of me. His eyes shone dark pewter in the candlelight, the same colour as the beads on his green-black dreads. Apprehension and concern crossed on his face. ‘But the sorcerer’s darkness has tarnished her brilliance; it weighs her down, it swims like polluted eels in her consciousness, and still it tries to lure her away with it.’

The snakes flicked out their tongues and slithered down my arm, eager to taste. I reached out my hand and pushed it deep into his chest and he jerked back, snorting, his nostrils flaring and a rim of white fear showing round the edge of his dark silver eyes. And I tasted him: oranges, cut tart with terror and sweetened with yearning.

I smiled, and the snakes twined with lazy satisfaction as Tavish straightened and backed away.

‘What if I give the body an injection of adrenalin?’ a new voice said hesitantly. Joseph, his brown eyes blinking owl-like behind his glasses, stood in the doorway, hugging his black medical bag to his chest. ‘It’s what worked last time.’

Malik looked up and said, ‘Joseph, my friend, I thought we agreed that you would wait outside until this matter was settled.’

‘I couldn’t.’ He looked nervously round and moved towards Malik. ‘I want to help, after what that—what that woman made me do.’ He stopped, gazing down at my body. ‘I have to try and help.’ He crouched down, put his bag on the floor and pushed his glasses up his nose. ‘I feel so awful about it all, as if it was my fault.’

The snakes hissed in unease and I tilted my head, puzzled; something was not right about the doctor.

‘You are not responsible for what the sorcerer made you do,’ Malik said quietly, sorrow lacing his words. ‘It was a spell she laid on you. The guilt is all hers.’

Joseph nodded, quick, anxious bobs of his head. ‘I understand that in my mind, but—’ He opened his bag. ‘At least let me try.’

I shifted anxiously and started to crawl towards him.

‘It canna hurt any, vampire,’ Tavish said, still wary as he followed me.

Malik removed his hand from where it rested on my body’s chest and leaned back. ‘Then please try, Joseph.’

Joseph gave him a quick smile, but the shape his mouth made was wrong, triumphant, instead of pleased to help. He dipped his hand inside his bag and pulled something out, pointing it at Malik. There was a snick! and a quivering dart lodged at the base of Malik’s throat. Then Joseph turned and shot Tavish, the dart going straight into his chest.

I jumped up, the snakes writhing in alarm, leaping for him—

‘Stop,’ Joseph said almost casually as he looked up. ‘Don’t move.’

—and I stopped, held in place like a fly trapped in amber. What the hell had he done to me?

Cosette flew into the centre of the room, her long dark hair whipping about her head, her small hands held out towards me. A wind blew from her hands and threw me back until I crash-landed at the base of Rosa’s stone altar.

‘Nicely done, Joseph.’ Cosette’s child-face split in an approving grin, then she came and stood over me. ‘Genny, I think you and Joseph have already met.’ She beckoned him over. ‘But I don’t think you’ve been properly introduced.’ She held out her hand and somehow managed to take hold of his.

‘Genny, this is Joseph. My son.’

‘Your son?’ Stunned, I scrambled up to my feet.

‘Yes. He’s a fine figure of a man, isn’t he?’ She smiled up at him, pride in her eyes. ‘And a true necromancer, not like that piffling weakling Hannah managed to dig up from somewhere.’

‘Sit down, Genny,’ Joseph said, using that same quiet casual tone, fixing his owl-like gaze on me.

I was sitting on the floor, legs crossed Indian-style, before he’d even finished speaking my name. Fear and fury coursed through me in equal parts, and the snakes retreated uneasily, hiding under my skin. Cosette was right: Necro Neil might’ve managed to push me around a bit, but his commands had been nothing compared to Joseph’s effortless control.

She puffed up with even more pride. ‘And if things had been different, I would have liked to see what sort of grandchild you two would have given me—but that’s not going to happen now—while I might trade with a demon, I still draw the line at incest.’ She patted Joseph’s hand. ‘After all, Hannah’s idea of usurping your body for herself is really too great an opportunity to be missed.’

Fuck. Out of one sorcerer’s frying pan and straight into the other one’s fire.

What the hell was I going to do now?