The Cold Kiss of Death

Chapter Seven

I stared at the tray’s contents: a chilled bottle of Cristall—my brand of vodka—sat next to two glasses, one empty, the other filled with orange juice; a small porcelain dish of liquorice torpedoes, and what looked like a BLT sandwich. Other than the red rose in a cut-glass bud vase, the tray held all my favourites—if it wasn’t for the fact that he was a vamp’s flunky, I’d be worried I’d picked up a stalker instead of a slightly worse-for-wear jailer.

‘Who the hell are you?’ I demanded.

Owl Eyes flinched as if I’d hit him. ‘Doctor Joseph Wainwright. Joseph. Didn’t Malik tell you—?’ A high-pitched alarm cut him off and we both looked at the heart monitor. The little red numbers were flashing 302: 302 beats per minute. I pulled the electrodes off my chest, wincing as the skin ripped away with them. What the fuck were they stuck on with? Superglue? The red numbers blinked out, the heart graph flatlined and the monitor’s alarm started squawking loudly. I slapped it quiet.

‘Whose blood-pet are you?’

His eyes were wide with shock. ‘You should be dead with a heart rate like that.’

Duh: not human. ‘C’mon, Doctor Joseph Wainwright—Joseph—which vampire is your master?’

‘Malik al-Khan, of course.’ His frown returned.

‘Not the Earl?’

‘The Earl’s dead—’

‘The Earl was just here talking to me,’ I snapped. ‘He bit me—’ I stuck out my wrist to show him, then jerked it back and peered at it. There were no fang holes.

‘It’s the morphine,’ Joseph said in a conciliatory voice. ‘It can cause—’

‘Hallucinations, dreams, yes I know.’ I frowned as confusion filled me. It hadn’t felt like a dream. ‘He turned the TV on, showed me the news.’

Joseph glanced behind him at the muted screen. ‘I’ve had it on the news channel while I’ve been watching you. You’ve probably just absorbed the information.’

Had the Earl just been a nightmare? Of course, if I was going to have nightmares, the Earl would certainly be up for a starring role. And DI Crane, she was an understudy nightmare star if ever there was one. With her on the telly, no wonder my brain was playing tricks on me. But what if it hadn’t been a dream? What if the Earl was alive? No way was I waiting around for him to pop up again. My heart speeding, I slid over to the edge of the bed and swung my legs off. My feet sank into the soft plush red carpet and a sudden attack of vertigo made me sway. I clutched at the slippery sheets, bewildered. What was I doing? Oh yeah, getting out. Getting dressed, and getting away before they came back, him and the inspector ...

‘Ms Taylor, I really don’t think you should get up.’

I frowned up at him—no not him, them: the two startled owls looking back at me.

‘I’ve been looking after you,’ they said, ‘and so far your injuries from the explosion haven’t been improving. I really don’t think you should—’

I tuned him out and squinted at the mirrored wall of wardrobes instead. Wardrobes meant clothes. Only the expanse of red carpet I had to cross was rolling like the sea. Why the hell was the room so big? I squinted again and a figure peered back at me, glistening with sweat, chest, neck and arms as red as the sea. All the red was making me hot and dizzy. I wiped my face, and the red-faced girl wiped hers. I looked down at my hand; it was damp with pink-tinged sweat. I had an instant of clear thought: I was crashing into a mega blood-flush. A sick feeling roiled in my stomach. If I didn’t do something, I’d end up having convulsions, maybe even a stroke, which meant I’d be unconscious, helpless ...

Panic bubbled up in my throat again. There was something—

A hand clasped my wrist.

Flinching, I jerked back.

‘Just keep calm, Genevieve.’ The words sounded firm, in control, and I looked up at Joseph, who smiled confidently back, his face slightly distorted behind a clear face-mask. I frowned; the mask meant something, something good. The panic started to recede and my mind started remembering what needed to be done. I took a breath.

‘That’s it, Genevieve. Now I want you to kneel down on the floor.’ He pulled me gently and I slid to my knees. ‘Good.’ He crouched and placed a green plastic bucket between us, his expression grim. ‘Now, I’m going to take some blood, nothing to worry about, so just relax.’ He held up another shunt, its clear tube trailing down to an empty blood bag.

‘S’not quick enough,’ I slurred, ‘need ... knife.’

His eyes lost some of their confidence. The shunt disappeared, then he held a scalpel in front of me. The blade glinted in the mirrors behind him.

I nodded, my heart pounding frantically under my ribs, a fine tremble shivering under my skin. ‘Do it.’ I pushed my arm into the bucket.

He touched the point of the scalpel to the red vein bulging down my inner arm. Watery pink sweat dripped off my chin and splashed onto his gloved hand. I heard him gasp and looked up, catching the nervous expression in his owl-like hazel eyes.

‘It’s been a while since I’ve done this.’ He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

I grabbed the hand holding the knife, felt him start, then I sliced deeply, scoring the vein from my elbow to my wrist. Sharp pain flipped into pleasure that rushed like electricity through my body. My blood welled, thick and viscous like molten tar, and the scent of liquorice and copper and honey filled the air. The urge to cut my skin again, to chase that pleasure, to see more of my blood sparkling bright along my skin was a seductive whisper, calling me, urging—

‘For the love of God!’ Joseph yanked his hand from mine, flinging the scalpel away. It clattered off the mirrors and landed noiselessly on the thick carpet.

Taking a deep breath, I sat back on my heels and closed my eyes, trying to ignore the warm, wet trickle of blood running down my arm. I listened to the faint splash as it fell into the bucket and the slightly fast cadence of his breathing as I waited for my heart to slow back to normal. Venom junkies had been known to die from blood loss once the desperate bliss of spilling their own blood short-circuited their minds.

After a while, I asked, ‘What day is it?’

‘Friday,’ he said quietly.

Damn, last I remembered it was Tuesday morning. I’d lost three days. I opened my eyes. Blood the consistency of runny honey still slopped into the bucket, but it was slowing. I squeezed my arm just below my elbow, pulling the cut apart; the small pain rippled into a promise of pleasure that had me squirming.

Joseph frowned. ‘Why are you doing that?’

‘My blood’s too thick’—an aspect of the venom—‘and if I don’t do this, I won’t lose enough and the venom will throw me back into another blood-flush.’

‘Ah yes.’ He looked down at the bucket, then up at me. ‘You’ve been heading for a blood-flush since yesterday; you’re hypertensive, and your red blood cell count is the highest I’ve ever seen. I was debating whether to bleed you or not before you regained consciousness, but your other injuries haven’t been healing, so I wasn’t sure if it would do more harm than good.’ His frown deepened. ‘I’ve never treated a sidhe before.’

I looked down at my patchy skin. ‘This isn’t bad for a couple of days.’

‘That didn’t happen in a couple of days. Malik gave you his blood as soon as he could. He carries the true Gift, so he healed you to this in about an hour. But there’s been no change since then.’

It was my turn to frown. That didn’t sound right. No pain, no gain; the words teased at the edge of my mind, nothing to do with exercise—wasn’t there something about fae needing to feel some pain for the magic to kick in with the healing? Then I remembered I’d been floating somewhere golden and warm, riding along with the sunshine, until my subconscious mind reconstituted the Earl and dropped him into my nightmare. ‘You had me stoked up on morphine, didn’t you?’ I asked slowly.

‘Of course, you were in a lot of pain; I didn’t want to see you suffer. Your metabolism works a lot faster than a human’s. I had to up the dose quite a bit before it took effect.’

Was that why I hadn’t healed? Too much morphine?

‘I shouldn’t worry about getting dependant or anything after this short period of use,’ he added. ‘When morphine’s used for pain relief it doesn’t appear to affect the addictive centres of the brain.’

I blinked. ‘I’ve got 3V, Joseph. It negates the effects of any other chemical addictions and it kills off any diseases or infections. ’ If it wasn’t for the obvious side-effects, 3V could keep humans as healthy as the proverbial horse. ‘Or didn’t they teach you that at doctor school?’

‘Sorry, yes, I know.’ He pushed his glasses up with the back of his bandaged wrist. ‘The reassurance stuff is standard spiel; you end up saying it all the time. Everyone gets all concerned about morphine being derived from opium.’ He shrugged tiredly. ‘But 3V only contradicts other infections when in the host; they’re still carried by the blood, and blood transference can still pass them on to someone who doesn’t have 3V.’ He tapped his face-mask. ‘That’s the reason for the get-up.’

‘You haven’t got 3V?’ I stared, surprised. ‘But you said Malik was your master?’

‘I didn’t, not exactly.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘You didn’t look like you were ready for a long explanation. I do a lot of work in Sucker Town—I’m part of the Health Department’s monitoring group—and I’ve seen the effects of 3V and I didn’t want to be infected.’ He indicated my arm dripping blood into the bucket. ‘Malik and I are friends; he would no more go against my wishes than fly to the moon.’

Friends? Wounded vamps don’t have friends, they have automatic survival responses. In other words, they mind-lock the nearest blood supply, sink fangs into it and the venom overdose turbo-charges the red blood cell production while making sure the victim doesn’t get the chance to run away, usually because they’re unconscious and paralysed by a stroke caused by the venom-induced hypertension. Great for the vamp, not much fun for any of his friends.

I looked at the bandages on Joseph’s arms, assessing him. ‘Malik can’t be too hurt, not if you’ve been feeding him.’ I pulled and squeezed my arm again. ‘If he’d gone into bloodlust, you’d be just another blood-slave by now.’ Or dead.

‘Yes, Malik’s explained all that to me.’ He sighed. ‘We’ve worked out a failsafe plan: a tranquilliser gun. If he’s hurt in any way, I shoot first, then ask questions later, once he comes round. The tranquilliser is the same one they use on big cats, like lions and tigers. I’ve been keeping him under the last few days so he’s safe enough to look after.’

Ri-ight! Well, that was certainly one way to deal with an injured vamp. I gave my arm another squeeze. It hurt, no ripples of anticipated pleasure this time. I checked my colour out in the mirror. The red splotches had gone, my skin was its usual warm honey—with the added pink and shiny bits—and my heart thudded a calm tattoo in my chest.

‘I’m about done here,’ I said. ‘You got a spare bandage I can use?’

He didn’t seem to hear, just stared thoughtfully at my blood plopping into the bucket.

‘Joseph?’

His head shot up. ‘There’s just over a pint there.’ Speculation lit his eyes. ‘Do you think you could manage some more? I wouldn’t ask but I’ve already transfused two pints of my own and Malik still needs more.’ His hands trembled where he clutched the rim of the bucket. ‘I didn’t trust anyone else to help, not with your problems with the police.’

When he put it like that, how could I refuse?

‘Sure.’ I clenched, then unclenched my hand, having to pump the blood out now.

Two pints would probably take Joseph’s body about six weeks to make the red cells up. 3V halved that timescale for a human. With 3V turbo-charging my own fae metabolism, I’d make the red cells up in around a week—yet another reason the vamps are so hot for a fae to snack on. Fae really are their ultimate fast food.

I looked into the bucket. That should do it. ‘I’m done here, Joe,’ I said, and gave him a quick smile. Now to find out how much of a jailer he intended to be. ‘So how are you fixed for lending me some clothes and letting me use the phone?’

‘You’re leaving?’ His expression behind the mask turned worried. ‘But what about Malik?’

‘I’m sure you can look after him better if I’m not here.’ As I stood I saw the wound on my arm was already scabbing over. ‘And anyway,’ I gave him a rueful smile, ‘I’m not the nursemaid type.’

‘Okay.’ He pursed his lips. ‘Clothes should be no problem, but I’m afraid I can’t let you use the phone.’ His face creased up in awkward embarrassment. ‘It’s not that I don’t want to help, but you’d be phoning your friends, and I don’t want any calls to get traced back to me or here. This is one of Malik’s safe houses.’

I frowned. ‘Aren’t you being just a tiny bit paranoid?’

‘Maybe,’ he shrugged, ‘but you’re wanted for murder, and they can monitor phones, especially mobiles, if they know the numbers. I saw it on that film, the one where the spy who’s lost his memory is on the run.’ He gave me a sheepish look. ‘Of course, it could just be dramatic licence, but I’d rather be paranoid than find out I’m right when the police are knocking on my door.’

Fine, no point wasting my time arguing with him, not when I’d been lying around comatose for three days. I had enough other things I wanted: a shower, some food, scissors to sort out my hair—and it was about time I started looking for Tomas’ murderer.

And I knew just where to start.

With the kelpie that lived in the River Thames.