‘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 automa
tic 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.
Chapter Eight
The wind rippled the surface of the River Thames, pushing it into choppy grey ridges. I traipsed along Victoria Embankment, keeping close to the low stone wall that overlooked the river. Russet and brown hand-shaped leaves from the sycamore trees blew along the pavement, a smattering of cold raindrops hit my face and the river scent freshened the ever-present traffic fumes clogging the late-afternoon air. The constant line of cars, taxis and buses rumbled along, stopping and starting again with each quick change of the lights. I shuffled my way past camera-toting tourists, chattering school kids and an overweight jogger who was puffing and stopping as often as the traffic.
No one paid me any attention - but with the too-large parka I was wearing almost reaching my calves and the baseball cap hiding my tell-tale amber hair, I looked like any other homeless youngster wandering around aimlessly, even without the rolled-up jeans and old trainers stuffed with newspaper. Oddly enough, although Joseph’s mirrored wardrobes had been full of women’s outfits, it had all looked more appropriate for a night out at an S&M club than for wandering the streets of London incognito. Joseph had mumbled something about a friend and blushed red to the tips of his ears, then offered me some of his own clothes, but he still wouldn’t let me use his phone. I’d phoned Grace from a public box and told her everything; it hadn’t been an easy conversation, but in the end she’d agreed with my plans.
I slowed as I neared the RAF Monument. At the top of its granite column, the golden eagle gleamed in the grey afternoon light as it stared out across the river towards the slowly revolving Ferris-wheel of the London Eye. The waist-height gates on either side of the base were padlocked shut; behind them steps led down to a landing platform jutting into the river, then the steps turned and disappeared beneath the brownish murk of the water. It’s not an obvious entrance to someone’s home, but then, London’s fae rarely advertise their presence, nor do they welcome unlooked-for visitors, let alone inquisitive humans. So most tourists stop, read the inscription about the Air Force’s departed servicemen, cast an incurious look over the gates and then move on, none of them conscious of the subtle spell that gently urges them on their way.
I halted in front of the inscription and traced my fingers over the letters, wondering if Tavish, the kelpie I’d come to see, was home. Tavish is a techno-geek for hire - he’s rumoured to freelance for the Ministry of Defence, one of the reasons he keeps his entrance at the Whitehall steps. (Of course, the other reason his home is here is that the River Thames from Lambeth Bridge and down to the sea is his feeding ground.)
Hacking into the news services or even the police files to get me a copy of the full CCTV footage of the bakery that was currently splashed across the country’s TV screens would be as easy as diving for pennies on the riverbed - something else Tavish could do with his eyes closed. And if there were any clues in the recording, deciphering them wouldn’t be much more difficult for him.
Nerves fluttered in my stomach as if I’d swallowed a flight of dragonflies.
Now I was here, I wasn’t sure it was such a great idea ...
Trouble was, Tavish and I had history - if you could call half-a-dozen casual dates history - but the possibility for more had always been there. Not that I’d wanted to end the fledgling relationship, but at the time my secrets were still just that - secret - and I’d been keeping my distance from other fae. I tapped my fingers indecisively on the top of the gate. I’d probably suffered more in the way of futile regrets and disappointment over the break-up than Tavish ever had, but dump any male - or female, for that matter - without a good explanation and their ego isn’t going to be happy. Dump a centuries-old kelpie, one of the wylde fae, and it wasn’t just his ego I needed to worry about.
But I had more important things to concern me than my past personal life, and the CCTV footage wasn’t the only reason I’d come to see Tavish.
London has three gates that join it to the Fair Lands, and Tavish is one of the gates’ guardians. If there was another sidhe in London, Tavish should know ... which
meant he should know something about Tomas’ murderer. Even as I thought it, a shiver of awareness prickled my skin with goosebumps. He was home, and he knew I was here.
I took a guarded look round, checking no one was watching me too closely, and then clambered quickly over the gate on one side of the column. Magic clung to me as if I’d walked through a heavy mist. I jogged down the steps to the landing platform, then gripped the iron railing with one hand and crouched, peering into the water swirling a few inches below me. I could just see the top of the old archway, which had been bricked up in the late eighteen hundreds, when the Victoria Embankment had been built to hold back the river. Taking a deep breath, I reached down to touch the tail of the carved stone fish statue mounted on the centre of the arch, but before my fingers connected, I felt the hair rise on my body and I hesitated.
I stood up and turned to look back up at the road. Cosette the ghost was standing on the pavement, watching me from the other side of the gate, an odd, considering look on her childish face. Indecision wavered inside me; should I go up to see her? Then common sense took over; we still couldn’t communicate, so the best thing I could do was sort this mess out first. I gave her a nod and a wave, then turned back to face the river.
The Cold Kiss of Death Page 9
