The Cold Kiss of Death

retaliated by springing a techno-hex on my phone. I’d been trying to crack the hex for over a week, never mind it was nearing All Hallows’ Eve and sort of appropriate—having the phone run through a selection of horror film ring-tones was so not professional; it unsettled too many of the clients. I grabbed the phone from the back of my running shorts but my irritation turned to a grin as I checked the caller ID.

‘Grace,’ I said, then remembered why she was calling; my vamp-mail problem was worrying her, and while I loved her to bits for checking I was okay, neither of us needed the extra stress. I tried for a distraction. ‘Don’t suppose you know any necros, do you?’

‘I’m a doctor, Genny, not an information service,’ she said in her usual no-nonsense voice. ‘Plus, I don’t think a necro’s going to help you if that medium didn’t. I told you, wait until Hallowe’en; you’ll be able to talk to your ghost then.’

Wrapping the towel round my shoulders, I shuddered. ‘There is no way I’m spending that night in a churchyard. That’d be like asking you to stay in the same room as a spider.’

‘Humph! Well as you keep telling me, spiders can’t hurt anyone, and the same goes for ghosts. Plus it’s a cheaper, quicker option than a necro,’ she pointed out. ‘Then again, HOPE is likely to be busy that night, so you might not have time to visit a churchyard.’

HOPE is the Human, Other and Preternatural Ethical Society’s clinic. The clinic treats Vampire Venom and Virus infection, or 3V, to give it the more politically correct moniker, as well as anyone who falls foul of magic. Grace was one of the Speciality Registrars there—it was where we’d met and become friends—and she was right; Hallowe’en is always like half a dozen full moons wrapped up in one. All the loonies—human and Other—would be out, and HOPE would end up dealing with the fallout, in addition to more than its usual number of anxious humans wondering if Getting Fanged had been the cool choice after all.

‘Don’t tell me,’ I said, hopping on one leg then the other as I pulled off my wet socks. ‘I’m going to be asked to come in and work.’

‘I don’t think there’s any asking involved,’ she laughed. ‘That new admin manager’s got you and all the rest of the volunteers pencilled in on the rota.’

‘That’s because someone showed him the CCTV tape from last year.’ I tucked the sodden socks into the carrier bag. ‘The one where the Chelsea Witches’ Coven are having hysterics ’cos their darling daughters thought it might be fun to go partying over in Sucker Town.’

Getting Fanged at one of the vamp celebrity clubs is safe enough—the only time the vamps go into the red is when it involves blood, not cold hard cash—so no one ends up with 3V from visiting them; just with the odd blood- loss hangover from overenthusiastic donating. But Sucker Town is a popular destination on All Hallows’ Eve and the rules are different there. Vampires give trick or treat a whole new meaning.

‘They were lucky the vamps gave them a wide berth and none of them got bitten, let alone infected,’ Grace huffed. ‘Stupid, irresponsible idiots. Let’s hope the lecture they got about the downsides of 3V and G-Zav’—the venom-junkies’ methadone—‘made an impression and we don’t have a repeat this year.’

‘Hope so,’ I agreed wholeheartedly, having first-hand experience of those same ‘downsides’ myself since my fourteenth birthday—just over ten years ago now. Being dependent on G-Zav is so not a fun way to live but it beats the alternative of being some sucker’s blood-slave.

Or at least I always thought it had.

Now I wasn’t so sure.

‘Anyway, apart from being rattled by your ghost,’ Grace said cheerfully, interrupting my wavering thoughts, ‘how’s my favourite sidhe this wet and windy evening?’

I snorted. ‘Given that I’m the only sidhe in London and the only one you know, your bedside manner sucks.’

‘And talking of vampires?’ Her voice rose with the question.

‘None of the suckers jumped out at me, so I’m still here, still taking the tablets, and I’ve still got my requisite eight-plus pints of blood.’

‘I can tell most of that by the fact you’re on the phone,’ she said drily.

I grinned. ‘Your powers of deduction are second to none, Grace.’

‘Now we’ve got past the rather excessive compliments,’ she said with more than a touch of snark, ‘let’s get back to the vampires and how many invitations today.’

I poked at the invitations filling my mailbox and said, ‘About the same,’ hoping she would accept that. Trouble was, now that every vamp and their blood-pet knew about my 3V infection it made me an even more attractive meal ticket than before. So far, it was just invitations—ultra-polite requests for my company at various celebrity-studded functions, all sent in identical expensive cream envelopes—but the hard knot in my stomach told me it probably wouldn’t be long before the vampires dispensed with the postal option and started delivering their ‘invitations’ in person. And didn’t that give me something fun to look forward to.

‘How many?’ Grace asked, her voice as sharp as surgical steel.

Dogs and bones have nothing on Grace when she wants something, so I gave in. ‘Hold on a min.’ I slid the phone onto the mailbox and dug out the latest batch, squinting at them malevolently in the dim light. Genevieve Taylor, Bean Sidhe, was written across the top envelope in a bold, rust-red script. Holding the envelope to my nose, I sniffed, and the faint scent of liquorice and copper made my mouth water—the sender had mixed his or her blood into the ink—but then, the vampires don’t miss a trick when it comes to self-promotion. Ignoring the annoying throb that the scent raised into life at the curve of my neck, I ran my finger over the envelope edges, counting, then picked up the phone. ‘Nine today,’ I said.

‘Two more than yesterday!’ I could hear the worried tap-tap of her pen in the background. ‘That’s not good.’

‘Tell me about it,’ I muttered. ‘I feel like I’ve got this big sign round my neck: Exclusive trophy sidhe ~ latest must-have accessory for those of the fanged persuasion—next thing you know they’ll be queuing round the block. That’d really make the witches throw their cauldrons out of their prams.’

Grace’s sigh echoed down the phone. ‘Talking of witches, have you heard yet if the Witches’ Council are going to reinstate their protection?’

‘I don’t think I’m high on their list of priorities.’ I dropped the invites on the top of the mailbox, thankful Grace couldn’t see me cross my fingers at the evasion.

‘But it’s been ages, they should have been able—’ I winced as she went on accusingly, ‘You haven’t asked them, have you? Why not, Genny? And please don’t tell me it’s some obscure faerie pride thing.’

‘It’s nothing to do with pride, Grace.’ I picked at a loose thread on the towel, pulling it as it unravelled. ‘There’s just no point, that’s all. You know the only reason the witches gave me back my job at Spellcrackers was because of the Mr October murder fiasco. And it’s not just the job, but my flat too.’ No way could I live in Covent Garden without the Council’s permission. ‘I’d really be pushing my luck if I asked for anything more.’ Never mind the witches were probably going to succeed in getting me evicted anyway at this rate ... but I kept that to myself.

‘I still think you should ask, Genny,’ she said. ‘It would put a stop to your stupid idea about coming to some sort of arrangement with that vampire—’ The sound of her office phone ringing interrupted her and she said hurriedly, ‘Gotta go, love you.’

Feeling guilty relief at not having to rehash the next part of the conversation, I tucked the phone away and pursed my lips at the pile of invitations. I turned the top envelope over; the red wax seal on the back was impressed with the shape of a clover leaf. That told me it was from Declan, master vampire of the Red Shamrock blood, one of London’s four blood families. The conniving Irish bastard so didn’t know when to quit. Quickly I checked the seals on all the rest, but the one I was half-dreading, half-hoping for, the one from the vampire I wanted to ‘come to an arrangement’ with, still wasn’t there.

Malik al-Khan.

Nearly a month since he’d last put in an appearance.

I was beginning to wonder if he ever would.

And if he didn’t, then all my ‘conversations’ with Grace about ‘arranging’ to solve my 3V problem the vampire way instead of the medical one would be for nothing. Malik was the only possibility; I didn’t trust any of the others. Not that I really trusted Malik, but ...

I ripped the envelopes in half, pulled open the junk mail bin under the mailboxes and shoved them in, then