The Cold Kiss of Death

Chapter Twenty-Six

Five days isn’t a long time to be away from home, but I’d missed it. Shoving that less-than-cheerful thought aside, I looked, and looked, around the communal hallway and up the stairs, checking for any new spells that might be lying in wait. Nothing. I pushed the main door shut without activating the Ward; the police needed to get in, after all. Taking a deep breath, I inhaled beeswax and faint musty earth—the scents of the goblin cleaner and Mr Travers, my landlord—almost buried beneath the less pleasant reek of Witch Wilcox’s garlic and bleach-laced Back-off spell: garlic for vamps, bleach for fae, so Tavish had told me.

The spell was going to be a problem. How was I supposed to knock on the old witch’s door if I couldn’t get near it? Still, determination had to count for something. And if the sidhe was with her, better I got her back to Grianne before the police turned up, even if it meant I’d probably spend the next few days sitting in a cell waiting for Grianne’s queen to sort it all.

I ran quietly up the stairs and stopped a couple of steps shy of the third-floor landing and looked again.

Sure enough, the anemone spell’s violet-coloured tentacles undulated over the landing. As I studied it, the dark gaping mouth in the centre of the anemone thing puckered up to a small round hole and then expanded, blowing me something that looked disturbingly like a kiss. Damn! The spell had been hanging around long enough to develop a sense of humour! I really hated it when the magic did that—I usually ended up being the butt of its jokes.

‘Well, if it isn’t the little sex-deprived bean sidhe,’ a rough voice drawled. ‘We’ve been waiting for you to turn up. Got ourselves a nice little party all planned.’

Adrenalin flooded my body as I looked up towards the voice. A male, a purple bandana tied round his clipped head, was leaning over the banister; he was the dryad who’d chased me from outside The Clink museum: Bandana. He grinned, revealing teeth stained brown from bark-chews, his eyes glinting the anaemic yellow of dying autumn leaves.

I went for the important question, keeping my voice light and slightly bored. ‘Who’s invited to this party then?’

‘A couple of close friends.’ He rubbed his jaw, leaving streaks of pale green where he’d scratched away his surface skin. Then he leaned further out, looking down through the narrow gap that separated the stairs from the landing. ‘I think you might have met them in passing.’

I looked down quickly. The lanky turban-headed dryad was making his way up towards me, his red turban bobbing with each long stride, and following him was a straw Panama above a pair of wide pinstripe-suited shoulders. Yep, friends all right; though not mine, obviously. Panama stopped to catch his breath, then squinted up.

‘Hi.’ He gave me a fat-fingered wave. ‘Nowhere for you to run to now, bean sidhe,’ he said, much too happily. ‘I liked the blonde bimbo look better, but then, this isn’t about looks, is it?’

‘Not where you’re concerned, Shorty,’ I said sweetly.

His face screwed up in anger and he started thudding up the stairs again. Red Turban hooked a long arm round Shorty’s stocky neck and yanked him to a halt. ‘Cool it,’ he said in a surprisingly high voice. ‘The bean sidhe is not to be damaged, remember.’

Good to know they planned to pull their punches. Shame for them I had no intention of reciprocating the go-easy policy.

Red Turban released Shorty and looked up at me, his expression cold. Then he patted Shorty on the back and said, ‘I can show you plenty of other ways to get maximum enjoyment out of her body, whatever it looks like.’

Not if I can help it, you won’t! I thought, determined. Red Turban’s twin popped his blue-turbaned head over the banister above me and gave me an equally cold stare. Ambushed! How lucky was I? Then another dryad—this one in a yellow beanie hat—sneered as he hung over the banister next to Blue Turban and Bandana. So, five of them in total.

A low rustle, like leaves shifting in the wind, filled the stairwell. Crap, now they were talking together—not that I needed to understand what they were saying to work out their objective, not when they’d got me cornered and outnumbered.

This was so not good.

My gut twisted with nervous tension as I tried to come up with some sort of plan. The police would be here soon, and hopefully Finn. If I could hold the dryads off until they arrived ... I had two options—up or down—and neither looked promising, not when up meant getting past the witch’s anemone spell—

I turned to face the two below me and the rustling rose in volume. Red Turban tapped Shorty on his Panama hat again and up they came, Red Turban’s long legs eating the stairs two at a time, Shorty puffing red-faced behind him.

A creaking noise above had me itching to look up, but I ignored it, concentrating on the two below. I was only going to get one chance at this; either it worked, or I was in serious trouble. I grabbed the banister and braced myself. Time stretched as I took a calming breath.

Red Turban was seven steps away ...

A double thud like the duhm duhm of a heavy heartbeat sounded behind me. I pricked up my ears, hoping for a third, but it didn’t come. Shit. I’d hoped all three of them would jump or run down together, but it looked like the good luck wasn’t all on my side.

Five steps ... Red Turban paused, a puzzled look in his maple-red eyes, no doubt wondering why I was ignoring the two at my back.

I swallowed. He’d find out any second—

Right on cue the screaming started: a high-pitched noise like storm winds shrieking through winter trees.

Two dryads down, three to go.

Red Turban’s eyes flicked to the scene behind me. His momentary distraction was what I’d been waiting for and I jumped down two steps and used the banister to propel me up. As I leapt I kicked out and jammed my feet into his chest, and it made a satisfying crack like branches breaking. One good thing about dryads: hit them with enough force and their bones splinter like brittle wood. Air puffed like dust between Red Turban’s surprised lips and he fell backwards, long fingers grabbing for the banister—but he missed and, arms flailing, knocked into Shorty like a tall, lanky domino, sending the smaller dryad barrelling back down the stairs where he crumpled in a heap on the landing below. I landed back on my own feet with a thump that jarred my whole body and tightened my grip on the banisters.

Three down, two to go.

Red Turban shook his head and started to pull himself up; I kicked out again, swinging my foot into his temple. Another gunshot-loud crack reverberated above the screeching dryads behind me and Red Turban collapsed. This time he stayed down, limp and still. Then the screeching cut out, leaving behind only silence.

Only one dryad left now.

Then my good luck ran out.

A disturbance in the air behind me warned me, but too late as thick muscled arms clamped like a steel trap around my torso and lifted me from my feet. ‘I’m impressed, bean sidhe,’ Bandana said in his rough drawl, his breath hot and moist against my skin. ‘I like a girl with a bit of fight in her. It makes the sex more interesting.’ He shoved his hips forward, pushing his erection against my butt. ‘And you’re a fucking feisty one.’

I’ll give you fucking feisty, I thought, jerking my head forward then ramming it back as hard as I could. It connected with a gratifying crunch as my skull shattered his nose. He let out a gurgled roar and staggered back, falling, still hugging me to him like I was his favourite blow-up doll. He landed on his back and the fall vibrated through me, stealing what little breath I had left. We slithered and bumped our way down the stairs, coming to an abrupt stop as we crashed into Red Turban’s unconscious body.

I struggled, clawing at his arms, kicking my heels into his knees and shins. He scissored his legs over my thighs, locking my body against his. I reached back and grabbed his ears and jerked my head back again and there was another loud crack as his cheekbone splintered. He grunted, increasing the pressure round my chest, squeezing out what little breath I had left. I had to stop him before he broke something or I passed out. I slid my hands round his head, searching for his eyes, and jammed my thumbs hard into the soft sockets, praying that would be enough to make him let me go. He yelled furiously and his arms tightened even more around my chest and I felt something break inside me. A sharp pain pierced my right side as whiplike cords snaked round my wrists and yanked my hands away, up and back above our heads. More thin branches banded my neck, constricting and choking my throat. I bucked against him, panic battering in my mind, as his branches hardened and trapped me immobile against him.

‘Keed stihl, you studid ditch,’ he growled, his words almost unintelligible. ‘Dode wad you stragglin’ yoursel’ jus’ yet.’ He jerked his arm and the vicious hot pain spiked in my side again. I screamed, but the corded branches round my throat snapped tighter, choking me, and the edges of my vision started dimming ...

... then the ceiling blurred back into focus and the pain in my side spiked with each intake of breath. I lay there trembling with the effort of keeping the panic away.

‘You fuckin’ droke my dose,’ he said. Out the corner of my eye I saw him tentatively touch his face. ‘You’ll pay for dat.’

‘Should ... be an ... improvement,’ I gasped. Whatever happened to not damaging me?

‘Ditch,’ he shouted and jerked his arm around my chest again.

I panted through the pain until it dialled back to an agonising throb, telling myself it was stupid to antagonise him while he had the upper hand. He sniffed and snuffled against my cheek and I could feel his magic brushing against my skin; he was trying to speed up his healing. Crap—yet more magic I couldn’t do. As we lay there, other smaller discomforts started to make themselves felt: the roughness of the bark around my wrists and throat, the ache in my shoulders from where my arms were pulled awkwardly above my head, the prickly sisal carpet on the backs of my hands. At least he was underneath me; the stairs had to be way more uncomfortable for him to lie on, and if he wanted to try anything else, he was going to have to release either my legs or the hold his branches had on me. I stared blindly up at the ceiling. Of course, he wasn’t the only one on his back, and he could hold me still with just one arm ...

The panic threatened to boil over again ...

I gritted my teeth, told my mind not to go there.

A rustling whisper echoed through the hallway, and I realised he was talking ... or calling for reinforcements, maybe?

And speaking of back-up, where were the police, and Finn, or even my neighbours? Helen and her crew had had enough time to get here twice over by now. And it wasn’t like the dryads had been the quietest of attackers: right now I’d have happily welcomed the most unfriendly of witches with open arms.

‘So, we’re going to stay here like this until one of my neighbours comes home, or what?’ I said, aiming for unconcern, but the tremor in my voice meant I didn’t quite make it.

‘Dode worry, do one’s gedding in, bean sidhe,’ he said, and patted my cheek. ‘Dot wid de Tank spell we pud on the building.’

I swallowed, trying to ignore the branches digging into my neck. A Tank spell—whatever the hell that was—presumably stamped out the possibility that someone—anyone—had noticed something and might be coming to rescue me.

‘Bud while we’re waiding for more of by frieds’—his hand fumbled at the waistband of my jeans; my gut twisted with dread—‘you can keed still and waid with me.’ His arm round my ribs squeezed, shooting sharp, hot pain through my chest. ‘Or I’ll dock you out agaid, okay?’

There was no way I wanted to be unconscious again, not even for a fraction of a second. I forced myself to stay still, to think. He had to be a willow; they were the only ones whose branches grew fast and long like whips. But those branches couldn’t be all real: they had to have some magic in them, didn’t they?

‘We mide as well use de time well.’ His legs clamped harder around my thighs as he struggled to pull the zipper on my tight jeans. ‘Now, rebember, bean sidhe, keep still.’

I looked, and saw the magic flowing around me in multi-coloured currents, swirling and eddying like different strands of paint mixed into a jar of murky water: lacklustre greens and feral yellows merged into dull oranges, deep reds faded into sickly violets and brackish purple, and through it all sparkled tiny motes of gold. Crap, even I was leaking magic. I couldn’t see where his magic started and mine or the witch’s anemone’s ended. What would happen if I tried cracking it? No, that was a really stupid, mind-blowing idea ... Wasn’t it?

‘I always wanded to be a daddy.’ He flattened his hand over my bare stomach, rubbing it. ‘I’m going to plant my seed in here and watch it grow.’ I didn’t bother telling him he needed my willing consent if he wanted me pregnant. I just prayed he’d stay thinking about his future fatherhood and wouldn’t try and do anything about it yet. At least in this position it wouldn’t be possible; he’d have to let me up, which would give me a chance—

—a whiplike branch scratched across my stomach, pushing and slithering down the front of my jeans.

‘Shame we can’d make new shoots the fun way,’ he murmured against my cheek. ‘But dis way works just as good.’

The thin branch poked into my briefs.

No fucking way!

Anger rose like a golden tide inside me ... and I reached out, focused on the magic, pushed all my will into it, and cracked it—

—and the world exploded.