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 over-enthusiastic 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 not 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 slammed the door shut.
My only wish was that I could dispose of the vamps themselves as easily.
I closed my eyes and massaged my temples, trying to ease my ever-present headache; popping G-Zav tablets like they were sweeties might be keeping a precarious lid on my venom cravings, but the side-effects were about as pleasant as being roasted alive over a dwarf’s furnace. Sighing, I put the towel in the carrier bag with my socks and shoes, then headed for the stairs, the pervasive smell of garlic increasing as I climbed.
The real puzzle was why some enterprising vamp hadn’t just gone straight for the caveman thing, knocking me over the head and dragging me off by my short sidhe hair. Of course, it’s illegal for a vamp to use any form of coercion - physical or psychological - without their
victim’s
consent (not that vamps have victims any more, now they’re called
customers
, a.k.a. fang-fans). And the vamps are good at playing the law-abiding game, so the last time one of them won a one-way trip to the guillotine for unlicensed feeding was back in the early eighties.
But the humans don’t think we fae need the same protection as humans, not when the vamps can’t mind-lock us or trick us with their
mesma,
not when we’re often seen as more dangerous than the once-human vampires. Then there’s the fact that we fae are even more of a minority than the blood-suckers; a minority that’s not as politically aware and not always as pretty. So it’s not surprising we get a less-than-fair hearing when it comes to human justice.
Or that we end up as fair game for the vamps.
What we really needed was a great public relations manager. Idly I wondered if the one that had kick-started the vamps’ Gold-Plated Coffin promotion was still around. Not that I had the money to pay for a no-expenses-spared PR campaign. I could only just afford my rent, and that was
with
the subsidy I got from working for a witch company.
I stepped onto the third-floor landing and the garlic stench almost overpowered me. I stopped to cough, glaring at Witch Wilcox’s door. Of course, I wouldn’t need the subsidy if she succeeded in getting me evicted.
‘Ow!’ Something stung my bare calf. I hopped and slapped at my leg, then
looked
at her door.
Crap. It wasn’t just the garlic she’d laid on a bit thick; she’d added to the vamp Back-Off spell sprayed on her door and the magic now spread over the landing like an enormous sea anemone, its deep purple body fanning out into a multitude of paler violet-coloured fronds that rippled through the air and circled a dark hole that looked disturbingly like a gaping mouth.
‘That’s different,’ I muttered in amazement. The thing looked more like a trap than a vamp deterrent, and my calf was throbbing like someone had branded it with a red-hot poker. Whatever the spell was, no way did I want to tangle with it.
Carefully, I inched my way along the landing, keeping my back tight against the wall. As I moved, the fronds shifted, questing towards me as if they’d caught my scent. I breathed in sharply as one whipped past my stomach and ducked as another narrowly missed slashing across my cheek, the eye-watering smell of garlic and bleach trailing behind it. Then as three more of the lethal fronds flailed after me, I turned and bolted for the stairs, carrier bag clutched under my arm. I jumped, yelping, as the spell stung the back of my neck, then as I almost missed the steps, I managed to grab for the banister and safety.
I sat down heavily on the stair, breathing shakily as I checked the welt on my calf; the skin wasn’t broken, it was just swollen, red and painful
.
Gingerly, I touched the back of my neck. It felt the same. What the hell was the daft old witch doing,
casting
... whatever that anemone thing was? It seemed excessive, even with her paranoia about her granddaughter - never mind the fact that even if a vamp managed to bypass the Ward on the building’s main door, none of them could pass over her threshold; unless of course she was stupid enough to invite them in. I glowered down at the spell. The fronds were undulating lazily now, but I got the impression they were just watching and waiting.
‘It would serve the old witch right if I
cracked
her spell,’ I grumbled, rubbing my sore leg. Trouble was, true
spellcracking
blasted the magic back into the ether, which made for a quick clear-up - except the
cracking
also blasted apart whatever the spell happened to be attached to. Somehow I didn’t think I’d get away with turning the witch’s door into a pile of jagged splinters. I could always tease it apart, the safer, if more laborious, way of dismantling spells, but that would take more time than I was willing to spare. And she’d just replace it anyway.
Damn. I thought about saying something to Mr Travers, but the garlic meant the spell was somehow tagged for vampires - not that eating garlic will stop a vamp from getting the munchies; some of them actually like the added flavour. Mind you, smearing a bulb or two over the pulse points might make them think seriously about dining elsewhere, as would chilli: red swollen lips are bad for the image, never mind the pain. Of course, the garlic smearing only works if the vamp’s brain is still engaged and they’re not lost in bloodlust. Not much stops a vamp then.
I had no idea why the bleach was in there - maybe it just made a handy, albeit nasty base. But whatever the reason, the old witch’s Anemone spell was the business.
And then there was my problem with actually complaining: how was I supposed to explain why magic aimed squarely at blood-suckers was taking its ire out on me? Somehow I doubted that my 3V condition would be enough, never mind it was easy to disprove. And letting everyone in on the real reason - my last secret - would mean not just eviction, but losing my job too. No, there was no way I could complain, not when it meant admitting my father was a three-hundred-year-old vampire.
My phone broke into my musings with something that sounded suspiciously like the theme from
A Nightmare on Elm Street
. Damn gremlins! I checked the display to see a message from Grace; she was coming round after her shift ended. I texted her back to say I was working and to let herself in, then as I caught sight of the time, everything, gremlins, ghosts, witches and blood-sucking vampires, went out of my mind. I had a job to go to; my ‘hot date with a satyr’ or rather, my boss, Finn, and if I didn’t hurry up I was going to be late.
Then my ‘date’ would be ‘hot’ for all the wrong reasons.
Acknowledgements
My heartfelt thanks go to those who have helped this book on its way.
The Thursday Writers - an uninspiring name for a truly inspiring group of people - Alison Aquilina, Malcolm Angel, Judy Monkton, Doreen Cory, and our erstwhile mentor, Della Galton. And last but not least, Fiona Knight, whose constant encouragement and willingness to splash red and purple paint over my words can never be appreciated enough. Without you all, the reality would still be a dream.