The Cold Kiss of Death

This was sonot 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 Fi

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 duhmof 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 co

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 Fi

‘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?