Squib the coldstream chr.., p.1
Squib (The Coldstream Chronicles Book 1), page 1
Squib
THE COLDSTREAM CHRONICLES
BOOK ONE
HELEN HARPER
For Scout, my brave calico fuzzball
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Epilogue
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Other titles
Chapter
One
The stone steps leading from pavement level to the dark maw of the basement of the narrow, terraced house were the stuff of nightmares for anyone with even the mildest of vampire phobias.
Or, Mallory reflected, anyone wearing high heels.
There were glistening patches of dark, wet blood in several places; they looked fresh, as if at least one unsuspecting victim had dribbled their last drops of the red stuff as they were being dragged underground, but that was an unlikely scenario despite the location.
Doubtless the blood had been there for months, kept slickly moist by a handy flash of witch-induced magic. It was a clever trick because a good number of people, whether they hailed from Coldstream or elsewhere, would steer clear. Two things that vampires universally despised were nosy parkers and cold callers. The steep claustrophobic steps and the puddles of sticky blood would discourage both.
Fortunately, although Mallory owned two pairs of devastatingly sexy heels, they were reserved for more congenial occasions than this one. Currently she was wearing grubby high-tops which had seen better days. It was just as well.
Avoiding the blood, she descended carefully; flat shoes or not, this wasn’t the time to rush and end up on her arse. She was a professional conducting a business call and there were standards to maintain.
Mallory knew there would be at least one pair of eyes watching her from behind the shuttered door at the foot of the steps, whether via magical means or through a more mundane peephole. There was a lot to be gained from the five-hundred-year-old vampire she was due to meet and first impressions were important. He wouldn’t care what shoes she was wearing but he would care if she appeared clumsy or nervous.
Remember to breathe. Relax. You’ve got this. She had lived in Coldstream for more than ten years, but annoyingly she still found anxiety got the better of her at times. It was a good thing she was adept at masking her true feelings; compensating for her negative emotions with a display of ebullient confidence usually worked well.
Once the danger had passed and Mallory reached the door, she lifted her chin and allowed herself a moment to prepare. She inhaled deeply and tightened her toes, an old calming technique she’d learned years before. Then she relaxed, raised her hand and knocked.
From the other side of the door there was a shuffling sound followed by a scraping thud as the square grate in its centre was slid open and an irritated face scowled out.
The doorman wasn’t vamp. Judging by his clammy, grey pallor he was merely a thrall, a servant who willingly yielded to the vampires in all things in the hope of one day being turned.
That was quite a gamble to take with your life. Mallory was well aware of the statistics: typically, only one in every thirteen thralls was allowed to become a full-blooded vampire.
Three or four people came to her every year requesting her services in return for a leg up with the vampires. Although plenty of vamps didn’t bother with thralls, she could help someone become one if that was what they desired, but she had no control over what happened after that. Vampires were notoriously mercurial. People lined up to join them, desperate to partake in the dubious delights of an unnaturally long life. Some remained in thrall until their dying days, others abandoned the enterprise after a month or two of unrelenting servitude. Very, very few were turned true vamp.
None of Mallory’s clients had ever made the full-fanged leap. Although it would be beneficial to her if they did because she’d have a direct line to all things vampish, she was secretly pleased. Foregoing sunlight forever and drinking blood would be bad enough, but vampires were cold creatures and the longer they lived, the worse they became. Every passing decade stripped them of another streak of humanity until they were little more than unfeeling husks on legs. When you lived for hundreds of years, everything quickly became boring – and, in Mallory’s opinion, bored vampires were dangerous vampires.
She wasn’t one to judge the life choices of others, however, so she gave the grumpy thrall a friendly smile. ‘Good evening.’ She nodded politely. ‘My name is Mallory Nash. I have an appointment with Chester. He’s expecting me.’
The thrall’s scowl deepened. ‘You’re early.’
By three minutes. Mallory didn’t allow her smile to dim. ‘Shall I wait out here?’
He rolled his eyes expressively, suggesting that her question was completely unreasonable, then sighed heavily. ‘You may come in.’ He sniffed wetly. ‘I suppose.’ He slammed the grate closed and there was a clink as he slid back a bolt. The door creaked and, finally, Mallory gained admittance.
It wasn’t her first time walking into a vampire’s lair and it likely wouldn’t be her last. A lot of Mallory’s job involved keeping schtum about her clients; she would never admit who she had worked for in the past and the thrall would never learn how many times she’d walked into a vampire’s house under similar circumstances. She knew enough to look awe-struck as he led her into the grand hallway with its flocked red wallpaper and stern paintings lining the walls.
Vampires liked it when the hoi-polloi admired both them and their surroundings. Much like the rest of the society, they wanted their life – or rather their undead – choices to be validated. As a mere squib, Mallory was supposed to be more impressed than other Coldstream citizens and she reacted accordingly; she knew the game and she knew her place.
The thrall gestured to an uncomfortable looking wooden bench elaborately carved with gleaming fleur-de-lis along the back, and grizzled lions with bared teeth on each arm. Sadly the carver’s skill hadn’t extended to making it a pleasant place to sit. In Mallory’s experience, comfort often took a backseat to beauty, more’s the pity.
‘Sit there,’ the thrall instructed. ‘When Lord Chester is ready, I shall return and fetch you.’
Both the thrall and Lord Chester were exerting their power in an unnecessarily showy manner, and they’d doubtless leave her waiting for at least an hour before she was allowed any further into the building. Mallory checked her watch. She’d cool her heels for seven minutes but, as much as she wanted this contract, she wouldn’t demean her reputation by waiting any longer than that. The vampires weren’t the only ones with appearances to maintain and she had another appointment to meet before the night was out.
The easiest way to hurry things along and get what she wanted would be to ingratiate herself with the thrall. ‘Thank you so much. What’s your name?’
His eyes narrowed. ‘Why do you want to know?’
‘You seem like a nice fellow,’ she lied. ‘And it’s always good to put a name to a face.’
His suspicion lessened a fraction but he was clearly still wary. ‘Most people who come here don’t care what my name is.’
Mallory felt a flash of sympathy. ‘I’m not most people.’
He gave her a long look. Finally, with palpable reluctance, he said, ‘It’s Eric.’
She beamed. ‘Nice to meet you, Eric.’
‘You still have to wait.’
‘Not a problem.’ Still smiling, she sat down while the thrall vanished down the hallway.
As soon as she’d placed her hands on her lap, a low hiss filtered through the air. ‘You’re going to die.’
Mallory raised an eyebrow but didn’t otherwise react.
The voice tried again. ‘He will drain your blood. He will sink his fangs into your neck and suck every drop from your body until you are nothing more than a dried shell. Your skin will be parchment. Your hair will be straw. Your body will be dust.’
Uh-huh. Presumably the voice was referring to Chester, who certainly wasn’t a real lord regardless of what the thrall had said. Four hundred and thirty-two years ago, Chester Longchamps had been a Yorkshire farm labourer who’d had the misfortune to get a landowner’s daughter pregnant. He’d fled the county when it became clear that his offer of marriage was unwelcome and that he’d more likely find himself dangling on the end of a noose than waiting at the end of an aisle.
He'd found his way to Coldstream and ingratiated himself enough with the local vamps to be turned. Mallory hadn’t been able to discover what had happened to his erstwhile girlfriend or their child, though she could imagine.
‘Nobody will remember you,’ the voice whispered. ‘Nobody will find you.’
Although she possessed no Preternatural powers, Mallory was certain that she was the only creature capable of breath in the hallway,
She returned her attention to Moustache Man and was rewarded when he blinked. ‘Hello!’ she said cheerfully.
The Cursed Portrait didn’t respond. Mallory dropped her gaze.
‘Your death will be painful. You will…’
She looked at the portrait again and the voice fell silent abruptly. Mallory gave him an encouraging nod. ‘Go on.’ He glared at her. She waited but it appeared nothing more would be forthcoming.
She shrugged and leaned back, ignoring the petals of the wooden fleur-de-lis that were jutting into her spine. Some Cursed Portraits were chattier than others; this particular example was clearly a less verbose type, at least when he was under direct scrutiny.
She crossed her legs and continued to gaze at him. His tense expression, obvious despite the cracked eggshell paint, indicated that he was enjoying the experience far less than she was.
A high-pitched scream sounded from somewhere in the house, too far away for Mallory to discern whether it was born of true fear or merely a playful shriek. Perhaps it was nothing more than another attempt to throw her off-balance. She pursed her lips and checked her watch again, then smoothed down her skirt, stood up and started walking towards the front door.
‘What are you doing?’ It was Eric, the thrall, who’d appeared out of nowhere.
Mallory turned her head and glanced at him. ‘I’m leaving.’
‘But Lord Chester hasn’t seen you yet.’
She waved an airy hand. ‘Unfortunately I can’t wait here all night. I have other appointments to keep. If he’d like to reschedule, he knows how to reach me.’ She reached for the door.
Eric began to splutter. ‘But … but … but…’
A mellifluous voice interrupted. ‘But I can see you now, Ms Nash.’
Mallory paused and squinted. Towards the end of the hallway was a tall dark figure. She couldn’t make out his features but there was no doubt that this was Chester Longchamps. Excellent: her display of brash confidence had paid off. She didn’t say anything; the ball was in his court now. He understood the game as well as she did.
‘I apologise for keeping you waiting,’ he went on.
Mallory couldn’t tell if the loud snort came from the Cursed Portrait or Eric, but she was betting on the former. It didn’t matter. The vampire had acknowledged his tardiness and apologised and now she could be gracious.
‘Very well,’ she said. ‘Would you like to discuss your business here?’
‘No, we’ll retire to my drawing room. Please, come with me.’ He melted into the shadows beyond the hallway leaving Mallory little choice but to follow.
‘You’re going to die,’ the Cursed Portrait hissed again as she passed it.
‘Not today,’ she murmured in response. And not by vamp. Chester Longchamps had just proved that he needed her far more than she needed him.
Chester’s drawing room wasn’t any cheerier than his hallway. Mallory was unsure what design aesthetic he was aiming for, but there was certainly an eclectic array of furniture. The room contained everything from a Jacobean sideboard to a 1920s’ art-deco mirror to a Brutalist coffee table that she was sure she’d seen only the previous month in a glossy magazine featuring the home of a premier league footballer and his glamorous wife.
She couldn’t stop herself checking to see whether Chester’s reflection appeared in the mirror. He caught her looking and smiled. ‘Look,’ he said and waved at it. ‘No hands!’
Mallory found she was smiling back at him. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude.’
His response was genial. ‘I understand such curiosity. I can offer you a canapé – which most definitely will not contain garlic. You will find that all the windows in this property have been boarded up for the past three centuries. And,’ he added, with only a hint of smarminess, ‘I do sleep in a coffin.’
She blinked.
‘It provides a more restful sleep,’ Chester explained.
‘Good to know,’ she murmured.
She looked him over. For a vampire of his age, he was remarkably well-preserved. His eyes didn’t contain much warmth but there was little evidence of the sunken skin she’d noticed on other aged vamps. His pallor told of centuries of avoiding the sun, but he’d been canny with make-up – either that, or he had a sunbed hidden away somewhere. Could vampires use sunbeds? She pondered the question. She genuinely had no idea.
Sunbed or not, Chester Longchamps was clearly someone who cared a great deal about his appearance and was keen to avoid looking like death in the way that some of his kin enjoyed. His rail-thin body was clad in a light-blue jersey fabric as if he were relaxing after a long run.
The notion that he was attempting to appear casual to put her at ease dissipated quickly when a young woman – another thrall – came into the room with a small dagger in her hand. She sliced open her wrist with practised ease and raised it to Chester’s mouth. He drank greedily, slurping her blood while maintaining eye contact with Mallory. When he was done, he licked the thrall’s skin so that his saliva would heal her wound.
It was considered passé for vampires to use their fangs to pierce skin, probably because it suggested a lack of consent on the thrall’s part. Nevertheless, the act made Mallory shiver. Despite her many encounters with vampires, she’d not witnessed any of them feed. It was an intimate deed and watching it made her feel like an unwelcome intruder.
‘I am not long awake,’ Chester said by way of explanation. ‘I find I require considerable refreshment before I can attack the night.’ He nodded at the thrall, dismissing her.
Mallory suddenly had the thought that the act hadn’t been intended to throw her off-balance but to indicate that he had vulnerabilities and needs. Regardless of the initial lack of welcome, Chester Longchamps didn’t want her to feel intimidated. That was … interesting.
He dabbed at his mouth with a light-blue handkerchief that perfectly matched his athleisure attire then beckoned Mallory to a nearby chair. Good: he was prepared to get down to business quickly. She might still make her next appointment in time.
‘You are a squib, Ms Nash,’ he said. It wasn’t a question. ‘When I first heard of your services, I admit I was sceptical. However, you come highly recommended.’
Mallory certainly hoped so; she’d worked hard to develop her reputation as somebody who got stuff done.
‘What is your success rate?’
‘Near perfect,’ she answered without missing a beat. ‘The last time I didn’t manage to fulfil a client’s request was more than three years ago.’ And that had been because the client in question – a troll called Bertie – had provided false information. It could be argued that the failure had not been hers.
Chester stroked his chin. ‘And you deal solely in secrets and favours? You do not require monetary compensation for your efforts? Because frankly that would be far easier and, I suspect, far less costly in the long run.’
‘My terms were made clear to you before my arrival.’ She kept her tone pleasant.
He tilted his head and examined her. ‘You present yourself as flowers and sunshine, Ms Nash, but in truth you possess a core of steel.’
‘Titanium,’ Mallory told him. Coated in radioactive nuclear waste. She didn’t add that last part; it would have been overkill.
The vampire barked a cold laugh. ‘Yes. Ha! Titanium indeed. Very well.’ He leaned forward. ‘I can count on your discretion?’
‘Absolutely. Whether we proceed with an arrangement or otherwise, I will reveal nothing about this meeting.’
‘Strangely, I believe you. Very well, then.’ Chester paused for a moment before continuing. ‘What I am seeking is an object. I would like to get my hands on … the Clouded Map!’ he finished with a dramatic flourish.
There was no accompanying drumroll although Mallory sensed that he expected one. If she’d known what the Clouded Map was she might have agreed, but alas she’d never heard of it. She knew better than to say that aloud, however. ‘I see,’ she said, keeping her expression studiously blank.
