A Fantasy Christmas

by Cindy Bennett, Sherry Gammon, Stephanie Fowers

  As soon as she regained her feet, a creaking under the stairs alerted her to the presence of more unwelcome visitors. When gods bled, it created unnatural things—these were more of them. Four-legged creatures the size of rodents scampered over the stone floors for her, gnashing sharp fangs.

  She punted one of them through the air, and kicked the rest, sending the wretched things back from whence they came. The furies screamed out orders to their minions, their words unrecognizable, their voices mimicking the clashing of swords. A sharp feather stung her arm. Affry gasped in pain, and reached for the bronze piece sticking from her skin. Stymphalian birds. Their laugh invaded her ears. With difficulty, she stopped herself from saying something that would make Aunt Euthymia rap her knuckles. Another metallic feather joined the first, landing into her forearm.

  “Blast!”

  Affry toppled backwards into one of her father’s crates of smuggled goods, reducing the crate into a horrid pile of splinters. Exotic treasures spilled out onto the floor—vases, plates, a crown fit for a king, a lion’s skin, and a rusty buccaneer sword. She kicked free from the wreckage, not able to find her knife.

  With an exaggerated flutter of wings, the Stymphalian birds swooped down to perch on the casks of smuggled wine, watching her with intent eyes as if she were about to reenact a Cheltenham tragedy. Perhaps she would for the next shadow seeping from the outer world was rapidly progressing to the size of a Titan. Affry tensed, seeing one arm, followed by another and yet another spring from its thick torso like tentacles. It baa’d like a ram—horns springing from its head.

  Affry dragged up the ancient buccaneer sword, her training at the hands of the marquess humming through her like a fire. A tentacle exploded through the darkness. She spun in a circle, severing it from its body. Another tentacle came then another and another. She made short work of them, the appendages jerking on the ground. Soon they all lay upon the cobbles. Suddenly, they writhed—each tentacle then grew a hulking body. Circling, she saw the original owner of the missing limbs looked to have already replaced them with more. Now instead of one giant shadow, seven stood like a wall around her. What were these things?

  The tentacles shot at her.

  She ducked, whirled, sliced. More were growing and coming for her. There were too many now. She felt something slimy latch to her waist and it dragged her forward, and then another joined the first, wrapping possessively around her arm. She brought the sword down on it, sawing it off. Two more replaced it. The bleating noises made an eerie echo in the cellar, along with the mocking laughter coming from the birds. Something knocked the sword from her grip and it clattered to the ground. Of course, she never should’ve cut the things off in the first place—not without her poisoned dagger.

  The tentacles ripped her from the floor, dragging her into the void. A cloud of gadflies covered the sky where she was being taken. Their incessant buzz changed as they broke from their ranks. One. Two. They came at her, stinging the exposed skin not covered by tentacles. She fought to get her feet back on the stone ground of the cellar, desperate to find some way to delay the unavoidable. If she could find a handhold or cause this sheep, squid mix some sort of pain, she might escape. Her hand scraped past the candle.

  “Put that down! We’re going to need that light.”

  Affry twisted—her relief outweighed any embarrassment at being caught in such a predicament. “Virbius!”

  Chapter Eight

  Virbius snatched the candle from Affry’s grasp and raised it high, illuminating the horrors attacking her. The light caught the sharp relief of his face. The beasts screamed out. All creatures—even the monstrosities from the underworld—despised him. The tentacles released Affry as Virbius knew they would. Skirts rustling, she fell in a heap of petticoats. The bronzed claws belonging to the tartarean birds’ ripped from the casks of wine. Beating powerful wings, the birds squawked and flew back through the portal. A low buzz of hovering insects still lingered behind. They disturbed the air past his arms.

  “Oh gadflies,” the marquess drawled. “I hate the things.” He blew small breaths of air at the irritating insects until they sensed what was in him, too—the hardness poured into his soul by the goddess Aphrodite herself. It was the stink of death that made all living things rear back in fear. It had caused his death so many years ago—his curse for refusing to love. Ironic that he used it to save Aphrodite’s daughter time and again.

  As if crushed by a heavy weight, the portal closed behind the creatures, sealing Affry and the marquess off from the world of Hades—at least for now. For some reason the underworld wanted Affry. He sighed. “Hades should stop sending these shadows to do his dirty work. They hate me as much as Euthymia’s cat does.”

  Affry’s laughter sounded hysterical. It twisted his stomach into worried knots. Her golden hair had spilled from the pins that held them in place. The daughter of two archons of beauty—the girl was too stunning for her own good. He forced himself to look away, picking up the broken planks from Adonis’s crushed crate.

  As soon as Affry’s father died, these creatures had come after her. Virbius was sent by the gods to ferret out the reasons behind it. Virbius wasn’t sure why Hades, the god of the underworld, hadn’t employed the usual methods of collecting souls. Then again, Affry wasn’t so usual. Besides her parentage, she was a delightful armful of muslin and silk. That was the very reason that Virbius wanted nothing to do with her—dying once from the intrigues of love was unavoidable, dying twice would be seen as careless.

  She sniffed and he turned on his heel to study her pale face. She shivered. The poor girl wasn’t to blame for her breathtaking beauty. Taking a steadying breath, he offered her his hand. “Allow me, Affry.”

  She shook her head to refuse his help, but then her lip trembled and she dissolved into more tears. There was nothing for it. Virbius fell to his knees beside her and gathered the weeping girl into his arms, holding her close—it wouldn’t do to bring the furies back again. “It was dreadful,” she cried into his chest. “I will never, ever recover!”

  He swept her hair back from her face, unsure how to comfort her. The shades, furies, and other monstrosities pouring from Hades were dreadful to contend with, even for a grown man, and since Affry allowed herself to lose control so frequently, the incidents were fast becoming a nuisance. “The problem, dear Affry, is your passion. If you could somehow contain it.”

  She stilled at his words. Virbius felt some surprise. Had his touch calmed her? He felt her heart beat a familiar pattern against his and he tried not crave the feel of it.

  Taking a few deep breaths, she sighed out her resignation. “Yes,” she whispered and her face ran into his chin when she lifted her eyes to peer into his. Her lips were so close to his. “But he was so wonderful,” she said, “so perfect. What have I done to make him hate me so?”

  It took Virbius a moment to realize she was talking about her little adventure in the ballroom. Affry faced the bitter torments sent from Hades and she could only think of Piri? “That young scapegrace?” Virbius felt nothing but bitterness at the remembrance of her former swain’s irritating laugh. “You’ve been dallying with the humans far too much. What would your mother say?”

  Affry’s eyes glinted with hurt and anger. “She did it! She dallied, she paraded.” Affry let out a sob, “and she loved.”

  Virbius sighed inwardly. The intrigues of the gods would set society’s tongues awagging. “Your father was hardly mortal, Affry.” He was Persephone’s adopted son.

  “Then why is he dead?” Her fingers left his coat. “And why this?” She gestured at the casks of wine. “Why taint us with trade? I could have been a diamond of the first water!”

  “The same reason I’m not a king, but a mere marquess. Obscurity. I’ve been sent to keep an eye on society, not vanquish it. I am much too busy with war to entertain a mass of invitations for your hand.”

  “I want a season!”

  Virbius extricated himself from her, rocking back on h
is knees to face her. “Believe me, dearling, where curses are concerned, you have no room for complaint.” Dying under a herd of trampling bulls could give her some perspective. “I don’t have the patience to dabble in these little games society wishes you to play.”

  “Of course not. You concern yourself with nothing. Put yourself in my shoes a moment!”

  “I fear they’d fit very ill.”

  “You are purposely being obtuse! You are titled and a man; the world loves you.”

  She deserved to be teased for that. “Do you?”

  Her cheeks reddened. “Most of the world,” she hurriedly corrected. “Not me.” She avoided his eyes, her fingers twisting the silk fabric of her gown. “London has yet to see the real Affry. I plan to set the ton on its ear!”

  He studied her lovely eyes—they still watered over, but there was an anger that set them almost to boiling. She was so like her mother—passionate, caring little for the consequences. He must remember that. It made her dangerous. “What are you planning?” he asked.

  “I want my revenge.”

  What would Affry think if she knew Virbius was the victim of her mother’s revenge? With difficulty, he kept the revulsion he felt from leaking into his expression. “Your aunt’s Christmas entertainment will last several days. These guests will be sleeping in the same halls as we—as much as I loathe it, we are stuck with present company. The best thing for you would be to go back to the party and show Piri your unconcerned face.”

  “Yes,” she said, as if considering his words. “I believe I shall.” He grew uneasy when he saw the mischief dance across her features. Her chin took on a determined tilt. “I will face them all.”

  Fiend take it. How did she manage to misinterpret everything he said? “Affry, I absolutely forbid you to have anything to do with Piri or his friends. I saw he introduced you to the earl—I know his sort. He’s bored with life and takes vicious pleasure in ruining young innocents.”

  The fire in her cheeks flamed even brighter. “Don’t mother hen me. I handled him quite nicely.”

  What a regular hum—did she expect him to believe that? Of all of Piri’s friends, he distrusted the earl the most. The look the man had given Affry at the refreshment tables made him want to plant him a facer. “Truly Affry, if that silly widgeon of a companion doesn’t take you in hand, I will.”

  “Aunty Euthymia knows I am of age to take care of myself. I’m not a child!” She tossed her head back, causing her curls to fall freely against her back. “Ah Zeus, Virbius, now you are back to scowling.”

  His lips tightened, and with difficulty he kept a firm rein on his temper. “If it is social standing that you seek, Affry, at least allow me help you with that.”

  “And how will you help me? You, who freely admit that obscurity is your virtue?”

  “I’ll be seen with you…though not coming from the cellar,” he allowed with dry humor. “Imagine me being alone with a mere chit from the schoolroom? You’d be compromised.”

  Affry cocked a brow. “Indeed, my lord, it would be most unbecoming.”

  He choked back a laugh at the irony of it all—here he was resurrected two thousand years after his death and society was more confined than ever. “If anyone catches us talking alone here, it would be all over the papers in a week. And you in your disheveled state? They’ll insist we marry, posthaste.”

  She murmured something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like she doubted it. He barked out a laugh. “What was that?”

  “They should know you’re too much of a stuffed shirt to take such liberties with me. Do I really tempt you so little?” Her hand found his under the candlelight.

  He shot to his feet, nearly running his head into the rafters of the low ceiling. A smile tugged at her lips. “Have a care for your elders,” he choked out, “or Hera will turn you into a constellation.”

  That earned him an expressive eye roll. “Don’t try to fob me off. You are only five years my senior.” She held her hand out to him and when he refused to take it, said. “Virbius, it won’t turn you to stone. I merely need your assistance to stand.”

  Feeling decidedly out of sorts, Virbius found her fingers and brought her to her feet. Her dress swished behind her. The candlelight colored her creamy complexion gold. The sight was breathtaking. Her hand tightened over his, and looking down at their entwined fingers, he realized he had no desire to let her go.

  Her next words surprised him. “I will most assuredly find love with or without your help, Virbius.”

  Virbius pulled away, and letting out a breath, snapped his gloves on again. “Then pray do it without causing another scene.” Though his spirits felt decidedly low of a sudden, perhaps he had staved off another disaster—even if it meant a long and tedious night ahead. “I will meet you in the ballroom,” he said with a curt nod. “I’m off to face the gorgons.”

  She cocked her head in confusion a moment. “Ah yes, those old gossipmongers. Do be sure to impart a sweet kiss on each of their cheeks for me.”

  “Ah Zeus,” he muttered.

  “Save your prayers. The supreme god of all doesn’t care for you. He’d rather we didn’t pollute his world with our presence.”

  He allowed himself a crooked smile in return. “Take it as you will, Affry, just another reminder that we don’t belong here.”

  Her lashes lowered over her eyes, but not in time to conceal a spark of irritation. “As always, you are correct, my lord.”

  Virbius gave her another quick nod and escaped the dazzling incomparable that was Affry, taking two cellar stairs at a time so he could escape to the kitchen all the faster. It was all he could do not to declare his feelings toward his own ward. It must be that Aphrodite’s daughter held some remnant of her mother’s power—nothing more. Though Affry had the privilege of growing up in this world of pretty manners and rules, she was still in essence, a demigod. Receiving this assignment was testing his firm resolve against love. Virbius turned the corner to reach the staircase from the servant’s quarters. The servants scurried out of his way.

  If titled gentleman weren’t generally seen below stairs, the servants would be even more intrigued to see Affry hurrying after him with a torn dress. Virbius hoped she’d have the sense to put her hair back up—if not she’d cause yet another scandal.

  Considering this world meant nothing to him, he couldn’t bring himself to care about society’s opinion of any of them, but he knew Euthymia would be livid.

  Chapter Nine

  Affry was just putting the finishing touches to her hair near the grand staircase when Aunt Euthymia quite suddenly enveloped her in a warm embrace—putting her hair out of sorts again. “Oh, my dear sweetling. At last I found you. Virbius said you were hidden away in the cellar of all places…and,” she lowered her voice to a harsh whisper that anyone would overhear, “that you had another of your incidents!”

  Her aunt’s eyes traveled the length of her once flawless ball gown. “Virbius noted a torn flounce. Your maid is a marvel with the needle. If she . . .” her words cut off with a sharp intake of breath. Affry’s eyes followed hers and she flushed when she realized the white silk she wore was stained with dirt and blood. “Oh dear. Oh dear.” Euthymia shook her head. “No, this is just not the thing.”

  The worst damage was over her trim waist where the tentacles had manhandled her—but to enter the ballroom in a different dress? It wasn’t done. Euthymia’s quick fingers went to her turban and she unwound it from her head, her graying red hair a riot of curls beneath it. “Here, my love, we shall tie this material around your waist like a sash. It will cover up the blood at the very least.”

  Affry sucked in her breath as her aunt tied it smartly around her. Somehow the cool touch from Euthymia’s fingers soothed her wounds. “Very fetching,” her aunt said. “I quite like the look of it. I vow you’ll start a fashion.” Without further ado, Euthymia tugged her niece away from the foyer. “Now, my love. Retire to the cloakroom with me. We will put you together
again. I sent for your lady’s maid. No one shall know the better once Sarah is through with you.”

  Aunt Euthymia hurried her past the large drawing room. Affry peered through the grand French windows, seeing it now snowed in earnest outside. Her aunt tsked and shook her head at the downpour. “I do wish it would not turn to a blizzard. Your dear cousin Mia will have a poor time traveling through such weather.”

  “You know what the marquess would say of that,” Affry countered, “—the two do not deal well together.”

  “No, no, they do not,” Euthymia mourned. “More’s the pity.” She waved a staying hand meant to cut off Affry’s warnings. “Virbius will be in one of his moods when she comes, but she will be just the thing. He will see. The sweet girl will not fail me—I daresay—I know the gel as well as myself.”

  Affry sighed. Virbius had a deep and abiding suspicion of her cousin—more so because Mia’s entrances were nothing short of miraculous; she was always inexplicably on hand when one needed her most and always knew more than she should. Affry suspected Virbius’s dislike was mostly due to Mia being more overbearing than he was. The man’s tirades brought Affry to bored tears, and yet there were times… Affry remembered his strong hand on hers when he helped her from the cellar floor—his attempts to wipe away her tears, his warm fingers in her hair. She blushed at the turn of her thoughts, remembering where they had gotten her with Piri.

  Euthymia ushered Affry into the cloakroom where they were met by Affry’s abigail. Though of an age as Affry, Sarah was of sturdier disposition. She was a freckled brunette of good Welsh descent who had hair pins and needles aplenty to stave off any disaster. Her hair was coifed neatly into a bun at the back of her head—a little mobcap hiding the abundance of ringlets that escaped from it. “Oh milady,” she cried at seeing the torn flounce. “Your beautiful gown. This ‘twasn’t the work of some scoundrel, I hope?”