'Twas the Darkest Night

by Sophie Avett

  “I want her to sign an advertising contract with my advertising agency. She’s famous for being reclusive. My sources know where her family will be spending Christmas this year. I need you to be my eyes. You seem to be particularly affluent with glamours and such magic.”

  Was he being serious? The shadows licked at the edge of his soles in submission, his expression smooth with patience as if he knew he sounded like a lunatic asking her to accompany him on a fool’s errand. Her greedy little brain calculated how many ways she could turn this opportunity to her favor. It wasn’t every day a marketing executive landed in her cauldron. “You wish to bargain?”

  “Indeed. I was going to offer you money in exchange for your cooperation. However, it seems you have more pressing concerns.” He pointedly looked from one end of her shop to the other. “So then I thought I would offer to purchase this store for you in full once I was made partner in my agency, which has been guaranteed to me in exchange for Madame Mari’s cooperation. You would have Bits and Pieces free and clear.”

  “And now…?”

  “And now I have thought better of what your reaction might be.” A hot, throaty chuckle rolled across the tendrils of darkness like warmth seeping through the front of her wool robe, “You are obviously an independent woman—”

  She lifted her chin. “You’ve noticed.”

  “Indeed, I have, Ms. Karr. So instead let me offer you this—I'm very good at what I do, Elsa. Do this favor for me and I will sign Bits and Pieces.”

  “You would create a marketing campaign for this shop?”

  “Bits and Pieces would have all of Mirage Agency’s resources at its disposal. Myself included.” He rose and wandered the distance between them. “I would make it my mission to make this shop thrive.”

  He spoke with conviction, utter and complete confidence in his abilities. It would be interesting to see if that pretty mouth was writing checks his delicious ass couldn’t cash.

  What if this was a trick? His request was fairly straightforward and simple enough.

  She studied the unwavering gaze watching her just as openly. No, she did not think him stupid enough to try to swindle her. And if he did…there were ways to deal with such a fool.

  Her gaze flickered toward a few of the more creative Medieval dungeon apparatuses standing ready between flour sacks stuffed with old robes and tunics.

  Unscrupulous ambition and sexy ass aside, Marshall could be just what Bits and Pieces needed to get back on its feet again.

  “And Gwyneth?” she queried, suddenly very curious where the cover girl fit into all of this.

  “Otherwise engaged, I suppose. I don't know. We are no longer intimate.” He said so matter of factly, offering no allusions as to how he felt on the matter.

  Her mind flashed with images of the woman and the tear tracks she’d seen on her face. It made sense. As of late, the ceiling tiles had been rattling with less frequency. There was less banging of slammed doors and the fervent make up that always seemed to follow it. The world above had gone kind of…silent.

  “Take the deal, you old twit.”

  “Fenris,” she hissed.

  Marshall’s eyes flitted from side to side, trying to locate the disembodied voice's origin. Silly vampire. He would see nothing until the demon wanted otherwise. An orange tabby cat materialized near a barrel of magic beans and jumped from the floor to a shelf bowing beneath the weight of grimoires, eventually sailing through the air to land nimbly on top of the glass crystal ball to Marshall’s right.

  Wrapping his tail around his dainty white paws, he unbraided and unfolded reality, releasing the silver threads of his glamour, allowing the vampire his first glimpse since his arrival.

  Marshall curved a finger beneath the kitten's soft white chin, stroking it softly. “A cat with a wolf's name?”

  Fenris let out a half-purr, half-growl, and swatted at the vampire’s finger, “A fair warning.”

  Even with supernatural speed, he didn’t evade the imp’s sharp claws. A thin, red line of blood seeped across the blunt tip of the vampire’s finger. The wound healed, flesh knitting together in seconds.

  Marshall licked his thumb clean. “What a charming familiar you have, Elsa.”

  She snorted. “Charming.”

  Marshall plucked a fresh pack of cigarettes from his pocket. “Well, do we have a deal?”

  Odin says I’ll regret this later. She stifled a sigh and nodded. “Yes.”

  Fenris pounced on the oak table, the inertia of his landing sent a few stray pages fluttering to the ground. “Is he staying for cake?”

  Elsa frowned. I will kill you, cat.

  “Cake?” Marshall’s gaze fell on what was left of her mother’s cake and he shook his head. “I don’t particularly care for sweets.” He ripped the entire sheet of cellophane off the box in one pull. “Do you have any questions?”

  “Where are we going to spend the holiday?”

  “I don’t know. I will have all the details tomorrow. Anticipate at least three nights and please be packed and prepared for departure upon my arrival.” He extended his hand. “I look forward to working with you, Ms. Karr.”

  She met his gaze, her better sense questioning whether or not it was prudent to get involved with a predator in such pretty sheep’s skin. There wasn’t a sliver of impatience among the silver flecks in his slated, snowy blue eyes. Just watchfulness. The patience of an experienced hunter. She slid her hand into his, smooth skin strange against her calloused palm. His touch was cool, but far from cold. His fingers were long, slender. Tapered like the rest of him. But there was strength in his sure grip. Subtle, but deadly.

  “The deal is struck, vampire.”

  He squeezed gently. “Good. We leave tomorrow at dusk.” He didn’t hold her hand a second longer than polite. “It’s been a pleasure, Fenris.”

  The cat arched a brow. “Leaving so soon?”

  “Hush, cat.”

  Something near Fenris’ tail caught Marshall’s eye and he wandered closer to the oak table.

  She surveyed the papers and the empty wine glass from earlier. “What?”

  He picked up the small hand-carved picture frame resting near her cauldron of pencils. “Is this your mother?”

  She shooed the cat away from her cake platter. “Yes. Why? Don’t you have a mother?”

  “She’s beautiful.” He set the frame back on the table. “You both are.”

  Elsa poked her tongue into her cheek. She wasn’t quite sure what to say to that.

  “Remember, I will come for you at dusk.” He opened the door and a snowy draft banked against the fire. “Oh, and Elsa…” he lingered, hand resting over the skull knob, “exactly what manner of creature are you?”

  Right there—the question she'd been waiting for all night. The ultimate obstacle to anything that might ever come to pass between them. Or anyone else for that matter. She lifted her chin against the bitter cold and dust filtering in from the doorway. “A monster,” she said simply. “Same as you.”

  Shadows crackled as he offered her a snippet of harsh, breathy laughter and slowly shook his head. “I very much doubt that.” He pulled the door shut, the bell punctuating his departure a faint jingle.

  Elsa stood, staring after him. Her gaze flitted to the picture frame and she snorted. “Rubbish.”

  “So…” Fenris purred and pranced from the table to a shelf of ruby red slippers. “How was the show?”

  Elsa gave her back to the door and haphazardly collected bills, bank statements, and many types of Post-its. “It was fine.”

  “See anything of interest?”

  “No.”

  The cat tsked. “I’ll be sure not to tell Ingrid you said so.”

  Elsa glared at the frosty panes as if the vampire would somehow reappear. “Do you believe that was wise?”

  Fenris’ eyes flickered with delight. “The pact or the vampire?”

  She set her jaw. “Both.”

  “You have little to lose either w
ay.” Fenris yawned, rolling over to show his downy white tummy. “Shall I fetch the grimoire?”

  “Yes.” She cradled her amulet. “Let us find out just what we are dealing with in Sir Marshall Ansley.”

  * * * *

  This was unacceptable.

  Tapping his fingers on his desk, Marshall stared at the little blue bar on his new smartphone as it uploaded his contacts. He'd gone through three phones in less than a month. Phone or no phone, monster or no monster—Hill would find him. That miserable, conniving bitch knew where he slept. The cell phone chimed and he raised his eyebrows. Don’t mock me.

  The glass square clock on the far right of his desk marked the time. Christopher was due to arrive at any moment with their tickets and he’d finally find out where this circus of a Christmas would be set. In Hell, probably. He was lucky like that.

  Marshall rubbed his temples, pressing against the throbbing vein of stress.

  If things went wrong…

  If Elsa couldn’t deliver…

  Never mind all that. Victory was an option. Death was an option. Failure was not. It was never an option. Not ever. And that had served him well over the years.

  He spun in his chair and drank in the cityscape provided by the lofty windows wrapping around the corner office

  Noire, filthy, and like Rome, New Gotham was poised on the brink of unparalleled greatness, but cursed from the start. Even the city of the damned’s black skyscrapers and pillars baring the raven crest were bright with Christmas. Red, blue, and yellow twinkling lights sparkled across the glowing concrete jungle. Thirteen stories in the air, he was well away from the bustle, his sensitive ears had long gotten used to the lullaby of the urban zoo beneath him. Car horns honking, a myriad of voices, all with different textures and motivations, bus brakes wheezing, the shuffle of hundreds of pairs of feet.

  Timekeeper, New Gotham’s giant bell tower, rang, warning the humans of curfew. Marshall’s gaze wandered across the random sampling of Bits and Pieces stock he’d instructed Elsa to have couriered to him. A pair of ruby red slippers, a jar of human molars, rakes of charms and amulets, and the face of the clock that had marked Cinderella’s last midnight. Each item was beautiful and stranger than the last. Constantly begging the question as to where Elsa managed to acquire most of her stock.

  That little witch was full of surprises. His mind took a wicked turn, and he found himself studying the memory of her curves outlined beneath the heavy wool frock she’d worn the night before. He flexed his fingers into the supple leather armrest as the tell-tale beginning of insidious cravings rumbled to life, tickling the length of his cock. It was bothersome, really. As if he had the time to indulge in such frivolity. He’d eat later.

  The glass office door swished open. “Excuse me, Mr. Ansley.” He recognized his sweet secretary’s soft-spoken words. She shuffled into the room on those respectable and hideous flats she wore for her commute to and from the office.

  Now, now—she knew better than that.

  Ava halted and scurried back to the doorway, “I’m so sorry, Mr. Ansley.”

  Marshall steepled his fingers together. “Don’t be sorry, Ava, but do explain this interruption. I am most intrigued.” She hesitated only a moment, before she seemed to gather her courage. Click, click, click… She managed even steps in the sharp stiletto heels.

  Tempting mango, sweet banana, and strawberries. Her tropical shampoo wafted over him, and he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. Perhaps he would be generous and excuse those hideous fucking shoes bracing sole on his elegant granite floors this once.

  “Mr. Ansley…” She sucked in a deep breath. “I know I agreed to work this Christmas, but I was wondering…you see, my mother and I have kind of had a hard year,” she rushed through her obviously rehearsed speech, “I would only need the morning off. I could—”

  “Ava. Come here.”

  She crept to his side, carting a meticulously arranged tea service. She placed the tray on the gargoyle side table flanking his desk without so much as a clink and picked at her bloody cuticles and severely eaten nails. He lifted an eyebrow and she gave up the fidgeting, hiding her hands behind her back.

  “Ava, Ava, Ava,” he called softly. “What would I do without you?

  Ava worried her bottom lip. “It would only be for a couple of hours, Mr. Ansley.” Her cheeks flushed, “Please, sir. My mother—”

  “—is surely a very understanding woman,” he finished sweetly. He crooked his finger, microscopic pheromones spurting into the air from behind his ears. Demonic aphrodisiac. Poor Ava. She was human. Such easy prey. Her slanted Japanese eyes hooded and her breath hitched, her thighs clenching together as she hurried to pour his tea.

  Marshall plucked his saucer from the tray and lifted the steaming cup to his lips. The water was still boiling. Bone and royal blue porcelain smoking. “You know, I appreciate your dedication,” he offered as she licked her lips hungrily.

  Marshall’s spaded tongue snaked around the rim of his cup and sizzled. “If not you, dear Ava, who would I trust to oversee all of my Christmas segments? Hmm? You know, this is our busiest time of year. Unfortunately, I’ve been called away on important business. This is your time to shine, my dear. My clients depend on me, Ava, and I depend on you.”

  Eyes dull with shimmering red lust, she fisted her simple black skirt and offered him a glimpse of the white garters she wore every day just for him. “I would do anything for you, Mr. Ansley.”

  Marshall edged her back with his shoe, “Then be a good girl and get back to work.”

  If nothing else was to be said about being part incubus, it made dealing with women a little easier. But only a little.

  On cue, the door to his office swished open.

  “Oh, please, lady vampire, you should let me tell him you’re here before you…” Ava squeaked like she remembered herself, but didn’t lower her skirt or move away until he gave her permission with a nod.

  Sharp heels struck the marble floors as his sister’s scent filtered under his nose. Spider Shine’s Pure Poison. Woody and sweet. Orange blossoms, gardenia, amber—a white floral trifecta. “Mother is a raving lunatic.”

  Tell me something I don't know… Marshall waved off his secretary. She bobbed her head and he leveled his eyes at the healing puncture wounds on her neck. Blushing, she plucked out the pencils holding up the ebony silk piled on her head and mouthed, “So sorry” as she pulled the glass door shut.

  Cassandra ripped off her gold designer sunglasses and tossed them along with four ripe shopping bags into one of the black chairs in front of his desk. “So, she calls me and leaves this hideous message on my voice mail about how I’m the vamp who stole Christmas, blah, blah. Well, I have news for that unholy marriage of a vampire and a yeti’s ass. If I’m Satan’s spawn, what exactly does that make her? Hmm?”

  His sister stalked into his office at least once a week to rant and rave about their mother. When they'd been younger, it had often amused him, given how much alike Cassandra and Moira Wingates were. Even in looks. Cassandra was the spitting image of her mother—tall, painfully slender, with marble white skin pulled taught over high cheek bones, and a firm, bow-shaped mouth.

  The crimson corset dress bound her subtle curves and willowy frame. She anchored her hands on her hips, creasing the lace layered in trim and tiers on the short skirt. “Are you listening to me?”

  “Good heavens no, sister.” Marshall sipped at his scalding tea and met her glowing violet eyes. Eyes she had so often lined with reptile tears when they'd been children. A gold fleck stood out against the swirling chilly pool of lavender, not quite the color of dusk. It was far fresher, like a crisp bite of wolfsbane.

  She lowered her gaze, her conniving mind assessing the sorry state of his desk. Stacks of papers, random product samples, folders upon folders of mock-ups, and the very large unzipped portfolio of his most recent drafts for Elsa's little shop of horrors. Leaning forward, she tapped a dragon red fingernail against his leather br
iefcase. “Where are you going in such hurry? Home?”

  Their gazes met, held for a moment. Her glossy lips curved. She looked positively maneaterish. Like mother, like daughter, in all things. “You know, I was sorry to hear about the engagement.”

  He sipped his tea. “Did a little bat whisper in your ear?”

  “You could say that.” Her nail swirled and then veered off the card stock, cutting across the glass to the frame lying face down next to the metal cylinders of pens. “Gwyneth called me. Shall I tell you what she said?”

  Glancing at the clock, Marshall abandoned his cup and plucked a satin white tie out of the desk drawer. “Spare me.”

  “Bore.”

  The door whispered open on silent hinges.

  “I brought your tickets.” Christopher strode in wearing his signature sweater vest and circular wire-framed glasses. Given he was a vampire, Marshall imagined the glasses were a token of life long past. He handed Marshall a parcel and some envelopes. “Ava told me to give you these.”

  Cassandra folded her arms. “Great, your lackey is here.”

  “You'd be mistaken, sister,” Marshall sorted through the short pile of business correspondence, “Christopher belongs to a different level of Hell entirely.”

  “Yes, well,” he laughed in a deep, jovial way, “at least you don't have to wait on her hand and foot.”

  “Yes, I know,” she turned up her delicate nose, “a vampire serving a human.” Stilettos clacked across the floor as she came to stand before him, a mighty vampiress in her own right. She brushed the ginger mop out of his eyes so he could see her. See and feel the full weight of her words. “And while the whole lamb leading the lion thing is perverse, I could almost find humor in it,” her expression waxed on a bland smile, “if it wasn't so utterly pathetic.”

  Christopher's green eyes darkened like a storm on the Irish loch. “Spoken like a creature who has never worn a lamb's wool.”

  “Don't be obscene.” She rolled her eyes dismissively. “I was born a vampire. You, and others like you, were merely turned. You're a byproduct of my lunch. What is left in the wrapper after I've had my fill.”