by Sophie Avett
And some people wondered why he didn't run home for family functions.
Marshall plucked the skeletal letter opener off his desk and sliced open the yellow envelope. Well, if that bloody tree-hugger could manage day in and day out beneath Hill's iron-wrought will, he’d surely survive a few rounds with his little wisp of a sister unscathed.
“They’re people!” Christopher snapped, outraged. “How can you—”
“It is the simple balance of nature. Call it an ecosystem. Or the food chain. It’s just nature.” She held out her nails, inspecting them with aberrant boredom. “For goodness sake, those people are our food.”
Marshall’s annoyance deepened into a frown as he plucked a pair of tickets out of the large manila envelope. “Bloody hell.”
Christopher’s brow wrinkled, argument momentarily forgotten. “Where is the Wicked Witch sending you?”
“Sending you?” Cassandra parroted.
Replacing the tickets in the envelope, Marshall slanted Christopher an arched look. Thanks for that, mate. The other man winced and rubbed the back of his head.
She snatched the envelope, holding it out of her brother’s immediate reach. “Where the hell could Hill be sending you two days before Christmas?”
Marshall plucked his coat off the twisted rack and threaded his arms through the sleeves. “Mother knows I won't be home for Christmas.”
“Where are you going?” Her leering eyes fell to the envelope and he quickly tugged it from her grip.
Pocketing the tickets, he snapped his briefcase shut and collected his portfolio. “Now, now, Cassandra, my precious, that’s none of your business.”
She slid into his path, blocking his exit. “You can't miss Christmas.”
“Why not? You're going to. Isn’t that what mother’s little tirade was all about?” He draped his tie about his shoulders and pulled the zipper, silver spokes aligning the only sound in the glass box perched over the city. “Besides, what on earth do a bunch of vampires and demons know about Christmas anyways? Ridiculous. All of it.”
Christmas at the Wingates’ was Hell away from Hell. It was a tacky little tradition barely hanging on the garbled boughs of that wretched little fir his mother insisted on pulling out year after year. He had work to do. He tried to slide past Cassandra, but she firmly barricaded him.
“I’m not missing Christmas, Marshall. I just said so to annoy Mother.”
Women. He frowned. “I will never understand, will I?”
Taking a tentative step toward the conversation, Christopher cleared his throat. “If I may, Christmas is a time for—”
“Shut up,” the siblings barked in unison.
He threw up his hands in supplication. “Fine.”
Cassandra jabbed a sharp nail into her brother’s chest. “You cannot leave me in Wingate castle all by myself with Mother.” He opened his mouth to assure her she would be just fine, but she quickly added, “I will kill her.”
Marshall tilted his head. And then, there’s that… Putting it out of his mind, he shrugged and attempted to stalk past her. She blocked his advance. He sidled to the right, and she matched his step. To the left, and she followed once more.
His mind turned back the hand of time, aging the woman before him backwards until her lithe curves softened and she sank into the wisp of a girl she'd been so many years ago. Brilliant mischievous eyes and two thick braids kissing down her shoulders. She was always so rotten in those powder crimson dresses. “Move, snack.”
“You,” she snarled at Christopher. “Get out.”
Christopher opened his mouth as if to correct her rudeness, but seemed to remember himself and his place on the vampire hierarchy.
Vampires existed in slavery, or so that is how it had been explained to the siblings many years ago. It was an accurate comparison with narrow differences. Cassandra and the born vampires—purebloods—like her ruled the clans with a vise grip. Even for a relatively menial and unconnected “turned” vampire like Christopher, it simply wasn’t prudent to get on a pureblood’s bad side. They couldn’t just rip out your jugular anymore, they could sink their fangs into your mortgage, blacklist you from ever working in one of Dante’s cities again. They rendered some unfortunate souls as outcasts, and either exiled them or forced them to live amongst the human ilk in secret.
The door swished shut, punctuating Christopher’s abrupt exit.
His sister turned her glowering eyes upon him. But for the stern set in his mother's chiseled face, which itself had stood against the hand of time, they could be twins in spirit and in beauty. Their kinship ended there. And where the gyre widened between mother and daughter, it narrowed between half-sister and brother.
Marshall sighed heavily. “What, sister?”
She studied his expression and he peered back from the awning of his defenses. What was she looking for? Finally, she smiled. A whole smile. One that lit up her face, showing a brilliant white line of even teeth and fang, and all the wonder and zeal she still managed to cling to even after what felt like eternity. “Aren't you curious what I got you for Christmas?” she asked.
“I await on bated breath.” He brushed the back of his knuckles down the curve of her cheek and flicked a large coffee curl off her shoulder. “I like your blonde better.”
“I know.” Her eyes fell to his collar. She unfolded her arms and set about straightening his tie. “Is this about him?” Her eyebrow quirked in annoyance as she re-threaded the lapels, muttering under her breath. Her disinterest was feigned. She was watching him. A predator was ever vigilant of everything in the breadth of its scope.
He raked a careless hand through his hair. “Between you and Mother, one would think the moon rose and fell on Henry Ansley.”
“It used to…for you.”
She wisely kept her attention on the task at hand as Marshall's spine straightened like a springboard poised to snap.
“He's contacted me once or twice. Trying to get through to you.” She glanced up at him through her thick lashes. “He says he cares for you, Marshall.”
“He says a great many things.”
“He says,” she pulled a fraction harder than needed, “that the Reaping Hour is very near. That he can hear the bells and banshees coming for him. That his only living son should be heir to his titles and business holdings.”
Marshall covered her hands with his, gently squeezing a command to cease her ministrations. “I've heard it all.”
“But, brother—”
“Enough, Cassie.”
“We could get it all.” She looked away stiffly at the sight of his scowl. “You could get it all,” she corrected.
“I don’t want his money, Cassandra.”
She clutched his hand. “After what he did? To Mother. To you?” She blinked away a line of angry tears. “After the years of humiliation…” She swatted at her face, rushing to dispel any sign of imperfection.
Marshall plucked a tissue out of the box on his desk and brushed the Kleenex across the soft curve of her marble cheek. “I will have it all…on my own.” He brushed a kiss on the corner of her frown. “Merry Christmas, sister.”
“And to you, sweet brother.” She held on fast until the last of his slender fingers slipped through hers and he disappeared through the glass door.
Chapter Four
“It doesn't work.”
Elsa nearly crossed her eyes trying to focus on the little green vial hovering inches away from her face. “Uh…” She pulled back and squinted at the chicken scratch on the shiny black label. “Beast in a Bottle.”
“Indeed.” The crone slammed the vial down on the countertop with a surprising amount of force. “I purchased this draught not two moons ago and it doesn't work.” Her hands shook from frailty as she reached down the front of her pink floral button up and brandished a skinny gold chain with a gleaming pentacle.
It was an old star. And it bespoke a powerful, ancient art that scarcely found its way out of the library into the light. Whisper
s of magic flowed through the air as tension pulled the old woman's knobby bones stiff. “I will not be swindled.”
It was unusual Elsa should meet another creature with her rare ability to see between the lines of reality, past glamours. She tried to place the witch, her eyes dropping down to the vial. Beast in a Bottle. She wondered what poor fool had turned the beggar from his door this time.
Elsa cradled her amulet. “That is unwise, storymaven.”
The crone gazed down her hook-nose at Elsa’s charm and her beady black eyes narrowed with interest. Magic still hung like a misty cloak of protection around the woman, but it had dimmed in intent. At the leisure the elderly often felt they'd long ago earned, she studied Elsa, and the witch gritted her teeth against the uncomfortable tickle of feeling like an alchemy experiment beneath her scrutiny.
Finally, the old crone dropped her hand to her side. “I merely want what is owed to me.”
Elsa pushed the vial across the counter. “Understandable, but I cannot help you, witch.”
The crone's pinched mouth flattened. “Oh? And why is that?”
“I did not sell you this vial.”
“Nonsense.” She snorted and tapped her temple. “I remember it perfectly.”
Elsa opened her mouth to argue, but the decrepit antique phone next to the register rattled on its hook.
Ring, ring!
“A moment, witch.” Elsa held up a finger, effectively shushing her client, and snatched up the phone. “What?”
“Season’s Greetings, pebble.” Gretchen Karr’s craggy voice had an icy quality about it. Not quite the wet drip of an icicle. Drier. Like frostbite.
“Season’s Greetings to you, Ma.”
“I got your message. What’s this about you traveling this winter? It isn’t safe to travel, you know. You’ll fall up into that sky one day, I swear it.”
Squishing the phone between her ear and shoulder, she swiped some stray coins off the counter into her palm. “Didn't you listen to the whole message?”
“Who is this boy? This Marshall fellow?”
She deposited the coins in the register and bumped it shut with her hip. “The tenant renting the flat above Da's shop, remember?”
“Ah, yes. The skinny one?” She smacked her lips together. “A bit dandy for my appetites. But if he makes you happy, pebble. It has been a bitter winter since I've seen you so.”
Elsa frowned. “That isn’t what this trip is about. He will help me save Da's shop if I—”
“Do as you wish on the matter.”
“Ma, if you would but—”
“Speak no more to me of that heathen's haunt, child.”
Elsa’s jaw clenched, but she held her tongue. It was a battle she couldn’t win. Her mother wasn’t a difficult woman by definition, but there was a righteous quirk in her spine and a devotion to tradition that ran as deep as Yggdrasil’s roots. Bjorn had not been forgiven in this life. And there was little hope he’d find forgiveness in the next.
“You squander the magic of that amulet on foolish pursuits, Elsa. Turn your thoughts from your father and his miserable failed dreams, and focus efforts toward the future.”
Broken record. Elsa pressed her fingers to her temple. “This shop is my future, Ma.”
“And what of a mate? A child?” Her mother's voice cracked. “Am I to never know the patter of small feet across the stone again? Will you never return to the Veil and take your rightful place in our House?”
“Magic isn’t my only skill.” Elsa snatched up a small crate to stock the mantel above the hearth. “And the mate…” She scraped her nail across the simple white label. “If I shame you, I am sorry.”
“You shame yourself, Elsa.”
She set the vial amongst the others. “I know.”
Elsa’s senses tingled, her back warming with the strangest sensation of being watched. Like a bug. She chanced a slow look over her shoulder to find the crone standing with arms crossed over her chest. Beady eyes bored into her. Her face folded into a thousand wrinkles as she frowned and snapped her fingers, exponentially multiplying Elsa’s sudden urge to wrap her hands around the skinny little neck.
“Ma, there’s someone here at the shop—”
“Make sure to pack your good wool sweater. The red one you hate so much—ah, I don’t want to hear it. Jokul can say what he wants, but he’s a tempest this year.”
“Fortune and good health, Ma.”
“May Frigga keep you ever in her sights, pebble.”
Elsa hung up the phone and braced herself on the mantel, staring at the fire sizzling, gnawing the logs down into ash.
“Well?” The crone slammed the potion on the counter like a gauntlet. “Are we going to talk about this vial or not?”
Elsa’s shoulders bunched and she opened her mouth.
“Well, what?” Ingrid interrupted, rising from the trap door between the counter and the hearth in a swish of black taffeta. Looped through her arm was at least a half dozen dresses from the back of Elsa’s closet.
Is that my First Sabbath dress? Elsa pointed to the garments. “Your purpose, huldra?”
The huldra’s theatrical zebra heels clacked across the wood as she held up one of her prizes for inspection. “I'm helping you pack,” she explained. The swath of ghost white fabric would skim across her hips and fall in an asymmetrical fishtail of fluid cotton. It was her mother’s.
Gretchen had given it to her daughter to wear on her first date. Elsa's stomach folded in on itself as her mind peeled back the barrier she kept between herself and that time in her life.
Memory of the scent of pine, freshly churned earth, and the wet smoke of thick fog. Stars hanging like a smattering of pendants in an indigo sky. Everything was blue. Even the mountains peering into the lake. Water lapping at the soft bank, shaking the cattails. Wet cotton against her ankles. Hand threaded in hand, leading her to warmth. Mouth against mouth. A promise.
Ingrid touched her hand. “Elsa, my love?”
Elsa blinked, finding herself in the stark present. Months ago such memories would've left a terrible benediction of desperation, heartache, and anger in its wake. Now, it left only anger. Well, mostly anger.
“That dress…” she ground out between clenched teeth. “Put it back, huldra.”
Ingrid waved her off, holding the garment up for closer inspection. “Nonsense. It's perfect. I can already picture what he'll say when he sees—”
“Who?” Slowly fading into existence, Fenris padded across the oak table and stole a seat on top of an old stack of folded living tapestries. His ears twitched as he gave the dress a sidelong once over. “Terrible.”
“Shut up, cat,” they said.
The crone coughed, a terrible cackling noise. “About my vial?”
“Yes, about your vial,” Elsa snapped. “I did not sell you this vial.” The crone opened her mouth to speak, and she held up her hand. “Press me further and find yourself beyond the help of your little magic twig.”
The crone’s eyes waned into vicious slits and she smiled, baring sharp silver sewing needles for teeth. She snapped her fingers and a gnarled ebony wand materialized in the palm of her skeleton hand. “Shall I attempt to pen the end to your tragedy? True, it is not your time to die, but we’ll just call it a plot twist.”
The air quickened with the threat of violence, magic siphoning between the two witches at an increasingly alarming rate. It was the storm before the calm, and it was all very fresh. Too fresh. Her mind flashed to the were in the alley and her grip tightened about her amulet. Had everyone gone mad?
Ingrid lifted the dress, holding it as if she were inspecting the seams keeping it together. Swirls of briar and reedy poisonous vines crawled to life beneath the thinnest layer of her creamy skin. “If I get any blood on my new shoes,” she hummed, “I will be very upset.”
The spectral bell illusion hanging over the shop’s front door jingled.
“Am I too late?” Marshall's cool brand of charm doused the tension.
“Surely there is hope for a happy ending still?”
All three women—the cat, too—stopped to watch him cross the distance with long purposeful strides. The trench from yesterday had been replaced with a long black Van Helsing duster. Fresh from work, he was still the picture of elegance in a tailored gray suit that contrasted wonderfully against his pale eyes.
They sparkled with male humor as if he was well aware he’d single-handedly rendered three intelligent woman into staring ninnies and he’d barely even batted his eyelashes. She huffed. How dare he just swoop in on her with his charm and good looks and expect everything to bend his direction. He captured the crone’s knotted hand and a smooth charming smile played across his lips, dimpling his cheeks. “What can we do for you here at Bits and Pieces?”
The elder recovered her slack expression. “Who are you?”
“Marshall. Whom do I have the pleasure of speaking with?”
“Mrs. Potts.” Her gaze lingered on his handsome face, and he waited with the patience of the dead until she let out a small sigh and gave into the snake’s charm. She waved a bony hand at Elsa. “You can start by telling this—”
“Lovely young woman.” Ingrid cycled to study a terrible pink sun dress.
“Indeed.” The crone’s wrinkled mouth flattened. “You can start by telling her the potion she sold me doesn’t work.”
He grabbed the vial in question and took the crone’s small hand in his. All warm eyes, cool smiles, and affable charm. “This one?” He tilted the bottle in her direction. “Well, you see, Mrs. Potts, it says right here on the label, The Briar.”
She patted his shoulder, “One second, dear.” A pair of spectacles materialized in place of the wand and she pinched them onto the bridge of her nose. Beady eyes blinked behind vintage black, winged-framed glasses. She read the bottle. “Well, it does.”
Ingrid tugged at Elsa's elbow, walking them back until their thighs hit the displays nestled on the other side of the hearth. She leaned over and whispered, “Well, isn’t he a tall bite to drink.”
“I doubt his fiancée would say so.”