'Twas the Darkest Night

by Sophie Avett

  “To the Frozenhearth. I browsed through some of those brochures—it is one of the most popular restaurants on the ship.”

  She ducked the arched wingspan of a gargoyle. “How do you know she will be there?”

  Marshall glared at the beast and maneuvered her beneath his arm so she could walk in front of him. “I don’t, but it’s specifically designated for VIPs like ourselves and Madame Mari, so I figured it would be our best shot.”

  A young lioness-shifter with three small children and a cub on her hip collided with Elsa and nearly sent her spiraling into one of the decorative trees. Marshall caught her by the waist. His nearness was intoxicating—the solid wall of his chest calling her to lean back, to borrow his strength for a while. Heat simmered beneath his hold on the flare of her hips, her skin tingled, the hairs on her arms lifting. The intimate sensation grated on her nerves. She wriggled out of his embrace as he assured the woman no harm had been done.

  After a hurried apology from the stressed mother, he reached for her, and Elsa swatted his hand away. “Odin saw fit to give me two working legs.”

  Marshall's expression darkened with annoyance, but his tone retained an irritating note of polite detachment. “Is touching me really such a burden?”

  If possible, the quirk in his eyebrow marking his irritation made him all the more appealing. Gold sconces mounted on the walls illuminated the aisle between the dim store fronts, and sensual firelight infused his eyes. He opened his mouth and she held up her hand and took his arm. “Fine.”

  They sidestepped a storytelling of witches dressed in dazzling evening wear. His gaze clung to the women before it was snared by something over her shoulder. She followed his point of focus to the large leather bound tomb on display in the bookstore’s window and pressed her nose to the glass. “What?”

  “With all due respect, your outfit looks incomplete.” Seating his hands on her shoulders, he gently pulled her face from the glass and her spectral reflection came into view. “Can you do something with your hair?”

  She touched her frizzy, rope curls. “I can plait it?”

  It seemed like much more of a question than it should’ve been. But then, why was he surprised? Elsa sure as hell didn’t strike him as a woman who spent a lot of time primping over her appearance. Marshall pointed to a freestanding rack of magazines near the bookstore’s entrance. “You have magic, right? You could theoretically do something with your hair similar to what Sinister Stitches does with their dresses, right?” He plucked a cover of Story Witch from the stand and handed it to her. “Pick one.”

  Marshall pocketed his hands, waiting as she flipped through the book. True, the outfit appeared unfinished as of now, but she wore the dress well. Very well. Too well. Lust tickled a path down his spine, blood pumping to lock below his belt. His fangs thickened against his tongue and he swallowed, surprised by the intensity of his reaction to her. Nothing about their circumstances had changed since the last time he’d found himself lusting after her. She was still raw and inclined to the wrong kind of kink for him. And she was a client.

  Her allure wasn’t dulled. Not even a little. She had a strange way about her. An unhurried approach to life. She moved to the beat of her own drum in a way he couldn’t claim. Her spine was rigid to the point of breaking, but he was slowly beginning to understand that it had little to do with a lack of warmth and more to do with integrity. She was calm, quiet. A mighty mountain peering at the world from a shroud of smoke and fog. What would it be like to know that climb? To travel the expanse of her skin, skirt her narrow ridges, and cling to the swells as he chased his way higher…

  Fuck me, I sound ridiculous.

  Something no taller than a wand thumped against his calf, followed by a tiny huff and a sweet, “Sorry, sir.”

  He dropped his attention and inhaled deeply, scenting the spectral undercurrent of power pulsing around the tiny brownie girl.

  “Pretty,” she murmured, taking a bespelled step forward.

  Marshall followed her attention to the witch paging through the magazine. Elsa? What about Elsa? He studied the witch, trying to place what was so worthy of being so stricken over. Nothing, really. Well, nothing that would appeal to a small child.

  There was a ratty straw doll with a flour sack dress resting amongst the trinkets in her tiny wicker basket and his forehead knitted as he placed the child in his memory. He thought back to the small girl who was constantly being harassed by her brother. James. Jack—no, that wasn’t it. Ah, John. That’s right. John, that persistent little bastard.

  “All right.” Elsa chewed on her bottom lip as she rotated the magazine from side to side. “I’ve got it.” She slipped the booklet back in the rack and stomped past him to use the mirror acting as a backdrop in a jewelry store display. “If I look ridiculous, I will hold you accountable, vampire.”

  That was quick. Or maybe it just seemed quick to him because Gwyneth never passed up the chance to tell him she’d be ready in five minutes every half hour or so. “I have complete faith.” He pocketed his hands and peered down the slope of his nose. “Anything to add, child?”

  Snapped out of her stupor, the little brownie seedling squeaked. Big brown eyes flitted from left to right as she shuffled in her threadbare red boots. Her blonde braids and ruddy, chubby cheeks reminded him of his sister. Her grip tightened around the basket of trinkets he supposed were for sale and just when he thought she would follow her good sense and run along, she offered him a brilliant smile and offered up her basket. “Would you like to buy something?”

  He gave the basket a once over. “That depends…”

  “You won’t be disa…disa…” Her mouth dropped open, and she absentmindedly swiped a scratchy wool sleeve across the streak of snot beneath her nose.

  Children. Marshall recoiled from an internal grimace and followed her gaze to Elsa. Hands clasped together before her, her irises blossomed into a terrible, bloody shade of red. Magic zinged from her in sinister waves. His skin prickled with awareness. The little girl edged back, but her eyes twinkled with wonder. Elsa mumbled words of power, and magic infused her pale red tresses. Springing to life like angry snakes around her head, they flattened and twisted themselves into stylish buxom waves.

  Despite the novelty of the magic working before him, he was distracted by a small black enameled cross hanging from the edge of the basket. It was unique amongst the gold selection. A tiny and sturdy symbol of faith. “I’ll take that one.”

  There was a quick exchange of money, and then, a short dobie in a uniform yelled for the girl and she quickly excused herself and disappeared into the sea of legs parading down the aisle.

  “Frigga’s bloody knickers…”

  Standing at five foot, Elsa swiped at a beam overhead and barely grazed the mistletoe stapled to the beam. He wandered nearer and glanced up at the garland hanging over the doorway of the jewelry shop. “Do you want the entire thing or a single branch?”

  She flailed her arms, stretching as far as she could. “Curse Frigga and this stupid fucking flower.”

  Marshall reached up and plucked the twig free. He misjudged how close they were, because suddenly, they were way too close.

  “Many…thanks,” she offered in that gravelly purr and accepted the branch from him. She whispered an incantation and the holly snarled, floating from her palm to embed itself in her luscious waves like a barbed flower. She looked stunning. Sultry even. The dark berries accented against the jagged leaves matched her lipstick and he wondered when she’d applied the makeup. It was a dark berry gloss and he had little doubt it would leave a mark if he gave into the temptation.

  “Beautiful.” His voice sounded hoarse. “The outfit is not complete, yet. Turn around for me.” She lifted an eyebrow and he felt compelled to add, “Please.”

  Elsa’s hooded eyes brightened with interest as she slowly spun around without a word.

  Women were luscious creatures. He adored them. Their energy. So very different from that of a man. T
heir bodies so soft and warm. Pliable. And yet, he had never beheld a strip of naked neck that fascinated him more than the pale tender flesh from the curve of Elsa’s shoulder to the back of her ear.

  Elsa’s pulse danced wildly beneath her skin and saliva pooled in his mouth. What would she taste like? He didn’t normally drink blood for sustenance, but he’d feed off of her just for the chance to find out. Leaning forward, he pressed his cheek into her lazy curls. “Edible, Elsa.”

  He took a deep and appreciative whiff, relishing her scent. Goosebumps rose to life on her skin in applause and he reveled in every inch of shoulder his fingertips skimmed as he brushed her hair to the side. The platinum silver necklace burned in his grip and his mind tortured him with an image of fitting a different kind of collar around her delicious throat.

  When he got her upstairs…

  His fingers brushed her amulet’s clasp and everything screeched, screamed, then shattered. Elsa whirled around and had his neck caught in her unforgiving grip faster than even his shadows could counter. One meaty hand around the ruby, the other securely around his throat, she lifted him straight off the ground. Suddenly, he knew how the were in the Pit had felt. He found no sympathy in her glowing red eyes. His corded neck worked, painfully straining in her vise-like grip. It was uncomfortable, but he didn’t need oxygen to survive.

  “Vampire…”

  It was painful to speak, the pressure she was putting on his Adam’s apple crushing, but he managed a steady croak. “Vampire, indeed.” He flashed his fangs and caught her wrist in his grasp, his hold closing a fraction away from bone-breaking. “Put me down,” he lifted the necklace for her inspection, “now.”

  The small cross swung from his finger like a damning gauntlet, and to his surprise, her face paled and her eyes died back down to their usual cloudy green. She set him on the ground. “My apologies.”

  Marshall rubbed his neck, glowering at her. “Thank you kindly, Ms. Karr.” He glanced at the amulet and made a mental note to figure out its importance later.

  She could not seem to hold his gaze, but managed an awkward, jerky nod as she skirted backwards. “Excuse me.” Her voice was calm, surprisingly steady. She did not wait for his response. Simply turned and left him to stand in the middle of a crowd that only feigned disinterest.

  This is ridiculous.

  He watched Elsa disappear into the privy with ebbing patience. He hadn't realized catering to her every whim and mood swing would be yet another obstacle to overcome during his most recent excursion into Hell. And still, he struggled against the impulse to chase after her. He wouldn’t, of course. No vampire worth his weight in blood would. Besides, he’d done enough chasing after sobbing wrecks in high heels to last him consecutive lifetimes. He found the nearest waste bin and tossed the trinket, and then he continued on his way to the Frozenhearth by himself.

  The market area of the main deck gave way to an ostentatious bastille decorated to the baseboards in sinister seasonal cheer. A ghoulish footman in festive white and green threads pulled open the large icy crystal doors to the Frozenhearth, where the wealthy and the important would take their dinner this evening. Chill kissed the line of skin between his collar and his hairline as he stepped through the threshold and was immediately assaulted by a myriad of scents. Cigarette smoke and fairy dust, blood and human flesh with orange and raspberry sauce.

  The skeletal usher posted at the doorway courteously gestured for the vampire’s jacket and he politely declined and turned his attention to the lovely pair of aqua-blue eyes manning the hostess podium. Marshall cast his senses net, siphoning out her scent from the rest. Innate glamour, but it seemed faint. A witch of some sort, maybe. Weak, but pretty. She was overlaid by the copper after-bite of practical magic. Easy pickings.

  “Merry met, coven,” he greeted.

  She lifted her eyes from the parchment with a seating arrangement printed on it. Ice clung to her pale lashes, tiny shards smattered across the curve of her right cheek and the entirety of her forehead in a random sparkling design. Her full, pouty mouth softened and curved. “Merry met.” Her accent was thick, decadent like chocolate—the expensive French kind. “Your room number, sir vampire?”

  “1849.”

  She scanned the seating chart, flakes of sparkling dust drifting from her lashes. “Monsieur Ansley, welcome to the Frozenhearth. Your table is ready.”

  “I am not quite ready to be seated, yet.”

  She lifted her eyebrows, her eyes glittering with interest. “Non? What can I do for you then?”

  Music poured out of the orchestra arranged neatly on a solid ice platform hanging over the dining area, the grim, fairy tale notes drifting between them. Marshall expelled a puff of cool air as his mind sharpened with purpose. Leaning forward, he purposely lowered his gaze to her small bee sting of a mouth. “Your name—”

  “Isolde,” she finished, her tongue darting out to moisten her ripe lip. A thick droplet of water rolled from the crown of her head, streaking down the side of her cheek, and he gathered the bead with the tip of his finger.

  “Isolde,” he expelled a low tide of pheromones through his pores, “I am in sore need of your help.”

  “How may I serve, sir vampire?” She scraped her marine blue nail across the parchment and the silver star appliqué accenting the enamel glimmered like a wicked fish hook.

  “I was supposed to meet a business associate. I've forgotten their room number. Would you look it up for me?”

  “What's the name? I can call the room for you.”

  He pushed another low tide of pheromones. “The room number will suffice.”

  Her eyes widened and her pink mouth parted in invitation. “I'm afraid that's against the regulations, sir.”

  He gave her a harder nudge. “Surely we can make an exception this time.”

  Stormy clouds rolled into her gaze. “No, I’m afraid we cannot.”

  Something was wrong. The glamour he'd constructed caved in on itself. It hooked its fingers into his mind and tugged him forward into an abyss. Pain seared his cranium and the metallic taste of blood stung the tip of his tongue.

  Her lips parted and revealed two rows of jagged shark teeth. “You dare attempt to enthrall Us, sir vampire?” her voice took a watery note. “We will have revenge.”

  Her slender fingers crept over the wood as if she had every intention of crawling across the podium. His fangs scraped a bloody path down his bottom lip, his innate glamour coming apart at the seams as he viciously tried to free himself from her hold. Angry, electric blue webbing snared his mind like an arcane net. Fear perfumed the air and his stomach knotted as he recognized himself as the source of the stench. His throat worked as he grabbed his neck, searching in vain for her metaphysical hold. “Release…me.”

  “Forgive my companion, lorelei.” Elsa arrived at his side in that bounty of smoky fabric. A Gothic vision. Her image blurred.

  The lorelei's upper lip curled. “Never forgiveness. Never.”

  Elsa’s irises were consumed by a blood-curdling scarlet. “Hush, lorelei,” she whispered, and then chanted in a language he couldn’t readily recognize.

  It was lilting, but sturdy. Like a mixture of ancient Norse, Latin, and fey. Magic sizzled around the room, faint, but powerful. Beyond the scope of white and black. It cycled between the two women. The ocean and the mountain locked in a battle of wills over his tiny mind. His skin prickled with pins and needles, strength and feeling slowly returning until she relaxed her hooks all together. He pried them from his mind easily, taking a few steps back for good measure.

  The ire had receded completely from the lorelei’s expression. “Troldfolk,” she murmured, obviously entranced.

  Marshall stilled the tremble of relief that passed through his system as he pocketed his hands, suddenly terribly grateful to have made a friend and not an enemy out of his sweet little landlord.

  Elsa lifted her chin. “Madame Mari—the room number and table. Now, lorelei.”

  “Mad
ame Mari has elected to take supper in her rooms.”

  Elsa’s eyes flared. “And the room number?”

  The lorelei was painfully silent and Elsa seemed to read an answer in her refusal that he could not. Nodding slowly, Elsa turned to Marshall, “She is bound by a pact she made. There will be no breaking the pact without breaking her spirit.”

  Marshall’s eyes flickered to the woman and he tucked the option away for a rainy day. “Very well, Ms. Karr.”

  The vestibule doors swished open and Elsa shuddered as a pack of werewolves mushed past her to the restaurant’s main entrance. Marshall pretended not to notice as she turned back to the lorelei. “We’re finished here.”

  Marshall cleared his throat. “And we are ready to be seated.”

  “Seated?” Elsa scanned the seating chart on the podium. “There is no point. The lorelei said herself, Madame Mari is taking supper in her rooms.”

  He plucked a piece of lint off of her dress. “Talking to Madame Mari directly is not the only way to get her attention.”

  “I…” Her eyes flitted from the restaurant entrance and there was a moment when he was almost sure that she would bolt again. Turn and run, but she didn’t. She lifted her chin, the stubborn set in her shoulders giving her an air of stern mystery. “Very well, we will be seated.”

  “Right this way, Mousier and Madame Ansley.” The picture of serenity, the lorelei floated from her podium, wispy white uniform dancing about her legs as she extended an arm to show them the way. “Your table is on the center platform of the dining room.”

  An elemental in a blood red bow tie appeared at the threshold with two menus, silver snow chips for eyes tracking their every move. It beckoned in a voice that howled and whistled like a blizzard, “Follow.”

  Marshall swallowed, working the last bit of discomfort from his throat as he offered Elsa his elbow. She took it without word and snapped her fingers as they stalked past the lorelei. He caught the woman’s sobering expression from the corner of his eye as whatever spell Elsa had cast wore off. Slowly, of course. He leaned down, drawing her closer so his breath could sear the curl of her dainty ear. “One of these days, you’re going to tell me what the hell you are.”