by Sophie Avett
She snorted. “Don’t count on it, vampire.”
Frozenhearth was an ice crystal castle with shining walls and a cathedral ceiling. Blue will o’ wisps and frost crystals coated the branches of skeletal trees. It was like stumbling into a fairy burrow in the middle of a bracing arctic. The restaurant was terraced, the ground level opening to a grand ballroom.
Music was usually just noise to her, punctuated by periods of irritating vibrations. This music was different. It was the tinkling sound of frost falling from the sky. The hum of the Northern wind, entwined with a sweet fey hymn. Ringing and strangely mesmerizing, the melody drifted from the orchestra arranged neatly on the platform hovering above the dancers slow waltzing on a cloud of powder blue smoke and snow.
Marshall guided her up the icy steps to the restaurant. The space was dominated by a massive hearth. Cobalt blue flame licked at spectral logs, warming the room. Wood smoke sticking to the back of her throat like the fresh burning aftertaste of mint. More creatures and men locked in battle sculpted into the walls like wallpaper extended on either side of the massive fireplace.
The towering ice golem led them through a sea of elegant settings. Crimson, berry red tablecloths layered across gold mantels. Sparkling goblets and fine, gleaming dishes beneath crystal hanging lights. The room actually sparkled. Patrons lifted their glasses and the glittering sea of dishes rippled like mermaid scales.
Suddenly, she wanted everything. She wanted the jewels hanging from that witch’s neck. The shiny gold forks and that vampire’s long mane of gold hair. She wanted it all. All of it. It should be hers. She should take it. Like bloodlust, Greed crawled and rolled like black sludge in her veins and clogged her throat. Elsa swallowed hard, her fingers stiffening around the vampire’s arm as she forced her gaze to the floor.
Blood pounded in her ears. She was sweating. Her heart was jackhammering in her chest. Greed was the perversion of desire, the curse of her people, and it felt like drowning. Elsa managed to keep her feet moving and her true form from bursting through the seams of her flesh by sheer force of will and years of tireless practice. Forcing herself to the task at hand, she lifted her eyes, pointedly ignoring anything but the valley of faces, and murmured an incantation.
Arcane stripes flared to life, mahogany, lime green, sky blue, yellow—the room became awash in a smattering of color, sending a rainbow of lights dancing across the crystal spiked ceiling. But no—there was no fey that matched Marshall’s description of Madame Mari.
The scent of food assaulted her next. Regular foods like the sculptures of fruit, fresh baked Italian bread smeared with rosemary butter, and sizzling garlic steaks. And other, more delicate items—a platter of goblin fingers, minotaur on a roasted spit, and the occasional moaning “live” human banded to a buffet table for vampires. And all Elsa could manage to care about was the waiter rolling a serving cart of pastries across her path.
Her stomach flipped, folding in on itself with a pang of hunger.
The ice wraith led them to a bistro table for two in an intimate curve of the center platform. Instead of another red and cream tablecloth, these linens were lined with gold triming and in the center stood a beautiful arrangement of roses gleaming with allure beneath a glass cover.
“Your table,” howled the wraith. “Satisfactory?”
Gazing at the honey-dewed velvet petals, Elsa curled her fingers into her palm. “It will suffice.”
“Wonderful. If I may, Ms. Karr?” She glanced behind herself where Marshall stood, his hands anchored on the back of one of the shimmering high-backed chairs.
She pursed her mouth. “Are you serious?”
He eased the chair out. “Quite.”
“Fine.” She plopped down as he pushed in her seat.
An odd little tremor of excitement danced across her skin like fire. Would he pull out any woman’s chair? Probably. He seemed very capable of manipulating the female gender at his will. Perhaps his gentlemanly manners were simply part of his charm, a predatory mechanism fashioned to draw in prey. Or perhaps it was all part of the charade. She hoped it was neither. She hoped he was only this polite with her. She hoped he was a merciless cad with everyone else. She wanted to be the only one he tucked his claws away to touch. Wishful thinking of course, given how she’d reacted earlier.
Elsa stifled another hot wave of embarrassment. Her stole was pulled from around her neck, soft fur brushing across her bare shoulders, and her hand flew to her throat.
Entrusting the short fur cape to the wraith, Marshall nodded toward the amulet resting on her breasts. “I assure you I’ve learned my lesson, Ms. Karr.”
Polite and bitter.
Good. Let them both be reminded that regardless of how he dressed her up in this frivolity, she was still a monster. If Marshall ever did find out just what she looked like when the lights went out, he’d never look at her again. And that was okay. She didn’t need him. She didn’t need any man. All she needed was a roof over her head and peace of mind. Both of which were the only reasons she hadn’t stomped this vampire down six feet under. Yes, they’d both do well to remember that.
Marshall brazenly brushed the back of his knuckles against her naked shoulder. “Would you like to see the wine selection, Elsa?”
It was not warmth beating at her back with every second he lingered. He was a creature of the shade. It was the icy hot of guilty pleasure. Determined to ignore the way his presence blistered her skin, she snatched her napkin off the table and stuffed the corner in her corset. “No,” she snapped.
“Very well.” He didn’t offer more beyond that. Marshall dismissed the wraith to the coat closet and rounded the table. The lorelei from earlier herded another party to a nearby setup and even she couldn't help but sneak an appreciative glance in Marshall’s direction as he sank into his seat with languid leisure. As a matter of fact…
Elsa took note of the leering and appreciative eyes drawn toward the vampire like a magnet. If he noticed, he didn’t show it. Good. She bit the inside of her cheek as jealousy brandished its wicked edge. He did not belong to her. He could not belong to her. And would never want to.
Palming her amulet, she pulled her protective cocoon of apathy around her shoulders and waited until they received their menus and their comely fand waitress had left them before she lifted her chin. “Many apologies for my behavior earlier.” He glanced up from his menu with interest, but otherwise didn’t betray a single emotion. “I was…startled,” she finished awkwardly.
He lowered his attention back to his menu. “Are you hungry?”
“No,” she lied.
Snapping the binder shut, he set the menu on the plate and stood. “Let us show off how absolutely luscious you look.”
Her gaze flitted to the storm of dancers below them, her fingers digging into the stitched leather. “I don’t know how to dance.”
Marshall dwarfed her in a chilly shadow. “That won’t be a problem.”
Elsa tried to swallow, but found her mouth dry. Marshall extended his hand toward her, his eyes narrowing in unspoken demand. She bristled with annoyance, but after her display earlier, she didn’t think she had much room to argue without losing too much of the higher ground. His palm beckoned and she blinked to clear the image of the last dark creature to dance with her.
Liam could rot.
Marshall wordlessly led her through a throng of monsters, down the steps and into the cloud covering the obelisk dance floor. Dancing had never been her forte, but she enjoyed it on occasion. That being said, she knew nothing of the waltz.
Among the monsters was a fey couple, gliding around in each other’s arms. Maroon spectral wings fanned from his back, her airy gown sparkling every time she extended her leg. Back bent and arms up as her partner guided her around in an effortless spin. Exquisite figures. The other dancers were following their lead. The entire pot of monsters being lulled and whisked. Bewitched into mimicking their lifts and ballerina poses. Drifting between light and shade. His arms the f
rame. Her body the delicate picture.
Magic tickled along her ankles and Elsa shuffled, murmuring an incantation. Spectral particles of blue and green were scattered across the cloud, the enchantment glittered like a strobe laser grid. Her gaze roved to the edges of the dance floor where she was sure she would find crystals marking a fairy circle. Sorcery wrapped around her legs. The hairs on the back of Elsa’s neck rose and she opened her mouth in protest.
“I don’t think—” She managed a whisper before Marshall slid his right arm about her waist, his palm resting on the small of her back.
“Don’t think,” he whispered, his eyes glowing hot and bright beneath the moonlight illuminating the dancers from no discernible source. Elsa’s feet carried her closer, the front of her skirt pressing against his legs, his shoes covered by her hem. Energy whispered across her skin, working itself up the abrasive lace sleeves. Aided by the enchantment, her hand glided up his sleeve to his left shoulder. Their other hands clasped together, pressed against their chests. A close, intimate hold.
Her breath was trapped and she couldn’t bring herself to exhale for fear of shattering a dream. And then they were off, swept away by the magic. Dancing, circling, and twirling in an effortless romantic spiral that rose and fell like the gentle swell of the sweetest, most sinister tide.
Their gazes lingered for a moment. And then, he turned his cheek, lifting his chin and leaning out of the embrace as he maneuvered the hands clasped against his chest into a more traditional hold, shoulder height. Rigid. Formal. The world reeled around her and she squeezed her eyes shut, her mouth drawing into a firm line. Every turn became a whiplash, every sway a sharp tug. The balls of her feet ached, and a queasy slither rumbled through her stomach. She tried to wiggle her fingers free, itching to feel her talisman’s weight in her palm.
“It seems I was right. You have attracted some attention.”
Elsa followed the general direction of his gaze to a small group of witches who appeared to be watching them from the sidelines. Their scrutiny crawled across her skin like spooked spiders and she flushed with embarrassment. “My apologies.”
“Don’t apologize. This is the type of attention we want.” He swung her out, and then coaxed her to spin back into his arms. “Though, if were are going to broach the subject of apologies, I would rather you didn’t waste your time on them. I’d prefer it if you practiced a little self-control and managed your temper tantrums.”
Elsa’s jaw clenched as she sank into a dip, but she wisely swallowed a retort. I suppose I’ve earned that one.
“We can’t afford for you to have one of your fits in front of Madame Mari or anyone who might know her, which is everyone. Need I remind you how important this deal is?”
His voice took a condescending edge she couldn’t abide. “I know very well how important this deal is. But remember very well, vampire, this deal could be described as a mutual favor. I don’t need you.”
“Don’t you?” He aimed hard eyes on her. “I can’t do anything about your shop if I lose my position. In its current state, how much longer do you think Bits and Pieces will survive? Six more months? And I am being generous.” A smile sickled its way from ear to ear. “And that is assuming your meager customer base doesn't suddenly move on to greener pastures.”
Was that...a threat?
Chills ran down her spine, but she refused to break her gaze away. This isn't Marshall. She didn't know where the thought had come from, but it rang true. This was a much different creature. This was the ruthless advertising executive who had gotten where he was because he'd been willing to work twice as hard. Willing to do what others wouldn’t. Willing to be ruthless past the bounds of even monster social sanctions. Theirs was a kill or be killed world. It only made sense. His expression didn't waver, and the ice emanating from his stare crystalized her to the bone.
Marshall Ansley, the vampire son of the Wingates House, the heir of Cerberus Banking and Associates, and a respected executive in the advertising world, could ruin her if he wanted to, right? He could create some kind of smear campaign against her to exact revenge. She'd heard horror stories of shop owners being run out of cities by angry mobs of monsters and humans alike for less than rumor. Pitchforks sold separately.
Well, he was mistaken—she would be no one’s prey. Never again.
Elsa ripped her arm from his, but only managed to break the hold for a moment before Marshall had caught her and gathered her back into his embrace. Chaining her to him as he dragged her through the music. Whipping them along in an effortless and terrible cyclone of fabric. “There’s that temper again. Are you really so ready to abandon our pact?”
Her throat worked, but she managed a cool reply. “I will not be threatened or bullied, vampire.”
“Don’t be so sensitive.” He spun her in a counter turn and she bent her knee, arm arcing overhead like a ballerina. “It was merely an attempt to ensure your cooperation.”
“Threatening your business partner is hardly conducive to eliciting cooperation, vampire.”
“Neither is lifting him three feet into the air when he tries to give you a pre—something.”
Present? Elsa’s eyes widened as she tried to picture the trinket. It loomed in her mind as the emotions darkening his expression came to new light. Guilt gnawed at her and she ignored her pride’s shudder, curling her clammy fingers around his. “Vampire…my apologies. You scared me.”
He maintained his steely composure, but drew her close as they skated across the floor. “Thank you for your assistance with the lorelei earlier.”
“I…”
“You what, witch?” His tone was polite, but his voice harsh and though she was only a breath away from him, she could not help but feel a tundra apart. The distance stung, smarted. And suddenly, Elsa would’ve done anything for him to look at her as he once had.
“I am alone. Always,” she said simply. “Your touch was…” she dropped her chin, “unexpected.”
He was quiet and she was thankful for that. She laid her cheek on his shoulder and closed her eyes against the pain radiating from the center of her soul, pulsing outward to freeze her fingertips. Marshall guided them around and she draped herself across his body to display however he pleased. His leg slid between hers, and she sidled backwards in a matching step. He pulled forward and she followed in a glide. She leapt and he winged her around, sure, steady hands raising her into the air. Reaching up into the moonbeams, she expelled a startled gasp as lacy snowflakes drifted onto her cheeks.
Another turn nearly brought her back to her feet—nearly. Hoisted against his torso, molded from thigh to hip, he held her off the smoke, spinning with her slowly. “Elsa…it’s his loss.”
Pretty, bittersweet words. Tasty and weak. Empty. The sentiment battered against her emotional shield, and she leaned out of his embrace. “Do you suppose the man dancing with Gwyneth tonight is saying the very same thing to her?”
His breath was warm against her throat. “Don’t presume, witch.”
“Likewise, vampire.” Elsa suppressed a shudder as they peeled into a classic waltz pose, her head and neck curving back in an elegant line as they opened their chests to the audience. She noted the witches watching her and kept her expression clear of annoyance, even managed a nice, tight nod. “Shall I go…mingle?”
“Dance with me a little longer, Elsa.” Remarkably, it rang like both a request and a command. And as Marshall drew her from the pose into another, she couldn’t find it in herself to deny her heart the thrill of dancing with him for a few more minutes. She would probably never dance again.
The silver triangle’s ringing twinkle marked their quick, light footwork. Slow shade and elegant poses lent themselves to the thrumming low notes of a piano. Time and space seemed to fall away in pieces, one ugly shard at a time. Leaving only a cloud of smoke and the man leading her through every twist and counter turn as if the magic had no effect on him, suggesting even without the charm he would’ve guided her through the d
ance with ease.
Their gazes met. Held. Blood chased the excitement singing in her veins, her entire body growing warm with it as she lost herself in the allure of the elegant creature drawing her deeper into the night.
Mashed against his chest, her breasts rose and fell in the confines of her lace bodice. His hooded eyes reached out like icy fingertips, tracing a line down the middle of her face. Over the slope of her long nose. Dragging across her berry-stained lips. His was a classical mouth, bow-shaped and full. And she was all but convinced that to sample it would be like dipping her tongue in liquid fire. Hot. Cold. Addictive.
Blood rushed to pool and lock below his belt as he watched the recognition dawn in her eyes. He searched his mind, trying to pinpoint when she’d bewitched him. Captivating. Alluring. Pure madness. He felt it coursing hotly through his veins, the lust was so potent, so thick he thought it would fracture the shadows around him in ruins.
Her mouth dropped open in subtle invitation and she curled her fingers around his as he slid his palm down the front of her thigh. He lifted her bottom half on the flat of his hand and she gracefully scissored her legs like delicate swallowtail wings.
She’d said she could not dance.
She should have said she did not want to dance again. That much was apparent. He didn’t blame her. If he wasn’t there to eat, he was there to fuck. Never did he allow himself to be so ruled by his baser desires. Never did he allow himself to care about the source of his pleasure beyond what it was. He had no business relishing the feel of her body draped across his frame to maneuver in whichever way he pleased. A canvas on which to paint any picture he liked. But then…maybe Elsa would show him his true colors. How whimsical…and ridiculous.