by Sophie Avett
But as she lay there, she realized that she was in absolutely no hurry. Her bones were warm with satisfaction and she rolled over like a kitten with a belly full of milk. Lying supine, arms flat at his sides, his disheveled hair sticking every which way, Marshall slept like the dead. True vampires did not need oxygen to survive and neither did he, and yet, he breathed. And she forgot he was anything but the man who’d turned a cupcake into a delicious crime.
Tall, dark, alpha, he was every bit the Victorian gentlemen. And yet, he was a wolf beneath that fleece as well. So very different from Liam, or really anything she’d ever thought she’d want for herself. And never in her little cake-riddled dreams had she truly imagined she would ever wake up next to such an exquisite creature. Never imagined she would be able to hold shadows in the palm of her hand. To know that even if only for a little while, they were hers to hold.
He’d proven he knew the difference between right and wrong. He’d proven himself capable of being redeemed, if not tamed. Perhaps it was arrogant to assume she could do what Ingrid did with a kiss of her leather and her firm touch. That she could ever command a mate the way her mother had once commanded her father. It was even more arrogant to assume she could conquer this particular vampire and manage the fallout his leaving would inflict on her heart. And he would leave. Very soon. The second night was already upon them.
A crimson tear rolled down his cheek. And then, another. And another.
Elsa propped herself up on her elbow as tear after tear leaked down the curve of his cheek to wet the satin beneath his ear. Sadness flooded her chest, squeezing her heart as she reached out to catch the moisture with her index finger. “Vampire,” she whispered.
He did not answer. He did not stir. Only more tears. Unsure if he was awake or asleep, she inched closer to him, gently slipping her arm beneath his limp neck, drawing his body into an embrace so she could nestle him in the crook of her shoulder. Holding him close even as he was trapped somewhere else.
“Please…don’t,” he whispered softly, but otherwise remained lifeless, swaddled in satin and nightmares.
She pressed her cheek to the top of his head. “Sh-sh, hush, pebble.” Yes, the gods would not be there for her when she fell, but that was fine. She was strong enough to carry them both. For now.
* * * *
Marshall stood in the middle of the Wingates’ family parlor, wondering just how long the nightmare would hold him there, showing him one miserable Christmas after the other. How long was he to be enthralled by that rat with wings, watching his innermost demons unfold with quiet, impressible amusement?
His jaw was clenched, his molars fused together as tension threaded his muscles so tight, he was afraid to breathe for fear of snapping in half. The raven was relentless, pulling scene after scene until most of his first fifteen Christmases had played out in one looping horror flick.
“What is the point?” the vampire snarled as another scene took the stage.
His mother and father cut figures against the faint early light of Christmas morning. Snow frosted the narrow window panes and twilight snared the shiny wrapping paper of the gifts fading into existence before his eyes beneath the tree.
Moira clasped her hands firmly before her and lifted her chin majestically. She, like every other true vampire, had stopped aging at the age of twenty-three. And yet, there was no mistaking the age in her gaze. The tired wisdom. Shrewd, reflective violet eyes flickered over her husband as she spoke. “I disagree, Henry. The boy has real artistic talent.”
“Wasted potential.” Henry spun from Moira, snowy blue eyes peering from his human form, contrasting violently against the red dragon-scale duster matching the one draped across the vampire’s shoulders. If he hadn’t been glued into place, he might have torn his arm off trying to rid himself of the coat.
“He is a weak creature.” Henry paced. “Weaker than I ever could’ve imagined. With even less time on this earth. He hasn’t the life span to indulge such fruitless endeavors. If he is to ever succeed me, he must prepare.”
“Good evening, Mother…and, of course, to you as well, Sir Ansley.” Cassandra stalked through the doorway. Fifteen, wiry, and flaunting the new feminine curves in one of her favorite red corsets and tailored black slacks.
Her shiny black high heels plunged into the Persian carpet she’d decorated with young Marshall’s blood many times during their childhood. By the time being depicted in the scene before him, she had learned her lesson about letting little men, like Sir Elton, whisper in her ear. Much less ones with fangs just as wicked as hers. She’d learned the hard way that being born into privilege did nothing but paint a target on your soul for those who would use your power and pervert it for their own gain.
Young Marshall, of course, was outcast for being weak, for being different, for being an unnatural abomination in the sanctity of the clan’s lair. Tolerated only because his father’s wealth was the vein everyone fed from. By then, they had become one another’s only friend.
Almost on cue, an adolescent Marshall crept into the room moments after his sister. He halted his pursuit fairly quickly and lingered in the doorway. As if the shade could somehow shield him from a demon. Ridiculous.
Henry Ansley looked at him then. He did not look at him often. And his father’s attention never boded well for anyone. “You will go to the London Business School.”
Cassandra anchored a hand on her hip. “Haven’t you heard? He’s going to Yale—”
The strike was heard. Cheekbones cracking. Ravens took to the skies, scared out of the trees surrounding the castle as everything and everyone within it came to a halt. His mother was a carved statue of lace as Cassandra was lifted by her throat. She swiped through the acrid shadows that Henry Ansley’s arm had become.
Amber spiked through his sister’s violet eyes as her head fell back, smoke billowing down her gaping mouth to clog her throat. And still, Moira stood unmoved. Perhaps, if young Marshall had been so wise, he could’ve saved himself. Even now, the vampire did not know what had possessed him to reach into the darkness and brandish a whip. He did not know why that had been the instrument of his demise, but the ebony tendril snapped around his father’s wrist like a barbed cat-tail.
He pulled hard, forcing his father to release his hold. Cassandra fell in an awkward assembly of delicate limbs on the Persian carpet and young Marshall had painted a target on himself that still sang on his skin even now. The vampire remembered that moment—when snowy eyes met snowy eyes and he’d felt fear so true, he’d nearly soiled himself.
Henry Ansley abandoned Cassandra, and the shadows young Marshall wielded turned on him. They coiled around his wrists and ankles, the leash seeking out his father’s hands. The incubus pulled, and he fell. His father faded into the darkness, dragging him toward the abyss by the black chain biting his knobby ankle.
Young Marshall clawed at the carpet, shredding it. Cassandra had opened her eyes and reached for him, their fingers meeting. Desperately, weakly clinging together for a moment. And then, he was swallowed.
The memory of that terrible night rolled past Marshall like a scalding wave. That night, he’d screamed. Screamed. Screamed. Screamed so much that he’d lost his voice. He’d never screamed again. Later, when he’d been brought to his mother, she’d held her gangly teenage son to her chest like a piece of her heart and turned the bathwater pink with her bitter tears. “I’m so sorry, fledgling.”
Cassandra had stopped speaking for a year after that Christmas. He’d learned much later that Moira had been shackled by duty, that she could not go to his aid or the coven would suffer for it. Henry Ansley had been driven to the edge by his failure to find immortality and it was certainly possible that there was nothing she could’ve done. Or maybe, she was to blame.
Perhaps he should blame Henry Ansley for his darkness and Moira for smothering them in it. Perhaps she….
It really didn’t matter.
“We’re finished here, raven.” Darkness rose up like tida
l waves, poised to swallow him whole. “I’m finished.”
Chapter Fourteen
The next time Elsa opened her eyes, she reached out across the bed and found nothing but more purple satin. “Vampire?”
She sat up and held the sheet to her body. He was gone. Ignoring the little twinge of disappointment, she swung her legs over the side of the bed, careful not to bump her thighs on what became of the coffin-cover when it was commanded to split down the middle and fold itself into neat planks at the sides of the frame.
Tattered past the point of repair, her purple tunic lay crinkled in a heap near the bed skirt. She flinched with memories of the sound of fabric rending, of his mouth claiming…everything. Cinching the sheet around her shoulders in a loose toga knot, she stood. Stiff and sore, her muscles ached. Her breasts and center were sensitive, deliciously sore. Her arms peeled over her head in a full body stretch. Where is my vampire?
The cleaning staff had visited at some point in the day. The mirrors paneling the walls had been wiped clean of smudges and hand prints. Oak floors shining, pristine. Absent of her vampire’s blood. The tea service had been cleared, the cupcake shells that had littered the floor as a result of Marshall’s cake-kisses were gone.
Nothing remained of the night or the vampire but the briefcase leaning against the rack and the suitcase balanced nearly atop it. Her feet carried her to the closet doors, where the stand stood. She hovered her fingers over the zipper and wondered what it would be like if she truly owned this man. If she had every right to rifle through whatever secrets might be contained in his baggage. To know him and own his entirety the way her mother had once owned her father. The way the rest of the witches in the tribe coven owned their mates.
If she did, she would never have to wonder where he was. He would wear… Her throat worked as she fisted her amulet. She would always know his location and likewise, he would always know where his Domina was. They would never have to be alone again.
An eerie, haunting little whistle.
Elsa snorted at her carpet bag and opened her palm, drawing the mundane glass marble from the depths of the magical pocket. Hovering above the burst of fabric spilling out of the bag, the blue ball glowed in the darkness. What now? She stomped the distance, ignoring the twinge of pain shocking through her system, and she snatched up the glowing orb. “Speak.”
“Good evening, darling,” Ingrid purred. “Now, I’m doing the Santa’s Workshop at the Brimstone—you should see Brendon and Sebastian’s outfits. Assless and edible, my favorite—Anyways, I can’t find my striped cane, and I was wondering if you knew where it might have gotten off to. I would hate to think that mangy cat of yours removed it from my den. There will be blood in the streets, Elsa. I swear it. I’ll have his hide on a rack and his teeth on my keych—”
“I took the vampire to my bed, huldra.”
“You did?”
“Ingrid…” Elsa sank down into the chair Marshall had occupied the night before. “I don't know what to do.”
“Whatever you're doing seems to be working quite nicely.”
She gave the orb an incredulous look. “Are you listening? I took him to my bed—”
“You're entitled to a little fun.”
Elsa’s eyes found the sketchbook tucked between the arm of the chair and the cushion. She plucked it free and splayed it open on her lap, flipping to one of the several drafts of the mermaid. She fingered the mermaid’s finned legs, marveling at them. He’d chosen such a creature because of its beauty. Beauty she did not have. And would never have. She would never truly be able to walk at his side, and nor would he ever tether his being to hers willingly. And like her mother, she had no interest in collaring an animal who no longer wished to be chained.
“Elsa?” Ingrid prompted. “It is just for fun. Right…?”
“Yes, huldra.” She straightened and snapped the sketchbook shut. “Just pleasure and business. Nothing more. Nothing less.”
“Good…” There was a lingering note of disbelief in Ingrid’s tone and Elsa opened her mouth to assure her she was fine, but the huldra spoke first. “Have your way with him. Rid yourself of the fixation. And when you come home, I’ll find you something delicious to eat.”
Elsa wagged her finger at the marble. “None of the cheap drivel. I want the top-shelf Godiva with…”
A muffled, unfamiliar, musical giggle echoed throughout the room and Elsa fell silent, straining her senses as she tried to track the sound. Had she imagined it?
“What is it, Elsa?” Ingrid whispered.
“Stay next to the crystal ball.” Elsa rolled her eyes as she realized she was whispering too, and regulated her volume. “I’ll orb you back.” She tapped the marble and cast her senses net.
Nothing. She frowned. That’s impossible. I’m too cranky to be that crazy. Had something managed to sneak into their hotel room undetected? There were very few creatures who could mask themselves from her. Fewer still with magic strong enough to survive hers.
“Vampire?”
Red lace shook out of the mouth of her carpet bag, followed by another muffled giggle. It was a…child’s laugh. Impossible. She blinked, and then narrowed her eyes on the fabric and marched to the coffee table. Leaning forward, she peered into the mouth of the suitcase, finding nothing but a cantankerous knot of fabric. “Fenris,” she summoned.
Orange cat ears, a striped tail, and a tiny pink triangle nose rose over the opposite side of the bag. “What have we got here?”
Elsa’s gaze flitted up as the tabby cat lifted his downy white paws to the carpet bag’s leather lip. “Did you steal Ingrid’s candy cane?”
“Oh, sure, sure.” He slicked his lips and his almond green irises sharpened into slits. “Now, but tell me, what do we have here?”
Another little giggle, followed by a tiny sigh of happiness.
Witch and familiar exchanged arched looks.
“Catch it, cat.”
“With pleasure…Domina.”
Fenris dove into another plane, leaving Elsa to frown at an empty room. The fey always had an opinion. Always. “Cheeky.”
A riddled meow whispered up from the fabric, lingering in the silence like a specter. Followed by a musical little giggle. “Kitty!” The voice was sweet, tiny.
“No, no. No, kitty. Stop that. Put your lips off of me, woman. Stop. Stop attacking me. Sit. Stay. Elsa!” Fenris whined from somewhere in the depths.
“The definition of bravery, I swear it.” Elsa shoved her arm into the magical pocket, rooting around splices in reality.
Dresses and more dresses. Excalibur—which reminded her, she was due to send that back to Avalon next year. Two wooden stakes. A fresh pair of knickers. Her slippers. Nothing.
Elsa let out a little riddled curse and sank her arm to the shoulder. A grandfather clock. Alice’s Wonderland. A suspicious piece of gummy substance—flesh-eating mold, probably. No cat or giggle.
“Shall I eat her?” Fenris’ muffled voice drew Elsa’s attention to the chair she’d just recently vacated. Dangling from the cat’s teeth by the scruff of her tattered pink dress, the tiny brownie girl—Sally, if Elsa remembered correctly—from the docks and the near Yeti-cart debacle of the year, swung like a tiny pendulum. Her cheeks were pink with embarrassment, her wide mouth buried behind a ratty doll and a glittering royal blue sequence dress from Sinister Stitches. Peeking up with big brown eyes, Elsa read her fear as clear as if she’d squealed.
“I s-s-w-w-wear, I wasn’t gonna take it.”
Elsa frowned at the dress in the girl’s hand. “The dress?”
She nodded and lowered her chin. Realizing she still held the garment, she went taut and shoved the dress toward Elsa with so much force she swung back and forth. “Sorry!”
Elsa sank to her haunches, leveling herself with the tiny child. Brownies were minor fey. Humble, hard-working creatures. They normally made their homes as servants in households. Like most minor fey, they did command some magic. Perhaps the magical pocket, in co
mbination with the girl’s faint, innate masking glamour had been enough to shield herself.
She seemed so scared, so unsure. So ashamed. Probably rightfully so. Elsa’s gaze flitted down to the dress held tight in her tiny, plump hands. “Your parents are employees on the ship?”
“Yes, Miss.” She nodded. “Me too. I finished…” She pointed at a small tray of cleaning materials and tiny tin bucket nestled beneath the coffee table. “And then, I was supposed to leave, but…” She drew her palm over the sandpaper glitter as if it were the softest of silks.
Ah, yes—now she remembered. Brownies had a strange fixation with fabric. Made even stranger by the fact they never made anything with the textiles, just kept them like perfect little hoarders. They preferred to dress in rags—not to do so was as unnatural to them as sleeping prone was to her. Some would still even take their payment in fabric. It was a medieval custom, but it lingered.
It was a very strange quirk to some. It made perfect sense to Elsa. Her Greed functioned similarly. Desire to possess, to own, to covet what others had. Envy—it was written into her DNA. Silver, baubles, jewels—but mostly money. Money enthralled her like nothing else. She dealt with it like a recovering addict bent on sobriety—mercilessly and with the terrible fear that she might sink into the depths of Greed that had eventually killed her father and his store.
Blue sparkles reflected in the girl’s eyes as she stroked the evening gown. “I just wanted…” she was breathless, “to touch it. Everywhere.”
Elsa’s heart twinged with sympathy as an image of her vampire bloomed in her mind. Victorian, tall, and dark. Hers—if only for a while. She understood. She understood Sally was different. Another fey may have been enthralled, but Sally—Sally was possessed. Bewitched with yearning. She wanted the dress for herself. She wanted to wear the dress.