'Twas the Darkest Night

by Sophie Avett

  Tears wet her cheeks and the vampire fucked her through it all. She would kill him. Pain and anger ripped up from her spine, chasing the pleasure his strokes sent ringing through her body. “Stop,” she choked, scrambling for her hold on his shadows. She felt raw, exposed. He was so deep. Was he trying to mark her? Was he trying to mold an imprint of his cock in her body so that she could never be filled by another?

  No. Never again would she allow someone to brand themselves in the back of her mind. She tensed, jerking in her binds. Unseating his rhythm, heedless of the sharp pain of his cock jabbing against her most intimate depths. His bruising hold tightened into a vise grip and he began to fuck her. Hard. Sending a shock of pleasure to twist so deep, her toes curled.

  “What was his name, witch?”

  “No.” She fought against him with every iota of her being, ruthlessly fighting to block out the orgasm building with frightening gravity.

  “Did he make you sing, witch?” Marshall’s nails bit into the tender flesh beneath her knee as he began to hammer into her like a man possessed. She blotted out a torrent of memories, her breath coming out in a strangled whine. Flesh smacking against flesh, his cock stroking the depths of her pussy, his fangs seated deep in her shoulder—he was everywhere. Chasing her. Fucking her. Branding her.

  He ripped his mouth from her shoulder, dropping his forehead against the back of her neck. “What was his name?” he whispered, a strangled, hoarse little sound. “Sing for me, Elsa. Not him. Sing for me.”

  Her breath caught, her eyes widening as she was swallowed by a cyclone of images. Not hers. His. Marshall’s desires. All of them bared before her eyes. Her bent over the countertop in her shop, his face pressed between her ass, tongue lapping at her cunt as she screamed his name. A different one—on her hands and knees, pressed face down, ass up so he could sink himself into her ass. Stretch her and fuck it the way no other man had. Each fantasy more decadent, more dark than the last. So brutally honest. His desire for her, for every inch of her body. From the swell and rolls of her stomach, the dips behind her thigh, the stretch marks, the ugly scar on her inner ankle. All of it.

  “I want to fuck all of it.” The thought was raw, irrational. So animalistic. So utterly male. It sent her over the edge. Her orgasm rose with righteous fury—drowning her, pummeling her defenses until she broke into a million pieces. Until her thoughts broke. Until every lonely night and heartbreaking memory of Liam was slain. Until nothing remained but the vampire at her back and the moon in the sky.

  It was a while before she floated back to solid ground. Warm bones like jelly, she sagged heavily against the birch tree. Her skin was hot, satin clinging. Damp with her sweat. She was on her feet again. Spine dipped so the vampire kneeling behind her could lap at her shuddering pussy. Such an intimate part of her body against such an important part of his. His mouth, the speaker and source of all the words he’d ever spoken, all the songs he would ever learn. From his first to his last. It was his voice. And he was lending it to her. Cleaning her with it. Savoring them both.

  Her chest felt raw, aching. Bare. He’d pushed again. He’d taken again. She had allowed him into her mind, and he’d abused her trust and ruthlessly used his abilities to touch her. Everywhere. So very different from the last time. So very beautiful. And just something else she would miss when their time came to an end. Her skin was tingling, her pussy aching and it took every iota of her strength to straighten.

  “You will be punished,” she managed, though her voice was hollow. Shaky. Raw. He didn’t answer, his tongue flattening against her abused center. Anger lent her its strength and she ripped free from the tree. Branches bound to her arms like Egyptian wings, she spun and caught him by the hair.

  Shadows rose as the winter wonderland wobbled and disappeared, leaving them to stand in the middle of a broken dream. Low, balanced on his haunches, he peered up at her with bright blue eyes and lips wet with her juices. She could no longer read his expression, she didn’t know what he was thinking, but she had every intention of finding out. She curled her fingers tight and forced his head back. “You will be punished,” she said again.

  “I know, Ms. Karr.” He pressed a kiss to her inner wrist and it landed like a gunshot. “I know.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Like Bits and Pieces, the print shop was bigger than it looked. Though much neater, more organized than Elsa’s little shop of horrors, it was still just as cramped and cluttered. Shelves lined with an impossibly wide spectrum of different papers, parchments, and various colors of ink. A small, narrow counter with antique register. All of it centered round a large relic of a printing machine that looked like it had been rescued from the bowels of Victorian industry.

  The creature who ran it was…large. Almost as large as the entire shop. Well, her ass was.

  “Do excuse me, dearie,” she rasped. British tea with a dash of archaic tones.

  He wasn’t entirely sure what she was, but as he flattened himself against a wall of Christmas cards pinned to a bulletin board, he imagined it was very large and very old. And like Elsa, an unassuming creature with power enough to command a score of pixies to do its bidding. No taller than needles, with room enough to make a thimble a bed, little fey zipped into and between the jarring keys, righting them and overseeing progress as photos were stamped on glossy paper.

  The crone managed to squeeze to the other side of the shop, her wide hips bumping a short tray of printing fluids. The bottles didn’t even rattle. Nailed down into holders as they were. Novel, resourceful—a show of effective, logical planning. “Oh, it’s been a bitter winter.” She wheezed into a knitted handkerchief. Sniffling and snorting, wiry white hairs waved out of her bottle-nose as she tucked the sopping rag into the sleeve of her festive reindeer blouse.

  “A wet one, too,” Marshall answered wryly, narrowing his eyes at the purple pixie hovering above the rest. Directing and conducting progress with the swipe of a splinter. Despite the purple fairy’s diminutive size, the precision of the braid resting down her back to kiss her ankles and the hard set of her thick eyebrows all hinted that she was really the one in charge.

  “Miss,” he prompted the purple pixie, leaving the crone to another bout of sneezes. “How long can I expect to wait?”

  The pixie’s spine went rigid. “Ah expect you’ll wait till it’s done.” Sparkling, translucent dragonfly wings fluttered angrily behind her as she zipped in a spiral to hover on the tip of his nose. “Dis is a rush order, sir. Ah don’t know how yah managed to convince de miserable snot bucket to jump track yah order before everyone else’s, but ah assure you,” she narrowed blazing violet eyes into slits, “we moving as quickly as we can.”

  Another wheezing sniffle. Marshall plucked the extra handkerchief from his breast pocket and extended it to the crone. “Of course. Take all the time you need, Miss…”

  “Tinker Bell. And dat’s Captain Tinker Bell to you, sir vampiah.” She swiveled her poker so close to his eye, he was mildly surprised she hadn’t carved the name of her ship into his retina. “More questions? Or can ah get back to making all yah bloody Christmas wishes come true?”

  The bell on the door jingled as it swung open. Eggnog, peppermint, the sharp scent of pine mingled with paper, metallic ink, and oil. Noise showered into the shop. Money clicked as registers snapped shut. A child’s laughter, followed by a howl of pain. “Hell and creation, stop it! Don’t lick that! Give those back! Stop attacking me you little gremlins. I am not—stop!”

  The door slammed shut behind a druid. He flattened himself against the frame as if demons were poised to rip through the threshold at his heels. Short, clean beard turned in a frown. Slate gray eyes wide with terror, his chest fell and rose as he spoke through labored breaths, “It’s Santa Hell out there.”

  Marshall lifted an elegant eyebrow. “Yes, well, it’s Tinker Hell in here.”

  The pixie’s face scrunched with anger as pink energy filled her body until she was positively blinking like a will o’
wisp. Marshall braced for impact, but he was saved by a knock that rattled the door on its hinges. The druid jerked against the wood as if he was the only thing standing between the room and the witching hour. “They’re…here.”

  “Charles! Bring mah fork—ah’m gonna fuckin’ deal with this.” Her wings flapped like a wind-up doll, but she balanced the relatively massive utensil with ease and slanted the vampire one final angry glare. “Ah’ll be back for seconds.” She barked at the druid, “Open the door, yah yellah-bellied twat.” And then she was off, leaving a cankerous line of iridescent glitter.

  A cheer! A tiny war cry! Blood on the plank. The door banged shut behind her and the druid and the vampire exchanged a long look.

  The crone laughed. “Darling, isn’t she?”

  The men shifted pointed stares at the old woman bumbling behind the counter, arranging Bits and Pieces fliers into neat brown packages and tying them sweetly in big bows of white string. Marshall pocketed his hands as the new arrival narrowed the distance between them. The thrum of Celtic magic vibrated. He was much taller than Marshall had originally anticipated. Thin, but hardly scrawny. White robes marking him as a druid fell to his ankles and bare feet. Shoulder to shoulder, they stood before a rack of Christmas cards, each one more frilly and sentimental than the last.

  “So,” the druid motioned with the business end of some roses, shaking petals loose, “which do you think says ‘I love you, Merry Christmas?’”

  He frowned. “You’re joking, right?”

  The door opened—children crying, a crazed little giggle, screams—and shut. “Merlin, blast you! There you are.” A rakish chuckle. “Have the children scared you?” Familiar Russian notes. Bitter, dry like coffee. “Fear not, mad pixie brings vengeance in your name, brother.”

  Merlin plucked a card, scanning it. “Madness is a word for it.”

  Old T-shirt clinging to brutish muscles, hair skewed every which way beneath a gleaming gold circlet resting against his brow. The newcomer was a were of some sort, and probably lorded over some pocket of the damned forest. Cinnamon skin and eyes black as night. The scent of Avaline’s purple trees, matted fur, and the sensual musk of his cedar wood cologne. Spider Shine’s Highway Man. Due to lack of space, he came to stand at Marshall’s shoulder, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his worn denim jeans as he leaned against a tower of paper. He lolled his head at the roses and teddy bears. “Have we missed Christmas? Is it Valentine’s already?”

  The Druid’s short, neat beard curved, his gentle eyes bright with mirth. “No, Astrid collects teddy bears and I expect her to repay me by rolling around naked in these roses. Or at the very least, the bear will distract her from beating me with the thorns long enough for an old mage to make a clean break for it.”

  The corner of Marshall’s mouth twitched as he was taken with images of Elsa and cake. Yes, yes—throw the teddy bear in the coffin and run, run, run…

  “Worthless trinkets.” Alec reached across the vampire and plucked the card from the druid’s fingertips. “Apologize for transgressions, bed her, and see both better for it.”

  “Yes, Alec,” the Druid grabbed another card, “and if I had married Brenda, I’m sure that would work. But I married the bitchiest bat hell has to offer.”

  Alec glanced at Marshall and shrugged. “Is true.”

  Alec? Brenda? His mind flashed back to the couple behind the backdrop. Who are these savages? The other men launched into a discussion about the merits of chocolates and diamonds while Marshall scanned the standard selection of greeting cards. What would he buy for Elsa? If he were that sort, of course. He’d never bought a Christmas card and he didn’t intend to pour any money into Hallmark’s pockets now. Especially after they’d rejected his agency’s bid on their Halloween line. Tilting his head, he plucked a shimmering blue card with a wonderland emblazoned on the front in glossy vinyl. Peeking at the inscription, he flicked it at the druid. “Here—you can cease your bickering now.”

  The men went silent. Alec lifted a handsome dark eyebrow, amusement tugging at his thieving smile. The druid’s expression echoed his sentiments as he relieved the vampire of the card.

  “What does it say, Merlin?”

  Marshall eased back to study the scrapbook of memories pinned to the corkboard. Thousands of images. Some of them mundane photos. Others were living snapshots. Pictures of the couples and families who’d taken the cruise before. He pulled a small sample print of Elsa’s Bits and Pieces ad from his back pocket.

  “Merlin! Blast you, what does it say?”

  The vampire rolled his eyes and pinned the image on the wall with a red thumbtack. “It says: Of all the precious joys, you’re the sweetest gift of t—”

  Smack! A tiny hand collided with the vampire’s jaw.

  “Tinker Bell!” the crone choked.

  In terms of pain, it was hardly felt. Otherwise, every cell in his body rang with indignation and his fangs dropped as he found himself nose to nose with a pixie. “That was unwise.”

  “Sorry, yah didn’t seem like yah’d ever stop talking.” She shrugged. “Ah panicked.”

  There was a peel of male laughter behind him. Every hoot and chuckle grated on his nerves. He straightened and narrowed his eyes. “And now that you have my attention, how may I be of service, Captain Tinker Bell?”

  Blood spatter speckled her lavender dress from the stained tip of her needle as she motioned to the stacks neatly arranged on the countertop. “Merry Christmas, sir vampiah. The otha half will be ready wit in da hour.”

  The shop door swung shut after him. Carting a large stack of fliers, he skirted past the lingering children, slumped and crying bitter tears, and wove through the sparse pockets of monsters.

  The winter wonderland backdrop had been reopened. Another photographer now occupied the spot where he’d once stood. The tree Elsa had snapped in her ire had been mended with her magic. Coven witches cradled in each other’s arms before the mountains with their newborn son. A quick kiss captured forever in a living memory.

  He’d promised Elsa he would destroy the images he didn’t use. He’d only used two. But he’d saved three. And the third one had nothing to do with Bits and Pieces, or Sinister Stitches.

  It was her smile. Precious. Rare. Brighter than the stars shining in the sky like diamonds.

  I sound…ridiculous. Marshall wasn’t normally so…sensitive. It could be the lingering effect of touching her love for another. Or maybe it was something else. Desire inked his veins, his groin warmed with lust, but it wasn’t that simple.

  He’d taken many pictures of Gwyneth. Some of them for work. Most of them for his personal collection. But he’d never been so afraid of losing one that he’d printed it out. Never had he damaged and creased a photo because it absolutely needed to fit in his wallet.

  He could think of nothing else but the woman waiting for him. Of the Irish man who had dared to cower a mountain—his mountain, his Elsa. Of the glorious depths of her depravity. He knew them now. Just like he knew—whether she did yet or not—she would never be submissive and she would always be drawn to leather, if only because that was where the wicked played.

  Even now, punishment was waiting for him. And strangely enough, every dominant bone in his body was silent—hushed. Perhaps because he deserved it. Whatever was coming, he was quite sure he would deserve every last bit of it. His throat worked in anticipation. It was not fear he felt—it was far more dangerous.

  “Well, what’s the fun in living if you’re not going do it on the edge, boy?”

  A familiar gravelly voice pulled his attention to the obelisk lounge area over his shoulder. There was a large ball of yarn hovering above the silver tea set arranged on the coffee table. Threads of color—so many colors it was little surprise each of the three witches knitted something different.

  On the left, Granny reclined in a daisy-printed recliner. Ample curves squeezed in a pink dressing gown, patterned with little yellow flowers. Snow-white curls bound in wooden
curlers. Jaw-jacking on a piece of gum. Her meaty hands held two gnarled stalks, weaving crimson strands into a velvet cloak. She peered over the circular spectacles pinched on the bridge of her bulbed nose. “Well, don’t just stand there, laddie. My eyes are quite big enough to see you clearly, but the tea won’t stay spot on forever.”

  On the right, the Persian Madame. Salt and pepper-streaked raven waves pinned beneath a demure veil. Red dot marking her between lemon drop eyes. Beautiful, even in old age. Her knitting wands were twin snakes with glittering emeralds for eyes, manipulating strands into a gold and violet Persian carpet. The tassels hanging limp on the finished end shifted and shook with life. “Handsome, isn’t he?” Her voice, the snap and crackle of the Arabian sun.

  “Down, girls.” The third witch was seated in the middle, her slender legs crossed beneath a threadbare, black wool blanket. Printed rose handkerchief wrapped around the white knot at her neck. Beady black eyes framed behind vintage winged-oval glasses. An old star hung idly around her neck as she expertly maneuvered two long, thin glass quills. She arched a white eyebrow at the scarf slowly being knit into existence with shimmering black thread, and her small red mouth wrinkled into a smile. “But I do have good taste, don’t I, Marshall?”

  Marshall tried to place the witch as he edged closer. And then, he remembered. He came to stand at the crone’s side. “Good evening and Merry Christmas, Mrs. Potts.” He offered her a polite nod in greeting. “And yes, you do have good taste. Some would even say exquisite.”

  Smiles dispensed with in favor of severe study. “Have a seat, boy.”

  Marshall didn’t move beyond scraping his thumb nail against the rough brown paper. Warning whispered down the nape of his neck. Magic was strong with her. As strong as it had been when he’d interrupted the little tiff between her and Elsa. And though he wasn’t surprised to see her—New Gotham was a small city—he couldn’t help the uncomfortable suspicion that once he sat and surrendered himself to the Witches-Who-Knit, there would be no turning back.