by Sophie Avett
The cloak fell, spilling down her shoulders, cool air kissing her skin. He seemed to take some grand pleasure in showing her off and she couldn’t quite understand why. He had chosen a dress she never would have chosen for herself. Wearing it felt like wearing his colors into battle. She pecked his cheek and the gentle affection seemed to disarm him a little. Slipping his arm beneath hers in a leisurely caress, he caught her hand and manipulated it over her head gently. He tried for a light smile, but it didn’t offset the fire in his eyes. “Spin for me.”
And she did. She twirled for him. Slowly. Around and around. The witches were almost forgotten. Waves banked against the ship and it swayed, but she hardly felt it. She was floating on a cloud of pleated white taffeta.
It took every ounce of her willpower to tear her attention away from him to glance at the witches. Their dresses glowed. Magic zinging and racing across the textile in a grid. And she studied the arcane strings netted over their flesh. Witches they may be called, but they were not true coven. Well, the youngest two weren’t. They were changelings, all of them. Half Unseelie. Half…something else. Very much like Elsa, they were twisted breeds. And she’d bet her last piece of cake they owed their fey kinship to something dark, malevolent—a seductress from the bowels of Avalon’s swamps. She’d have to fetch her grimoire in the room to know for sure.
Astrid, the vampire-witch, dark thin webbed net glowing a lush violet on her shimmery skin. Brenda, the were-witch, white hot red bars striking across her golden tan. Their magic came from their fey patronage.
Gillian was different. She was special. Radiant green mixed with an inky plum etched like astral stripes across her snow white skin. The only true coven. Strangely enough, she also appeared to be the eldest. Her magic the strongest and most mature. The deadliest. “Vampire.”
He drew her to a stop, and they exchanged a long look and she hoped he could hear her. What if he cared enough to learn how to hear every word she didn’t say? His mouth tilted and he stepped back, motioning gallantly as if she were some grand work of art. “Opinions, trinity?”
“Oh, I think this is a lovely start!” Gillian clasped her hands together, holding them demurely under her chin. “Didn’t I tell you this style was popular, Astrid?”
“Hush, Gill.” Astrid pulled a bill from her breasts and handed it over to her sister, who snatched it gracelessly and tucked it into her pink glove with a sweet smile.
Brenda grunted, seemingly unimpressed. Folding her arms across her pert breasts, she lifted her nose as if she were motioning with a snout. “Lift your skirt.”
Elsa frowned. “Your purpose, changeling?”
At “changeling” they froze. Brenda narrowed her sharp eyes with suspicion. Gillian lifted her eyebrows, her gaze sliding over Elsa from head to toe as if it had never occurred to her to size her up before. Astrid’s expression remained morbidly still. A crooked little cant. She could probably hold that lilting grin forever—time was of little consequence to a vampire, and even less so to fey. Not that they were immortal, nothing was.
Holstering her hands on her hips, Elsa met Brenda's gaze without fear or reserve. “Why should I lift my dress, changeling?” she repeated.
Astrid gathered Elsa’s cloak off the floor and folded it over her arm as if the last few moments had simply been a figment of the imagination. “She wants to see your shoes, sugar.”
Elsa fisted her skirt and lifted the lace-edged hem. “My shoes?”
“Shoes are my shit.” Brenda’s sharp assessment came to an abrupt halt. “What the fuck is on your feet?”
“We can fix it! We can fix it!” Gillian chirped and opened her palm, her elfroot wand sparkling into existence. “I’ll fix the dress. Shall I add snowflakes? Oh, candy canes! And gumdrops! I’ll add them and she’ll…” Gillian trailed off and frowned at the arched looks from her sisters. “What?” They blinked at her and she shrugged. “Just the snowflakes, then?”
“Gill, you should’ve been swallowed at birth.” Brenda slashed angry fingers across the air, a sharp and jagged centaur wood wand cracking to life like thunder in her palm. “I’ll deal with whatever the fuck is on her feet.”
Astrid elegantly flicked her wrist, thin black bangles circling and clinking together. Black dust laced with the tiniest spectral bats shimmered around her wrist and a tapered bone wand—human femur, it seemed—faded into her slender hand. “Somethin's just gotta be done with all that luscious hair.”
They raised their wands in unison. Bees poised to swarm her. She back-stepped and opened her mouth to object, but Marshall waved her off. He pressed a finger to his mouth, sticking his bottom lip out like a darkling begging for cookies and she rolled her eyes heavenwards. “Very well…assault me.”
The three sisters, Brenda, Gillian, and Astrid, were all walking ads for Sinister Stitches.
The Nordic she-wolf stood draped in more sheer lace than dress. Black floral embroidery with crocheted lace trim around the neckline and hem. Fitted long sleeves hugged the expanse of her toned, muscular arms. Brazen and airy. The loose, elegant tunic dress fell in a transparent sable waterfall, offering a full view of the sterling silver belly-chain connecting from her razor thin necklace. Skintight shiny leather pants and matching spiked knee-high boots with bladed heels gouged chunks out of the ship with every stomp.
Brenda zapped a puff of smoky red and white spectral dust at Elsa’s feet. Almonds and vanilla. Cherry, maple leaves, and cedar. The scent of a star in the black sky and the musk of fur. A witch-were. Hardly rare, if it weren’t for the cloying notes of spectral dust. The longer he looked at the warrior princess, the more convinced he became that she’d had everything to do with the backless Winter Wonderland number. She'd probably ripped the shark teeth sewn on the neckline from the mouth of a fresh kill.
Gillian conducted a firework burst of pink magic that swirled down Elsa from head to toe, catching the falling snowflakes and sewing them on the dress. Vanilla and strawberries. Licorice, patchouli, and sweet almonds. Lolita starlet. The cloying notes of spectral dust were different for her. Richer. Perhaps, like Elsa, she was part fey. Perhaps that was how she completed their circle. His mind narrowed on the possibility that…maybe…just maybe, Gillian was exactly who'd they'd been looking for all along. Somehow, it seemed unlikely. There was something …innocent about her. Unassuming, even. She was regal in a princess way—not a queen.
Gone was the pin-up and in place stood a rose garbed in a black velvet dress, the fishtail skirt was purple satin draped over a tiered petticoat of fine black mesh with tiny dots. Trimmed with broad black lace, short in the front and long in the back, it offered a sensual view of her thigh-high stockings and lace garters. Pink glitter dusted the tulle sleeves, her naked shoulders, and the snug satin, purple kid gloves. She alone was responsible for turning Elsa into a Mary Jane swaddled in red velvet cake and bows. Damn that candy witch. Damn her, especially.
Lastly…
Well, Astrid was his kind of animal. Dark, decadent, theatrical. The dress she wore was stand up collared, black lace fanning her naked slender neck like a true vampire's cape. Black diamonds hung from her dainty ear lobes. Like his sister, she probably pierced them every day. Decorative bodice bound her narrow waist in silver filigree-flocked floral, leaf, and skull detail. The hem of the pencil dress kissed the top of her knees, the split in the back drawing his gaze to the naughty line etched down the center of her willowy calves. She’d been responsible for that second dress—the black lace bodice, full skirt ringed with fog. Astrid unleashed a sinewy sash of violet black magic that wound itself into Elsa's hair like a snake, lifting it from the curls she’d fashioned and piling it on top of her skull in long, spilling tresses.
The puzzle was only half solved.
Marshall still couldn’t put his finger on who’d designed the first dress or the one Elsa wore now. There was a hint of Gillian in the skirt. Waves of white, satin, and taffeta gleaming with real snowflakes. The kind of large, regal belle only fairy tale nobilit
y would wear. Elsa’s arms were banded with tight white lace sleeves. The top of her dress was high collared, a keyhole of lace in the center. Her breasts framed, but hidden behind white abrasive fabric—Brenda.
The corset was pleated whalebone. Unforgiving. Tightening Elsa’s curves into a perfect hourglass—Astrid. That was all Astrid. But the dark touch of another designer altogether lingered. Perhaps it was the black pearls sewn alongside the snowflakes. The ghostly impression of a gray snake woven around the hem, eyes accented by scarlet crystals. Perhaps that was the mark of Madame Mari.
Daughters of magic and Unseelie. Why he hadn’t made the connection before was a mystery that could probably be answered by pointing to the short redhead standing amongst the flurry of activity and magic with a stubborn frown. Though it seemed she couldn’t help herself at the presentation of magic. Her eyebrows lifted and she leaned forward, observing their enchantments with interest.
Stubborn and fucking adorable as always. She was robbing him of his sense. Even now, he was supposed to be looking up any information on the sisters he could find. Not that he had found anything about the three women on the Internet, social media sites included, but still, he should’ve been looking. He should’ve been crafting an angle, shining the finer details of his plan of attack.
Instead, he slouched against the banister with the whole ocean and world at his back, content to watch Elsa as the girls fussed over her. Her little cheeks were ruddy from the cold, but otherwise, her murky green eyes were sharp even when she rolled them. Gillian made a joke and all of them—Elsa included—laughed.
Marshall slipped his phone into his pocket and plucked a glass of champagne off a passing platter. Regardless who the women making friends with Elsa were, it wasn’t time yet. Sure, they might be Madame Mari’s daughters—though that still remained unconfirmed—but he wouldn’t shoot himself in the foot until he knew for sure. According to the Hill, it wasn’t like the girls really had any influence beyond design and running day-to-day operations anyways. It was Madame Mari’s store and it was her decision. Let Elsa enjoy her new friendships, rare as they seemed, without the blight of the advertising industry.
“Come, miserable beast! Blast me! Damn you!” Familiar Russian baritones carried over the ocean spray, punctuated by an impressive howl that sparked a murder of answering bellows from the wolves in the crowd. “Come! I stand ready!”
Alec, the werewolf from the print shop, and, if Marshall had made the correct connections, Brenda’s mate, had somehow managed to make it up to the mizzen, the third mass jutting into the black sky. His crisp white dress shirt might have been buttoned at some point, but it was open at present, lapels billowing wildly, swatting the red butterfly tattooed over his heart. Gold circlet gleaming around his brow as the wind cut through his hair, he hung out of the basket, black boot braced on the railing. The ocean banked against the ship and he let out a war cry. “I’m right here! Blast me!”
The girlish flutter around Elsa stilled for a moment. His little witch’s new candy red lipstick sank into a frown. “He’s crazy.”
Marshall lifted both eyebrows at the menacing axes slung around the she-wolf’s powerful hips and sipped his champagne. “Naturally.”
Brenda lifted her chin to the sails. Her stern mouth curved, revealing two crooked front teeth and the cutest littlest dimples. Dimples that looked like they belonged on Gillian’s sweet face.
“Come, you crazy bitch!” he yelled. “Let us howl at puny God!”
“I love him.” If possible, Brenda’s smile lifted the clouds as she took a running start and leapt up the steering wheel to the mast. Cat-climbing up with a remarkable amount of grace in six-inch boots, she vaulted into the basket and leapt on Alec’s back. The ocean crashed, spray and winds whipping her curls wildly as she surged up over Alec’s shoulder and roared. Deep. Wolfish. A shot of lightning crackled in the sky, followed by rolling thunder.
The crowd rippled in enthusiasm and Marshall smirked into his drink. “They’re both crazy.”
Sparkling champagne bubbled on the tip of the vampire’s tongue as an eerie shadow stretched over him. “I rather enjoy their enthusiasm.”
Harsh. White, icy notes. Lisping Northern European accent, London tourist English and swinging slang. Deep like the thrum of Viking drums. Unfamiliar wariness crept down Marshall’s spine, the hair on the back of his neck lifted with warning. Danger. Proximity to a real threat. The shade roiled and the vampire slanted an arched look over his shoulder. “That is a name for it.”
Vampire and Viking. A brutal combination of strength and cunning. The Neanderthal who’d taken to swimming in the ocean had tucked his rippled muscles into a sharp white suit. The wreath of fat gold braids had been bound in an elegant sash at the nape of his neck, matted ends of the dreads licking at his rear. He wore no tie, the top few buttons of his matching crisp-collared shirt undone. Diamond skull cufflinks glittered as he plucked a tumbler from the passing tray.
Marshall couldn’t pinpoint exactly what it was. For all intents and purposes, the vampire standing at his back was every bit the type of cutthroat businessman he normally dealt with. There was something else. There was something…unnerving about the sheer force of his presence. It was menacing. A humming threat vibrating behind every easy move and casual look.
The vampire came to stand at Marshall's side, the short tumbler in his large meaty hand largely obscured as he lifted it to his lips with a surprising amount of grace. His neat bushy beard grazed the edge of the crystal as he studied Marshall over the brim. My move, huh?
Marshall offered his hand. “Marshall Ansley.”
Strange humor flared within flat menacing eyes, giving them an almost draconic gleam, but the Viking graciously took Marshall’s hand. A good, firm shake. And then they parted. “Art Ragnar.”
“Art Ragnar?” Marshall’s eyes flitted from side to side. “As in Ragnar the—”
“Butcher?” Ragnar smiled, his moustache widening. “In the flesh.”
Marshall couldn’t help it, he pocketed his hand, suddenly, painfully aware that the handshake could’ve gone a completely different way. Ragnar the Butcher was to New Gotham what Al Capone was to the twenties. Mayhem. Utter mayhem. If rumor and historic textbooks spoke correctly, he was staring down the barrel at a creature that had been around long enough to conquer feudal England. He’d scalped white men and natives with his bare hands. Cracked skulls alongside Harriet Tubman as a part of the Underground Railroad.
The Godfather’s godfather. He'd nurtured half a dozen notorious made men and politicians after him. The police were afraid of him. The government didn’t know what to do with him. An escape artist. A rogue. Something damned that fought hard and dirty. There were even rumors that Striker had been built to cage the Butcher and him alone.
“You are…” Marshall found his mouth dry, but his composure suffered none of his unease as he jerked a head toward Gillian. “Married?”
“Before her god and mine,” he nodded slowly, “yes.”
Marshall couldn’t help but feel like he’d been delivered a threat. How…interesting. The darkness popped and sizzled as it snaked around his calves. “Then you’ve been blessed, she’s a lovely woman, Sir Ragnar.”
“Butcher is more appropriate, Sir Ansley.” He lifted his strong chin. “If you have a mind to stay on my good side, I suggest Mr. Butcher.”
Diplomacy is endless tedium. Marshall's fangs itched. “Of…course, Mr. Butcher.”
Ragnar laughed. Low. Harsh. Like the sound of frozen ice cracking across a lake. “That,” he wiggled wily gold eyebrows, “never ceases to amuse, no? Ragnar is fine. Oh, and that woman”—his expression soured as he motioned to Gillian—“is a pain in my sodding ass,” he muttered and knocked back his drink. “You should witness it for yourself. You should hear it for yourself. ‘Let us go there. Let us stop and buy this. And this.’” He rolled his eyes. “‘And this.’”
He crushed the empty glass into powder as he narrowed his eyes on the
buxom witch. “And blast Fenris’ chains, if that little skirt doesn’t make my life misery if I don’t act absolutely thrilled to cart twelve bags of rags she’ll never wear from one side of the ship to another.” He snatched another tumbler from a passing tray and frowned. “Indeed, wench, if I breathe a word about the bill, you’ve the constitution of dramatic wet-nurse. Now, if I ask to skip this ridiculous party, you’ll argue that nonsense until the vampires come home, yes?”
Gillian went taut and slanted a frown over her shoulder, and the Viking fell silent. Nordic blue eyes widened into saucers and he licked the front of this teeth. There was a charged moment. And then, she went back to her work on the dress, as merry as ever.
“Woman has eyes on the back of her head.” The Viking dragged a heavy hand down the side of his face. “It isn’t natural, I say.”
Ragnar the Butcher quelled into a silence by…that…little…tiny…
Get the fuck out of here.
Marshall couldn’t help himself. He laughed. Hard. Considering smiles were like masks to him—he had one for every occasion—he couldn’t quite understand why the more he laughed, the lighter he felt. Good and wholesome. Round. Belly-quaking laughter bubbled from him as he lent the Viking his ear. A turned vampire and still every bit as terrifying as the real thing, the tall, menacing alpha mob boss with enough scars riddled on what might have been a handsome face once upon a time was suddenly transformed into a middle-aged Nord, squatting at the local pub to bellyache about a woman a third his size. It was utterly ridiculous and fucking hysterical.
“All right.” Astrid stepped back, scrutinizing the mass of curls piled on top of Elsa’s head. The men fell silent and surveyed the witch’s handiwork. Large and thick, they spilled down the right side of Elsa’s shoulder. Tight spirals crackling like fire—real fire. Red and bronze flames licked down the side of Elsa’s throat.