'Twas the Darkest Night

by Sophie Avett

  The Viking’s mouth twitched with mirth and he pressed a chaste kiss on the back of her hand. “Merry Christmas, Mother.”

  Madame Mari pinched Alec’s cheeks. “Handsome as ever, my prince.” The Russian turned pink and pocketed his hands, shrugging like a bashful child.

  Next, she approached Merlin. Their exchange was markedly different. Next to Alec, Merlin seemed to be the youngest of the men, and yet, Madame Mari embraced him as an equal. Friend, rather than son.

  “Merry met,” he chuckled and offered his arm. “You’re looking spry as ever, you old hag.”

  “Better than you, old man.” She took his arm and he patted her hand gently. She gave her boys a happy once-over, and then pointedly looked at Marshall. Her narrow violet eyes were lined by thick lashes. So thick, he swore he could feel them against his cheek as she lowered a sharp, accessing gaze. “Who is this criminally handsome young man”—she frowned—“I mean, honestly, it almost doesn’t make any sense. Are you fey, boy?”

  Now’s your chance. Don’t be weak, imp. Marshall’s father’s words echoed in his head and he drew himself to his full height and cleared his throat. He opened his mouth, but was interrupted by a flurry of purple dress and woman.

  “Mother! There you are!” Gillian latched onto Madame Mari’s dress and tugged. “You have to meet Elsa. Oh! Never mind! I’ll just bring her over here.” She knocked over a towering icewraith as she practically bounced out of the circle.

  “A drink, Ragnar. Find this old woman a drink.” Madame Mari touched her fingers to her brow. “Quickly.” The Viking dropped an antacid into his tumbler and handed it to the fey. She narrowed her eyes on Marshall, sipping at the amber liquid. “You were saying, boy?”

  “Ma!” Brenda stomped into the circle, waving her circlet like a bloody limb. “Will you please tell Gillian to get a grip before I have to mail her goddamn hands back to her!”

  Gillian stumbled into the circle after her. “Whatever she says, she’s lying!”

  Astrid followed closely behind her sisters. Arms braced behind her back, she didn’t offer comment, her expression as serene as ever. Marshall mouthed, “What happened?” and she offered him a shrug. “They’re all crazy.”

  “Homicidal, too.” It was a lush, rolling accent. A combination of Creole French and downtown New Gotham. Sinful.

  Black curtains beveled in waves, revealing a handsome young man—very early twenties maybe—with similar lush violet eyes and a wicked scar etched diagonally across his face. Jet black hair was freshly cut, falling across his forehead. Clad in a simple black suit better suited for a funeral than a ball, with two serious-looking pistols holstered on his belt, he was a grim reaper’s valet, and a mother’s worst nightmare.

  Leggy and obviously related to the trinity. Perhaps a younger brother. He carried the cloying notes of fey and the stench of humanity. Just a simple changeling—the runt of the litter. He didn’t act like it. On the contrary, he posted himself at the Viking’s throne and lolled his head at the she-wolf. “Oui, Brenda? We’re all mad here, no?”

  Brenda quick-drew one of her axes. “I will slit you from nose to navel, scarface.”

  Wynn seated a careless hand on the hilt of his gun. “Certain, chérie? You lost last time, but, oui….” His mouth twitched. “We play.”

  “Oh, no, no, no.” Gillian slid between them, sole eyes smoldering like bloody suns. “We’re in public.”

  “Tell that to this animal.”

  “He’s right.” She lifted her axe like a butcher knife. “We’re all mad here.”

  “I said”—Gillian caught her wrist—“No.” She squeezed, eliciting a wince from her sister.

  The Viking’s bearded mouth curved into a weary smile as he lifted his glass to the other men. “Fierce is a word for it, yes?”

  The knot of family erupted into a flurry of noise and commotion, and Marshall watched them argue the way only family could. It was the kind of scene that made Marshall want to turn the population into vampires—or British—just so there would be some bloody decorum in the world.

  “Oui?! Is that all you’ve got, bitch?”

  Silver grazed Marshall’s cheek as Brenda’s axe flew past his head and wedged into a passing ghoul’s forehead. Damn the French. He rubbed his temple. It would be less vexing to wake up on fire.

  Tender spice and apricot tickled his nose as Elsa slipped between him and Madame Mari’s vibrant orange and black swallow tail wings. He looped an arm around her waist and squeezed her hip. “You’re right in time, Ms. Karr.”

  Bottomless marshlands brightened with good humor. “I’ve noticed punctuality does it for you, vampire.”

  He chuckled. “You’d be surprised what does it for me.”

  There, in the privacy offered by majestic butterfly wings, they shared a kiss. Their shadows painted a heart against the swallow tails as if they really did have the power to take flight whenever and wherever they wanted.

  “Pardon me, sugar.” Madame Mari handed her glass to Merlin and floated to Brenda, who was still barking and shaking an axe at her sister. The shadow of the fey’s wings loomed over the she-wolf and she squeaked, peering over her shoulder like a naughty puppy.

  Madame Mari nodded slowly as if to confirm some unspoken communication, and Marshall imagined it sounded something like, “You’ll be wailing like a whore in church when I’m through with you, missy…”

  “Now,” she lifted her creamy green hands, “would everyone kindly do me the favor of shutting the hell up?” She pointed with a seashell pink fingernail. “I’d like to hear what this boy has to say—” Gillian piped up and Madame Mari quelled her with an eyebrow—“if you don’t mind. Thank you. Now, then, sir vampire, what were you going to say…” She pointed to Elsa as if she’d just realized she was there. “Wait. Are you wearing one of my dresses, sugar?”

  Pressure.

  Suddenly, Elsa felt like she was under a lot of pressure.

  Madame Mari oozed power. Dark, Unseelie magic. So old, Elsa couldn’t help but wonder if “ancient” was an apt description. Her large monarch-like wings dwarfed her lithe body. Her bones were sharp, reedy—hollow-looking. Almost as hollow as her pinched cheeks. She wore no make-up. Most fey didn’t, considering the practice crass and unnecessary. Hers was a cool, thin smile, and there was an arachnid quality about the severely slanted eyes peering from her gaunt but alluringly narrow face.

  Exotic.

  Black widow. Serpentine butterfly. Perhaps a horrific mixture of both.

  Out of all of them, with the exception of the druid, she wore the plainest dress. Honestly, she, in particular, looked so out of place, it was intimidating. Like she didn’t need to bother with pretention, because she was too old to give the slightest whit about unsolicited opinions. Sleek and sable, the evening dress was long sleeved, with a severe dive baring the rungs of her chest cavity, bringing to mind vivid black and white images of Morticia Addams.

  “Hush, everyone.” She shooed the mob back, including Marshall, and clasped her hands together. Soft pink enamel painted over her nails glittered. “Well, come on, sugar. Spin for an ole girl. I’d like to admire my handiwork.”

  Nerves sizzled beneath their collective scrutiny and Elsa fought the urge to back-step, her tongue swelling and sticking to the roof of her mouth.

  “Elsa.” It was a tiny whisper she barely heard, but immediately recognized.

  She swept her eyes across the floor, searching for Sally. She found the brownie peeking from beneath the hem of Gillian’s skirt. She waved a tiny hand, pointing to Madame Mari, and then fiddled with the hem of Gillian’s skirt and opened her arms wide as if to say large. Perhaps lots. Lots and lots of something. Lots of…dresses. Madame Mari was the woman with the most dresses in her room.

  As if she needed to be reminded that Sinister Stitches had found her before she’d been able to make good on her promise to the vampire. Like the added pressure of knowing Marshall’s career depended on whether she could outmaneuver all of her socia
l awkwardness and charm Madame Mari would help. No, really. Thanks, Sally.

  Another head peeked from beneath Gillian’s skirt—a Christmas elf. Sodding gremlins. He tugged Sally’s pigtails and disappeared beneath the skirt. The little brownie nearly went off like a tea kettle and dove after him.

  “What the hell was that?” Gillian lifted the hem of her skirt, revealing nothing but gartered thighs. “I could’ve sworn…”

  The Viking dropped another antacid in a fresh tumbler. “Put your skirt down, Gill.”

  “Elsa,” Madame Mari cooed softly. Her voice was warm and smooth, musical.

  Shivers plagued down Elsa’s spine and she worried her bottom lip. “I’m sorry…”

  The older woman’s brow wrinkled with concern. “You don’t get out much, do you, hon?”

  Heat touched her cheeks and burned her ears, but she tried for a smile, afraid it looked as pained as it felt. “I…”

  “That’s all right, babycakes.” Madame Mari collected her hand, her fingers were fine and delicate like her mother’s glass trinkets. Cool, but warm. Comforting. She squeezed gently and the wrinkles lining her eyes folded with wisdom and good humor, though her face was otherwise untouched by the hand of time. “I was a late bloomer once upon time, too.”

  The perusal went very quick. Madame Mari paced a circle around Elsa. Her hands were sweating and she balled them into fists at her sides, determined not to cower. She counted skulls and waited until the fey returned to her original position.

  The elder woman tapped her chin. “Something’s different…” Her daughters huddled together at her back, a murder of crows perched on her shoulders.

  Holstering her hands on her killer hips, Brenda frowned. “Don’t look at me. All I did was deal with whatever the fuck was on her feet.”

  Astrid pushed her tea shades up her slender nose. “I’m only guilty of the hair, Momma.”

  Gillian didn’t seem inclined to speak up. That is, until her sisters pointed their beaks in her direction. “Okay, okay,” she rolled her eyes, “so I added snowflakes. Big deal.”

  Canting her head, Madame Mari raked critical eyes over the garb. “Something’s missing…”

  “Obviously.” The she-wolf crossed her arms. “The woman’s unarmed.”

  “Hush, Brenda.” Her mother chuckled. “Look at those luscious tits. Elsa ain’t been unarmed since she went through puberty, isn’t that right, sugar?” She winked and Elsa flushed three shades of pink despite the shy smile twitching at the corner of her mouth.

  “Oh! Add candy canes.” Gillian clapped. “No! Add gumdrops.”

  Astrid pointed to the garment’s rear. “The bow should be black, Momma.”

  Madame Mari snapped her fingers and an African Blackwood wand appeared in her hand. “Astrid, hon, if it were up to you and Wynn, everything would be black.”

  “Oui…” The handsome young rogue slouched against the wall at the Viking’s back, and whistled at a passing witch. “Goes on everything.”

  Elsa wasn’t sure when he’d appeared, but it was obviously related to the trinity. A brother, perhaps. Odd. It was rare for natural trios to have other siblings.

  “Let’s see if I still got it, huh?” The fey chuckled and zapped Elsa with a puff of spectral powder. Brown and green. Glitter and spectral willow tree leaves. Sparkling spirals bubbled from her feet, consuming her in twisting spells of light. Shimmers waved over the taffeta skirt and painted the fabric in a lustrous vanilla sheen. The corset protracted into a white satin underbust vise with steel boning. And finally, black pearls sewn alongside the snowflakes morphed into candy red and white striped peppermint beads. It was a Christmas bell fit for Princess Cinderella.

  “Now then…” Madame Mari tapped her nose with the tip of her wand. “How does it look?”

  Astrid frowned. “The bow needs to be black, Momma.”

  “It’s like a broken record with you.” Madame Mari rolled her eyes and zapped Elsa. “All right, now how does she look?”

  “Oh!” Gillian flung her arms around Madame’s Mari’ shoulders. “It’s lovely!”

  Brenda winked. “Works for me.”

  “Everything works on you.” Astrid smirked and nodded. “The bow looks better black.”

  “Well, sugar?” Madame Mari and her daughters turned an expectant look at Elsa. “Do ya like the dress?”

  Elsa pawed at her corset, hands sweating. “I don’t know very much about fashi—”

  The fey waved. “Yeah, yeah—but how does the dress make ya feel?”

  How did the dress make her feel?

  Well, first, the mesh petticoats beneath the hoop skirt were scratching at her legs. Making them itch terribly. The glass heels Brenda had fashioned were pinching at her big toes. And she was pretty sure she was operating at minimal lung capacity. Fuck all, she was a troll, and she looked like she’d just fled some kind of twisted Christmas carol.

  She couldn’t explain the thrill of being draped in such expensive and gaudy finery. Though the longer she stood beneath their scrutiny, the more she wondered whether the dress had anything to do with her excitement. Perhaps she felt beautiful because her vampire hadn’t taken his eyes off of her the whole evening.

  Even now, as he maintained his distance, poised like an elegant shadow lingering near the edge of the group. Silent. Watchful. She could feel his eyes roving across her, touching her everywhere. Their eyes met. The vampire’s mouth curved, and she couldn’t help the echoing sentiment playing across her face. “Magic, Madame Mari,” she offered softly. “I feel like magic.”

  Madame Mari’s eyes warmed as she nodded, her wand evaporating into nothing. “Then I still got it.”

  A playful shadow fell over her as the handsome rogue, who’d been vigilant at the Viking’s back, closed the distance to her side.

  Scarred. His face was scarred. Not like the Viking’s. Those silver lines spoke of a warrior’s life. The young man standing before her couldn’t have been more than twenty, but the terrible, terrible line slashed across his nose, forehead and cheek, and the weight behind his coal-black eyes, spoke of nightmares.

  Abhorrent, dire nightmares. Whatever had happened to this boy had aged the innocence and wonder out of his heart. More than any of the others, he reminded her of Marshall. Of the harrowing darkness he concealed behind that rakish smile. It was so very similar to the one playing across Wynn’s saucy mouth as he braced a hand behind his back and offered his hand. “May I have this dance, Elsa?”

  What? What did he say? She couldn’t have been more shocked. Elsa’s eyes flitted left and right, before she eventually sought Madame Mari for guidance.

  “I make sexy babies.” The fey shrugged naked, knobby shoulders. “I’ve just got it like that, girly.”

  Wynn chuckled. Surprisingly deep and zinging, spicy. It broke, scattered into a million pieces, and then melted like the sizzle of Creole French on the tip of your tongue. “I don’t bite, chérie.”

  Ha! As if she was worried about this little whelp. She had bigger fangs to tame.

  Young men, old men. It didn’t matter. Men—arrogant. All of them.

  Elsa laced her fingers together. “It is Ms. Karr. Am I clear, young changeling?”

  Brenda snatched her husband’s drink. “See, now that’s my kind of bitch.”

  The boy’s smile only deepened. Sweet and mocking. Cheshire. Like he knew something she didn’t. “A pleasure, Mademoiselle Karr.” He nodded slowly—deliberately—and gathered her hand without the slightest inclination to wait for permission, or the apparent realization that she might just tear his whole arm off in response.

  Idiots, too—every last one of them.

  He pressed a chaste kiss to the back of her hand like a creature from a time long past. “Wynn Skinner.” Abnormally cool and fresh breath frosted her skin. “Lot of people call me ‘Skinner,’ but I would prefer if you call me Wynn.”

  So very like my vampire. Her mouth crooked. “Impossible, aren’t you?”

  “Ha!” Mad
ame Mari snatched Ragnar’s tumbler and downed the liquid as if she’d just had a terrible flashback of parenthood. “Poor mama another, sugar.”

  Marshall observed the scene with thriving annoyance. Possessive ire. Potent, mind-boggling, and severely unwarranted jealousy. Every flirtatious nuance, every eyelash-bat and chuckle misled another butcher knife into his back. Shadows snarled and crept up the wall like black sludge. Staked near the activity with his hands clasped behind his back, what had started as a comfortable, brooding posture had suddenly become self-made manacles. Anything to keep from bleeding that little croaking bastard into a hallowed grave.

  It was an annoying predicament of emotions. Had he not brought Elsa here with the sole purpose of using her to net Sinister Stitches? He’d attended many similar social functions with Gwyneth, and murder—save for Gwyneth—had never crossed his mind. He couldn’t quite help the—

  Hell and Christendom, why the fuck was that imp still holding her hand? There was absolutely no reason for him to—has the little bastard lost his mind? Did he just put his lips on…? Shadows cracked like a whip. Off with his fucking head.

  Thin smile vanishing into his beard, the Viking wiggled a tube of antacids. “Drink?”

  “Blood.” Marshall tossed his top hat to Merlin, who frowned when Astrid caught it and seated it on her head. Elsa’s eyes flickered to his as he strolled into the circle. He offered her a reassuring smile, hoping it betrayed none of the turmoil he felt, and erected himself at Wynn’s back like an angel idol poised on a tomb.

  “Well, cher? I won’t steal her.” If the changeling noticed him, he didn’t have a reaction beyond easy nonchalance. He feathered his fingers across the back of Elsa’s hand. “To have faith is to have wings.”

  It took Marshall a full minute to realize Wynn had been addressing him. Tearing his gaze from Elsa’s, he slipped on his most charming mask. “Theft? There’s no need for such uncivil discourse. Let us arrange an even trade. I’d gladly share Elsa with you, that is…” He braced an arm behind his back and offered his hand to Madame Mari. Her oil black eyebrows rose with surprise, but a glimmer of amusement sparkled in her eyes. “Is your dance card full, Madame Mari? Shall I assist you in teaching the uncultured a lesson?”