'Twas the Darkest Night

by Sophie Avett

  “Behold, mademoiselle,” Wynn drew Elsa to his side, “a spaded tongue sharp enough to open Momma’s wine. Charming, isn’t he?”

  Elsa laughed and took his arm, allowing him to lead her to the dance floor with uncharacteristic ease. Similarly, Madame Mari slid her dainty, slender hand in his, and he drew her onto the dance floor. The foxtrot. Fast and light. Precise steps. Quick footwork. Bouncy at times. Gliding, others. Something that should’ve required years of instruction, and like Marshall, Wynn guided Elsa around the dance floor with ease as if the fairy circle was unnecessary.

  Damn the…French.

  Spinning Madame Mari away from him, Marshall tried to unhook the seemingly permanent quirk of annoyance in his eyebrow and forced himself to tear his eyes away from the other couple as the older woman glided back into his arms. “You have a beautiful family, Madame Mari.”

  The fey laid a gentle hand over his heart and slanted a knowing glance over her shoulder to Elsa. “And you have a belle beginning…”

  He couldn’t help it, he blushed. Hard. It touched his ears and cheeks and he almost couldn’t believe it was actually happening. It had been a very long time since a woman had made him feel like…well, a boy. He maneuvered Madame Mari into a formal hold and swallowed the unease folding in his stomach. “She is…beautiful.”

  “You know, she’s wearing that dress for you…”

  “That, she does,” he said honestly. “But what woman wouldn’t want to fill her closet with Sinister Stitches?”

  The frail looking creature in his arms changed. Morphed. Her eyes flashed white, pupils fading until there was nothing left but terrible, ancient white orbs. Nails lengthened into phantom black bee-stinger claws and her wings stretched high, proud.

  Fierce. That was a word for it, indeed.

  Her eyes diminished into blade-thin slits, and she hissed, “Who are you, boy?” Southern steel. She motioned sharply to Elsa with her chin. “Who is that woman?”

  Marshall met her gaze, fangs tickling in his mouth. “I assure you, Ms. Karr is innocent in all of this.”

  Madame Mari cast an assessing look over her shoulder. Her eyes softened and she nodded as if confirming her belief in Elsa’s deniability. She seemed to remember herself and closed her hold around his hand a fraction near painful. “What can I do for you, Marshall?”

  The darkness came with despicable ease. “My name is Marshall Ansley, and I’m an advertising executive with Mirage Agencies. All I want, Madame Mari, is a moment of your time. If you’d be willing to spare an hour, I’d like to pitch an advertising campaign that is going to make your boutique a star.”

  “A pitch?” she parroted. “What do you know, boy?”

  “Your family has worked very hard to build Sinister Stitches from the ground up. I know that recently you’ve been approached by New Gotham’s sweetheart siren, Teles.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “I know you stand to make millions from the launch of an inter-realm line. But first, you have to convince Nana’s partners your little shop of scissorhands is a sound investment. Do you know how you’ll accomplish that feat?” He dared to breathe near her elfish ear. “You’re going to hire the Devil.”

  She pulled back and raked her gaze from the top of his head to the slick dress shoes. “Well, hot damn, you are my son” —she frowned—“or shoulda been.”

  Marshall smirked and jerked his head at the guns holstered in Wynn’s belt. “Does he ever miss?”

  “No, son.” Her expression sobered. “He doesn’t.”

  Ghosts danced with them. There, and not. Lovers, mothers, and sons, washed in screaming white silks and gunmetal grey. His smile fell. “Neither do I. Madame Mari, allow me to pitch the scathingly brilliant market campaign. You will love it, and it will make you a household name in fashion. Besides,” he spun her like a wind wraith, “it should be entertaining.”

  The fey considered him. Closely. Her eyes burned holes into his skull and he didn’t flinch. He didn’t blink. She should’ve seen how very serious he was. Women were one thing. Family a different variety of torture completely. Work—work was his mistress. He ruled her life with an iron hand. He couldn’t lose, because he refused to lose. Ever.

  Madame Mari sucked her narrow cheeks in a heavy sigh. “If you truly are anything like Wynn, I feel it’s my matronly duty to inquire as to what your intentions are with Elsa?”

  Of all the nonsense they could’ve argued about. This was the one discussion he wasn’t even sure he knew how to have.

  A pox on crafty old women. All of them.

  Marshall lifted the fey by her slender hips in a Russian arabesque. “I don't know, Madame Mari. I don’t know what the bloody hell I’m doing.”

  Tendered in the moonlight like Dubheasa, the Unseelie Queen of Air and Darkness, in flight, she beamed down at him from the corner of her eyes. A storm of pink flecks swept across the plum marshlands bubbling in the depths of her gaze. “Looks like you’re doing all right to me, sugar.”

  “Believe me, I’m winging it.” He guided her from the lift in effortless circles and she patted his shoulder like a wayward child.

  “All right, sugar.” She warmed, but there was no mistaking the all-knowing vigilance. “I’ll see you at sunset tomorrow.” She leaned back, sloping her neck, and the swallowtails fluttered with pride. “Now, hush up and dance. We were teaching my boy a lesson.”

  * * * *

  The dancing and revelry had come to a pause, allowing for Santa Claus—more like some druid debasing himself in that hideous wooly red suit—to swoop down the chimney and amuse the children with presents, candy, and the drunken line of stout elves hiccupping after him.

  Were-pups and cubs. Fey seedlings. Little witchlings and fledging vampires. They all gathered at his boots as he read through ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas.

  And then came the music…

  Noise. Noise everywhere. Ear-splitting, jingling, teenybopper carols. Sometimes the children sang along. Other times they sang whatever they wanted. Most times, they just punctuated the occasional bearable tune with howling, hysterically joyful screams of sheer fucking insanity.

  A vein between Elsa’s eyebrows throbbed, and she downed what was left of the whiskey she was having with her antacids. “Curse the fey. She’s not worth it.”

  “Come now, Elsa, wouldn’t you like a gremlin of your own one day?” Marshall’s breathy chuckle whispered across her skin as he appeared behind her. Arms braced behind his back, he stood still. Close, he didn’t touch. But she could feel him, his presence was a living, physical thing to her, and the end was near. The dream was quickly coming to a close.

  Elsa reached for his hand. “No, vampire.” She tilted her head at the children, and then frowned. Deeply. “They’re loud.”

  “That they are, Ms. Karr. If they're overly bothersome, feel free to retire from the festivities.”

  “No, not yet.” She laced their fingers together. “I’m not ready yet.”

  Marshall freed his hand, banding his arms around her waist, drawing her back to his chest. “We don’t have to leave yet.”

  Elsa couldn’t help it. She looked away. Blinking rapidly, she tried to quell the surge of terrible sadness. She turned her eyes to the dancers who retook the dance floor, among them the trinity and their husbands. Each woman pressed her cheek to her man’s cheek and they danced tight circles around each other in the Argentine tango.

  “I’m pleased Madame Mari and her daughters were so taken with you.”

  Elsa forcibly cleared her throat. “Shall we hail your victory? Have you succeeded in signing Sinister Stitches?”

  “Not yet, but put it from your mind. You have fulfilled your end of our bargain, Ms. Karr.” He held her chin, forcing her to look back at him, and feathered the pad of his thumb across her bottom lip. “Thank you. I appreciate all that you’ve done. I’ll take it from here.”

  “Marshall,” she croaked. Her voice thick, throbbing with emotion. “Kiss me.”

  He did. He didn’t
so much as hesitate. And he wasn’t gentle about it. She’d largely held the power during most of their kisses—this one was different. His sensual mouth covered hers, plying ruthlessly as if he had every right to devour her body, mind, and soul. Sugar. Liquor. The stale remnants of the cigarette he’d just finished. It was a heady and dangerous combination.

  The vampire was utterly ruthless. Nipping sharply at her bottom lip, smoothing the savage little bites with his tongue. They became two grieving spirits reaching for each other. And Elsa lost herself in the night.

  May no man ever kiss her this way again. May she never know this terrible fall again. Let this be the end of it. Let the gods have pity on her breaking spirit and save her from another heartache, because she would never survive this again. She would miss this vampire terribly. She would miss him…forever.

  When they finally parted, Elsa buried a quiet little sob in his chest. “Apologies.”

  He closed his hold tighter. “Elsa…” his voice was pained, a timid whisper, “you’re killing me.”

  I’m killing us both. Elsa sniffed. “I’m just feeling…” she smiled, thinking of Gillian, “a little crazy, vampire.”

  “Well, I’m sure Ragnar has run out of antacids by now.” Marshall slipped his finger beneath her chin and lifted it. “But you never know, the night is still young.”

  Elsa swatted at her tears and arched a wry eyebrow. “Do I detect a glimmer of hopefulness, vampire?”

  “I…” Marshall raked his fang across his bottom lip. “I have too many principles to ever admit that, Ms. Karr.”

  She grinned, flashing those buck teeth. “Well, I guess it’s the thought that counts.”

  Familiar deep, male Creole curses and lusty feminine moans drew their attention from one another. The sounds coming from a particularly plump looking crystal blue balcony curtain. Flesh pounded against flesh, sending vibrations along the wall. The vampire grabbed the curtain with every intention of taking a peek, and Elsa snatched his hand.

  “Vampire,” she scolded.

  “What’s life if you’re not going to live it on the edge?” Marshall flicked the curtain anyway. “Punish me later, Ms. Karr.”

  The vampire’s expression visibly slackened. She couldn’t help herself—really, who could?—and leaned over to snag a peek too. Despite all the things she and the vampire had done since they’d begun their journey, they’d never done…that.

  “Oh my god, Skinner—” Her soft plea was muffled.

  “Oui,” he whispered. “The good fucking cleverness of me.”

  The witch pressed against the wall swallowed a strangled little sound and Elsa covered her pink cheeks, turning her eyes toward the mob of children. “That…is from your Devil.”

  “My kind of animal, indeed.” Marshall chuckled as he let the curtain fall back into place and shook his head, having a newfound appreciation for Madame Mari. Any woman who could mother and love what was going on behind that curtain was either a bloody saint, or the Black Dahlia.

  Speaking of mothers, Marshall’s expression sobered as he tossed a look over his shoulder. The ocean rose and fell, rolling. And in the distance, two small ferries were approaching. Lights flickering and waving, drawing nearer with every passing second. The end was near. And it felt like suffocation. It felt unfair.

  “Elsa.” Marshall hauled her tight, and then released. “I would ask that you retire soon.”

  She stiffened. “A pressing engagement?”

  “More like the signing of a peace treaty. Or a declaration of war. It depends entirely on what manner of fresh hell the gods have in store for little ole me. ”

  Her expression unreadable and as mysterious as ever. “If I asked, would you tell me?”

  Marshall braced his hands behind his back, peering down at his little witch. No words would come. The longer he stood in her shadow, the more apparent it became that she could probably will him to crack open his heart with a look. But had he been bewitched so completely? Had he already fallen? Was he willing to invite Elsa into the private, special pocket of personal hell that was his family? He answered honestly. “No, Ms. Karr.”

  Elsa remained a glittering idol, sea breeze dancing with hungry flames and pearlescent skirts. Finally, she cast her gaze elsewhere. “Then I won’t waste my breath.”

  Marshall gathered her hand and held it against his chest. “Don’t.”

  Elsa’s eyes beamed scarlet and she caught his corded neck with her other hand. No pressure. Just the constant threat of what could be. But when she spoke, it was all ice. Frosty tones of cool. “You really can’t take it, can you, vampire?” she quoted his words back to him from their time spent together in the Winter Wonderland.

  “You really can’t take it, can you, vampire?”

  Take what? The way she was looking at him? No. He could never be her everlasting. Marshall’s throat worked against her grip. It was tight. Really tight. Beyond comforting. Despite the nagging darkness’ demands that he answer her threat, he simply nodded and spoke the truth instead. As if he simply couldn’t lie. Not to her. Not while she held him in the palm of her firm hand.

  “No, Elsa.”

  “Very well, vampire.” She released the hold on his throat, leaving it naked. Wind nipped at his heated skin and he pocketed his hands in order to stem the urge to put hers back where they belonged. Folding her arms across her chest, Elsa turned her cool regard on the party. “Where’s the cake?”

  Look at me, Elsa. She wouldn’t. Ranting on about the lack of assorted chocolates present, she fisted her skirts and drew the hem off the ground—as Gillian had taught her—ready to stomp to the nearest pillar made of what better be cake, and the vampire…

  Time slowed.

  This moment in time would be when everything ended. All of it. The dream shattered, slipping from his fingertips like sand. Each grain that fell a memory made, and he had little doubt she would haunt him. She would haunt him until the day he drew his last breath.

  What if things could be different with her? She wasn’t Gwyneth. She was Elsa. Wholly different and unexpected. Evidence suggested he would never get the better of her, never quite learn how to crack her complex code. Perhaps his rakish tendencies could be rehabilitated in this tiny witch. She could stay with him the rest of the cruise. She might even want to stay for a little while longer. Maybe…forever.

  Marshall opened his mouth, his chest expanding as if he was gearing up to say something positively earth shattering. Nope. Nothing. He exhaled on a heavy sigh, having understood a very long time ago that to go against one’s nature was to swim against a never-ending exhaust of lies.

  Lies you told yourself. Lies you told others. It would consume everything until there was only darkness, and he just didn’t have it in him to even bother. He was a whore. Plain and simple. She’d bore him eventually and he’d do everything possible to make her hate him until she finally left.

  “Ms. Karr, whenever you’re ready to return home to New Gotham, call the front desk and have the ferry arranged. Unfortunately, I will not retire until late.”

  Elsa folded her arms across her chest. “Duly noted, vampire.”

  Oh, she was fucking killing him. Like right under the ribcage—right there in the middle of his heart. The chill pouring off her shoulders was too much. It couldn’t end like this. It wasn’t fair. Not like this. Risking punishment or worse, Marshall grabbed her shoulders, forced her around and trapped her curse of protest in a kiss.

  It was deep. Painful and wet. A good-bye kiss, if he’d ever tasted one. Hauling her clear off the ground, he sealed his arms around her, trying to touch the sun for the last time. Kissing her as if he could will fate to change the hand they’d been dealt because he couldn’t change how he played the game for anyone. Not even for her.

  Elsa shoved at his chest, breaking the kiss with a desperate gulp for air, her breasts rising and falling within the unforgiving bodice. She pushed. He wouldn’t give. She pushed harder. Much harder. Marshall reached up and touched her bott
om lip, shadows snaking around his legs to hold him against the brunt of her brute strength—and it was brutal. Aggressive magic rose in the air, her biceps flexing as she applied even more force, like she might just punch a hole through his chest and put him out of his misery, but he would not move. Not even for her.

  She finally gave up, deflating against him. “What?” she snapped. “What do you want, vampire?”

  I wish I knew. What he did have was a very vague idea. Terrible. Terrible idea that it was. Damn it, he’d spent the last ten minutes convincing himself it wouldn’t work. It could never work. He was just too much of a bastard. Then let her go…

  Marshall crushed her closer and opened his mouth to seriously ask her what she thought of seeing him again once they returned to the city, but the appearance of a platinum blonde with biting violet eyes stunned him to silence. And it begins…

  Elsa frowned, searching his expression. “What? What is it, vampire?”

  His jaw clenched. “My mother.”

  She ducked. “Shall I run?”

  “Oh, yes.” Marshall pulled Elsa behind his back as if he could protect her from the woman scanning the room, presumably looking for him. “Quickly now.”

  Elsa stretched and pecked him on the cheek. His eyes widened at the simple affection, but when he turned around to haul her stubborn ass into a proper kiss, she was gone. Vanished. His eyes flitted from left to right as he closed the distance to the balcony and peered over the side. Nope. Nothing. He smirked. It isn’t natural, I say.

  “There you are, Marshall.” His mother’s sharp British accent split the silence and his bones thrummed with weariness.

  “Good evening.” Reaching into his pocket, he plucked out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. “Mother.”

  The darkness quickened at his back, running like eerie fog. Rancid smoke spilled from a splice in the dimension. Black Prada soles touched the balcony and the tear was sealed.