by Sophie Avett
Marshall leveled dead eyes on the shadows. “You.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Early into Christmas morning, Elsa offered quick good-byes to the Dweyer sisters, their husbands, and a drunk, and surprisingly rowdy, Madame Mari before she slipped from the clutches of the festivities going on in the atrium below. Standing at the top of the staircase, she closed the distance to the large Christmas tree. Gold ornaments twinkled. Macabre little trinkets. Shiny and pretty. And hardly enough to quell the terrible dread rising to cloak her shoulders. A few vampires stalked past her, murmuring and pointing to a flyer. It was for Bits and Pieces. The vampire had already started to fulfill his end of the bargain.
She held her amulet, staring up at the tree. She needed to leave. Now. Before he came back to the room and did or said something else wonderful.
I don’t want to leave… Elsa touched her bruised bee-stung mouth as if she could feel him there. Ornaments clinked and she swept her gaze over the presents. A slender orange and white striped tail peeked from the myriad of shiny packages. Elsa lowered her hand to her side. “What, cat?”
Fenris lifted his head at her words and then disappeared. Fading from existence. He appeared again, padding down a long corridor. It was the opposite direction of her room. She didn’t even know what the hell was on that side of the ship. Holstering her hands on her hips, she watched as he trotted to the end of the hall. He paused, casting an expectant look over his shoulder, and she lifted an eyebrow and stomped after him. “This better be good.”
The tabby cat led her to an abandoned indoor swimming pool. The glass door swished shut behind her as she was assaulted with the chemical stench of chlorine. Water lit by pale blue lights was still in the oval basin. It sparkled with unnatural, man-made clarity as another scent dusted the air. Earthy and musky magic.
Absentmindedly grabbing her amulet, she frowned and whispered, “Cat?”
“More like canary.” A familiar crisp, Upper East Side New Gotham accent.
Stiletto heels clacked against the shiny mosaic tiles. Elsa went rigid and turned around to find Gwyneth Cage leaning against the door. She flicked the edge of her shiny honey blonde bob. “Don’t you think?” When Elsa didn’t respond, Gwyneth pointedly lowered her eyes in slow perusal. “You do clean up nicely, don’t you?”
Ornate silver bit into Elsa’s hold as silence stretched between the women. She raked her eyes over the gaudy beauty clad in an effortless slinky white dress. It shimmered and sparkled. She sparkled. She was utter perfection. There wasn’t a single line out of place. Even her nails had been painted bone white to match her peep-toe heels.
Elsa waited for the wave of discomfort to roll in and make her feel invisible and shamed. Ingrid, the Lady Ghoul—all women like Gwyneth had ever done was make her hate her skin. That is, before she’d met Madame Mari and her daughters. She didn’t feel ugly or unworthy right now. And she didn’t feel naked. She felt like magic, damn it.
A cat meowed, drawing Elsa’s attention over her shoulder to the tabby perched in a porthole. It faded from flesh and bone to a spectral purple illusion, and then vanished completely.
“I wasn’t sure you would fall for that,” Gwyneth added.
Coven. Gwyneth Cage was coven. It was a well-known fact. Elsa had never been able to quite put her finger on what kind of coven. It was different. Rare, even. The biting notes of white magic swelling around the woman nipped the atmosphere. She was gathering energy. Collecting it from the world around her in a flashy show of tentative aggression. If it wasn’t for the fact that there was a vat of water at her back, Elsa would’ve thought the entire thing amusing. At the very least, she would’ve managed to keep the frown from dipping across her face. “What do you want, witch?”
Gwyneth pushed off from the door and strolled to a plastic bistro chair arranged beneath a panel of gleaming windows. She took a seat, delicately crossing her legs, and motioned to an opposite chair. “Let’s be women about this, shall we? Please, sit, Ms. Karr.”
Elsa tracked the other woman’s movements, but did not take her offer. On the contrary, she didn’t move a muscle. “What are you doing here, witch?”
Gwyneth draped her arms on the arms of the plastic throne, her seductive smile replaced with a neutral and oddly artificial expression. Oddly enough, Elsa found herself suffering on the impression that any other show of emotion on Gwyneth Cage’s face was mimicked. Like the woman before her wasn’t a living organism, but rather a beautiful android—a soulless doll.
“I’m here to do you a favor, Ms. Karr,” she said. “You and Marshall had a deal, right? His marketing services for your help finding the fey.”
Elsa fiddled with the ring on her middle finger. “How do you know—”
“Marshall told me this afternoon after I arrived,” she offered without so much as an awkward twitch, and then her mouth peeled into something hideously knowing. “Didn't he tell you I was here? No?” Her mirth morphed into a self-satisfied lilt. “No matter. I'm here to offer you a different deal. One I think you’ll find much more gratifying.”
Curse him. Elsa’s free hand curled into a fist. “I don't need you to do me any favors, witch.”
Gwyneth’s expression went blank again, though there was no mistaking the predatory delight in her large doe-eyes. “Actually, I've heard you do. Even with Marshall's marketing services, as wonderful as they are, there's no way you're going to be able to keep the bank at bay long enough to even really benefit from them. So, let me help you. If you leave this ship tonight, I will make one phone call and have the creditors leashed until you can meet them on an equal playing field. That is a promise.”
She was impossible. There was no way it was that easy. It should never be that easy. One phone call should never be enough to sway and break the rules of engagement. Gwyneth didn’t move, looking at her with utter seriousness as if she really did have the power to shut down Wall Street with a snap of her fingers. The notion sent an uncomfortable tickle of true and real wariness. Alone, Gwyneth didn’t seem like much of a threat, but Elsa never thought to consider what manner of wrath her notably rich and powerful friends could bring to her doorstep just by signing a blank check or having the right phone number.
She was impossible and dangerous, but she wasn’t wrong. Elsa had planned to find a way to convince the bank to let her take out another mortgage on the building. She’d planned to bring Marshall’s marketing plan to them as proof that she could turn things around. It was a good plan. The best she could think of under her current circumstances, but it wasn’t enough. It didn’t ensure success. There was a very good possibility that even with the vampire’s help, she would still lose the fight for her home before it had even begun.
Elsa curled her fingers into fists. “How can you guarantee such a thing? You don’t even know who I bank with—”
“Are they based in New Gotham?”
Ignoring the unease twisting her stomach, she nodded. “Aye, witch.”
She waved her hand. “Then it doesn’t matter. I have every suit in this city under my heel, Ms. Karr.”
“Not every suit.” The words fell from Elsa’s lips unbidden. The other witch met her eyes and Elsa had little doubt they were thinking of the very same vampire.
Silence stretched between them, until Gwyneth finally sighed and said, “He really did a number on you, didn’t he?” The other witch dropped her head back and peered at the ceiling. “He can be a real prince when he wants to be.”
For the first time that evening, Elsa had the odd impression the woman slouching next to the pool with a sarcastic quirk in her eyebrow and a faint smirk was exactly what Gwyneth looked like when no one was looking. There was a weariness about her. Something very similar to the careless, fatalistic mentality that drove Marshall. Strangely enough, the more Elsa understood about the woman, the sicker she felt. She didn’t want to understand her. She didn’t want to be in the same room with her.
Elsa’s eyes flitted to the glass door. She didn’t
need magic to know it was sealed. Locked. Probably another illusion, but like all illusion, it was real until conditions changed it otherwise. “What do you want from me, witch? What do you stand to gain from this pact?”
The other woman was silent for a moment. Considering her from beneath lush eyelashes. She motioned to the door. “I want you to leave the ship. Tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“Yes.” She straightened and laced her fingers together, seating them demurely on her lap. “As soon as we’ve finished our discussion, I want you to pack your things and I want you to go home to New Gotham. There is a ferry waiting for you on the port bow. Once you're off the ship, I will make that phone call I mentioned and someone will bring you a notarized document. You’ll have it all in writing. The bank will stop their pursuit long enough for Marshall to work his magic.”
It was a good deal. Honest. There wasn’t a flicker of duplicity on Gwyneth’s face and Elsa knew without a shadow of a doubt, the woman would make good on her promise. Her mind crunched and calculated. Relief and triumph were within fingers’ reach, and yet, she felt like she might retch at any moment. “Why?” she asked, though she knew very well. There could only be one reason why Gwyneth would ever want her off the ship and it had everything to do with the one suit she didn’t have.
“Why?” she parroted, lifting a manicured eyebrow. “Why am I offering you this deal? Or why are you sleeping with my husband?” Her words were cool, unexpectedly devoid of judgment or anger. She sighed, dusting imaginary specks off her creamy white skirt. “Listen, I get it. I really do. I understand how charming and alluring powerful men like my husband can be. Let’s just say I didn’t want you to leave here completely empty-handed.”
Elsa considered the other witch for a long while before she lifted her chin and turned to leave. “I will take my chances with the vampire, witch.”
A long plastic bench scraped across the tile, sliding to bar the glass door. “Elsa, Elsa, Elsa. I don't think you understand. I'm not asking you to leave. I’m trying to give you the chance to do the right thing.”
Her jaw clenched. “The right thing? By whom?”
“By Marshall. By yourself. Elsa, whatever you and he have, whatever he's convinced you this thing is…” She sighed and it sounded a little sad. “It isn't real.”
Gwyneth’s pity grated on Elsa’s nerves and she narrowed her eyes into slits. “And you find yourself in a position to comment upon Marshall and me, how?”
She frowned, the serene façade falling. “He’s my husband.”
Aggressive magic rose in the air, energy siphoning between the two witches. Tension ribbed and beat. Elsa tensed with adrenaline, readying herself for a fight that was sure to come. “He was your fiancé, witch.”
Gwyneth pulled out an elegant silver chain with a Greek casting star as a pendent from beneath her collar. “Don't you get it?” She stood. “You and he are done.”
Elsa spat an incantation and waved her hand, clearing the doorway. “That may be, but I will wait to hear such from him.”
Furniture began to vibrate across the tile. Thumping and tacking. Loud. The clang and racket grated on Elsa’s ears. She opened her mouth, and lifted her hands with every intention of obliterating every piece of furniture in the room, but a chair-made-poltergeist peeled through the air. Gwyneth’s eyes went purple—pure vibrant and diamond amethyst purple—and Elsa scrambled to brace the impact with a spectral ward.
Two more chairs and a table. She blocked them. One right after the other, absorbing shocks in her arms as the force sent her sliding back. The water. If she fell, it was over. Her eyes widened at the glass table, and then narrowed.
Gretchen Karr had raised no weakling.
She would not shame the Gods. Not while she still drew breath. Summoning a second ward, she charged forward and glass shattered against her shield. One harsh incantation and every piece of furniture in the room petrified, and then obliterated—crushed into the fine dust that fell over the women like snowfall.
Elsa dropped her shield, turning a hard look at the other witch. “Finished?”
Standing with one hand braced around her pentagram and the other seated on her hip, Gwyneth lifted an eyebrow, her mouth riddled in a sarcastic quirk. “You’re cute.”
Elsa lifted her chin, magic gathering around her in an angry black cyclone. “Don’t press me, witch.”
The other woman’s pentagram began to glow vibrant purple, rays of color shooting between the splices in Gwyneth’s fingers. She released it and it hovered between her hands and spun. Ghostly light shadowed the witch’s face and she looked positively ghoulish. “Oh, but I like to live on the wild side.”
The pentagram spun until it was no more than a silver spiral and a massive purple bear shimmered into existence. It roared, lumbering a few feet before Elsa. New Gotham Black Bear. Short, thick glossy bluish black fur. Large body, flat feet and stout claws and a very short tail. Conjuration magic. Strong. So very lifelike. Gwyneth had probably conquered the animal’s spirit herself. Beast witch. Elsa’s eyes widened and she managed a harsh incantation, bracing herself behind a magical ward as the bear charged.
Tile jumped, the power of the bear’s massive claws striking against the floor vibrating through her glass heels. Breath left her as it rose on two feet. It lifted its colossal paw, black leather lips and black fur erupted over the spectral flesh. It was summoned. She would have no choice but to kill it now. It swung and Elsa braced for impact. Its strength was that of ten bears and her biceps flexed as she winced, sliding back from the recoil.
Thump. Thump. Scratch. Roar. A beast witch’s animalistic cackle. Elsa caught a glimpse of Gwyneth’s ruby smile peeling into a wicked crescent. “Can we agree to do this as women? Or do you want to keeping playing Goldilocks”—her smile fell—“because I promise I won’t let you keep pissing in my porridge, sweetheart. “
“All die someday.” Elsa spat an incantation and her ward pulsed red with spikes. The bear’s claw came down, impaling itself on her shield. It tossed its head back and roared, Gwyneth crying out alongside it. Elsa shoved the ward into nonexistence and sank her clawed fingers through its immense chest. Power pulsed down her arm and it struck the massive beast with the force of a battering ram. It flew back, and then faded to nothing.
The blow was felt by the beast witch, who stumbled back on her heels, just barely catching herself against the tiled wall. Her eyes widened. “You are no witch.”
“Surprise, bitch.” She spat a wad of blood, and stomped the distance between them.
The blonde hurried another incantation and a series of crows appeared, beaks pointed toward Elsa like little fighter planes.
She swatted them like flies. One by one—the barely-conjured purple birds fell. Gwyneth lifted her hands, casting an eagle. Its powerful wings cut through the air, talons curving straight for Elsa’s eyes. Elsa growled and caught the animal by the beak, forcing its golden wings to thrash. Her eyes flashed as a pulse of magic obliterated the bird.
Gwyneth cried out. A terrible, riddled noise, reaching up to grab her head, but she narrowed her eyes, blinking past tears to hurl another animal Elsa’s way. But Elsa was too close. She was already there. Her hand shot out to catch the beast witch by the neck.
Nordic thrums of war, adrenaline, and magic ran through her veins and she grappled against the urge to kill the miserable coven all together. It would be easy. She could leave her broken little body and her silly animals to rot until someone found them.
By then, she would be gone. She could end it all now. She would have Marshall to herself then. Never again would she have to worry about Gwyneth trying to lay claim on what was hers. Gwyneth scrabbled at Elsa’s hands, nails clawing and scratching. The other witch hardly felt it, lifting her high in the air. Her shoes clattered to the floor as she kicked out, wheezing and coughing. “Please.”
Elsa lifted an eyebrow at the fat tear that rolled down Gwyneth’s soft cheek. She felt nothing. Not one shred of mercy. M
arshall claimed to be ruthless—she actually was. And it was nothing to be proud of. The faint scent of urine tainted the air as she raised Gwyneth higher, acting as a human gallows. She watched the desperation play across the woman’s face. The utter helplessness. The fear.
Sadistic bloodlust and Greed reached their sticky fingers from the depths of Elsa’s soul and snatched the image for later. Didn’t this witch know what a troll was capable of? Did she not realize how far she would go to protect her treasure? Did she not realize that she had conquered Fenris because she was mightier than he—she was mightier than all of them? And Marshall would not be taken from her. She would not allow it.
Murder was a breath away. The witch’s big brown eyes began to roll back, her clawed fingers swiping one more desperate time. Something popped. Something very, very important. Time came to a stop. This time, she was sure of it. It slowed into a horror flick. The witch’s fingers twitched like claws, her glossy white nails gleaming like talons as she pulled the amulet. It fell and Elsa watched the change break down her body in the ruby’s reflection.
Her true form burst through her skin. Fat arms thickened the lace sleeves. Corset warping and loosening to give way for her huge bulged belly. Her hold on Gwyneth melted away as her fingers lengthened to black stalks. Nose extended like a beak. She screamed and a raven’s squawk flew from the back of her throat. Horror petrified her. And she sank to her haunches with a terrible cry.
The amulet clattered across the floor and skittered to the edge of Gwyneth’s foot. Holding her throat, the other woman watched the transformation. Her chest rose and fell as she struggled to work oxygen into her lungs. Shock. She was in shock. Her brown eyes were glassy with tears, but sharp as she studied Elsa.
The scrutiny felt like thousands of tiny knives sinking into Elsa’s flesh, leaving behind thousands of the most painful paper cuts. It stung and smarted. She wasn’t even sure she was breathing, but the witch could never know that. The witch would never know that. Elsa’s pained smile curved into a terrible wedge of rotted chunks of enamel. “Care to riddle me now, witch?”