'Twas the Darkest Night

by Sophie Avett

  Henry Ansley didn’t move, still as night. There was a languid air about him. Weary. And suddenly, he seemed very old. “Perhaps my only contribution to the man you will become is to serve as an example of what not to become.” He said it matter-of-factly, but the words were weighty and leavened with advice terribly close to true and unbiased wisdom.

  His father retrieved something from his pocket, offering it to him. “A lock of your other father’s hair.”

  Marshall looked at him askance, plucking the blond ringlet.

  “I kept it. I don’t know why.” He frowned, forehead knitting in consideration. “He was a…stubborn soul. Some sort of banker. Good breeding, but poor stock. Liked to play that bloody piano at three o’ clock in the morning like a godless heathen. But I suppose I…didn’t mind all that much. He had a gift. Never could hold his liquor though. Ill-tempered and ornery, but it was said that the Devil was beautiful. I believe the miser’s name was Eb…”

  Dangerous swells of emotion threatened to crack Marshall’s perception of his father in two. The vampire’s face was a mask of death, but otherwise, he allowed nothing. Nothing but sharp and cold curiosity. “Did you kill him?”

  “Obviously.” He lifted an eyebrow as if another conclusion was absurd. “His soul was my seed. That Christmas, I lay with him three nights. I gave him heat and dreams. And little by little, I drained him of every drop. That is the nature of a true incubus, imp.”

  Marshall feathered his thumb through the lacy ringlet. “Did you love him?”

  Henry Ansley straightened and braced his arms behind his back. “Love is a petty emotion, Marshall,” he said, without condensation or ire. He said it like it was a simple matter of fact. “Such paltry attempts at categorizing impulses cannot accurately describe the depth or scope of demonic sentiment. In other words, my emotions are beyond the capability of your understanding.”

  Marshall shoved the lock of hair into his pocket and looked out across the ocean. “You were a miserable excuse for a father.”

  “Yes, well, do me the favor of not etching that on my plaque.”

  What plaque? They both knew the minute he died fireworks would go off in celebration. Marshall’s mouth screwed into a smirk. “Does it scare you? The end?”

  “Yes,” he said without hesitation, or it seemed, shame. “I do not know what awaits me at the end of this life. There are whispers that even demons cross the Veil into the Otherworld as spirits. And that we are reborn as Unseelie fey.”

  Marshall looked over his shoulder as if his Mistress would somehow be waiting for him in the middle of the crowd. “That’s rather whimsical coming from you.”

  “It is simple rumor. I do not trouble myself with contemplating what awaits. Honestly, who has time for tea and theology? I have a board meeting in the morning, and your mother…” He followed his son’s gaze and tsked. “Are you looking for that woman?”

  Oh, that wasn’t okay…right? They shouldn’t be talking about things like this…right? Marshall frowned and straightened, clasping his wrists at his back. “A friend.”

  “A mistake.”

  He lifted a disdainful eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

  If Henry received the warning, he ignored it. “The shopkeeper? Elsa, if I remember correctly, is a mistake, Marshall.”

  What in hell and Christendom gave Henry Ansley the idea that Marshall would ever heed his counsel on any facet of life—much less that one. He almost laughed, but dispensed with the notion in favor of severe study. “Exactly how much do you know, old man?”

  His father’s eyes gleamed like crucifix screws. “The shadows are everywhere.”

  Chills danced down Marshall’s spine and he flashed fangs. “What I bed isn’t any of your business, old man.”

  “My business? Hardly.” Henry Ansley tilted his head coquettishly, eyes glittering with terrible knowledge. “But it is quite entertaining.”

  Marshall’s entire being went taut, every cell vibrating with horror. Elsa’s punishment. Memories of the things he’d said, the way he’d bared himself. The idea of Henry Ansley’s terrible snowy blue eyes watching the entire private moment threatened to crack the coffin in two. His breath felt strangled and it was painful. Adrenaline and bloodlust mingled with humiliation. Henry Ansley was quickly pushing him to a decision. Either he’d have to kill him. Or he’d kill himself.

  “Marshall,” his father jerked him out of his horrid reverie, “you would do well to consider that shabby little creature in the midst of the political dramas that are sure to come.”

  “She’s a lot sturdier than she looks.” He wrinkled his nose with disgust. “As I’m sure you know.”

  “Still, she is not Moira, or Cassandra, and hardly in a league with Gwyneth.” His father slanted him a coy look, one that was ready and expectant for an explanation as to why the beast witch had not been the one to accompany him on this fool's errand.

  Marshall fiddled with the curl in his pocket, but otherwise remained unmoved. One gift didn't suddenly give birth to a well of trust. Who even knew if the lock of hair was really his father's and not just one of Henry's manipulations?

  Henry Ansley did the impossible and chuckled. It was a harsh, pungent, warm bluster. “Very well, my conniving little imp. Keep your secrets.”

  Marshall glared at the horizon and tried to picture Elsa in Wingates Castle. Why? He wasn’t sure. The end had already come. The ferry had already left.

  “Answer me this, old man,” he braced the balcony, and stood alongside his father for the first time since he’d been disowned, “what did you get out of the pact you made with Sophia Wingates so many centuries ago? It wasn’t immortality. You’re dying. It wasn’t wealth. Evil prospers and all that. And it wasn’t love. You’re heartless. So, what was it?”

  Henry Ansley pierced his son with a long, hard look and Marshall quelled the urge to step back. They stood like that for a long time. Father and son. Enemy and enemy. Absorbing one another for one of the very last times. And then, Henry Ansley allowed himself a frown. “You, Marshall. She promised me a son to carry on my name and legacy. In you, I attain my immortality.”

  Is that so? Marshall politely lifted his chin and whispered, “Burn in Hell.”

  “Marshall?” It was a familiar, feminine purr.

  He turned to find Gwyneth standing beneath the foliated archway with his mother. Her ruby red lips were dipped in a frown. “Who were you talking to?”

  Marshall didn’t have to look to know Henry Ansley was gone. He considered his mother’s passive expression. Her thick blonde eyelashes were fanned over her cheeks like she refused to meet his eyes. Even now, she just seemed…weak. Maybe she wasn’t weak, but he didn’t think he’d ever see her in another light. Henry Ansley will die a fucking monstrosity. But you…you, loved him anyways, didn’t you? Is that why this happened to you?

  Straightening, he swallowed the throbbing pangs of emotion and stood strong. “No one, Gwen.” He offered his mother his arm. “I wasn’t talking to anyone.”

  “Will you be home for Christmas, Marshall?” Moira’s violet eyes flickered across his face as she took his arm. Tentatively. He was scaring her. Good. Moira Ansley needed to understand that nothing had changed. He’d been disowned. He was only her son in name. He was only playing the part because of the advantage. And that was all it would ever be.

  She nodded as if she’d understood the unspoken communication and retrieved a small emerald amulet and a business card from the small purse on her wrist. “When you’re ready to give your answer, it will take you to him.”

  He plucked it and shoved it into his pocket. “What now, Mother?”

  Moira pursed her lips. “Take me upstairs, Marshall. I’m tired.”

  Gwyneth frowned and motioned to the dancing swirl of fabric and dancers. “Are you sure? The party—”

  His mother’s delicate hand caught the beast witch by the face. “Do I appear the party type, girl?” The vampire squeezed and Gwyneth let out a startled squeak. “You will not
question me. Ever.” The Countess shoved and the witch stumbled back, catching herself against the balcony.

  Marshall hid a sick little smile as he gathered Gwyneth. Mother on one arm. Fiancée on the other. Domestic surrender complete. They paused at the top of the staircase. Gwyneth bid a quick farewell to his mother and promised to wait for Marshall in her room.

  He’d deal with that next.

  Standing at the door to her room, Moira Ansley released her son and clasped her hands together. She was an Elizabethan vision in black taffeta and that fan of starched lace around her slender neck. Still, she seemed very old. Her eyes alone seemed drained, muted. “Shall we speak of Gwyneth now?”

  Women—nosy. Every last one of them. He pulled his top hat off and propped a shoulder against the wall. “What is there to speak of?”

  “She came to me.”

  He scraped a sharp ivory nail against the velvet rim. “So, I've heard.”

  “And what have you to say against her accusations?”

  He chuckled dryly. “They’re all true.”

  His mother was quiet for a moment, considering him closely. “And the other young woman. The one whose scent you wear like colors.”

  He lolled his head to the side. “She’s none of your business, Mother.”

  Moira didn’t react outwardly. Not even to blink. “Very well.” She grabbed the elegant door handle. “Good night, Sir Ansley.”

  His jaw clenched, and he scrabbled against his mother’s ability to make him feel like a childish ass. “Where’s Cassie?” he snapped.

  Serene as ever, she swept a lingering glance at the nearest porthole. “Wingates Castle.”

  He lowered his eyes, fiddling with the white satin sash rimming his hat. “Why are you here? Henry Ansley can be anywhere he wants to be. Why did you have to come at all?”

  She halted, going still. It was unnatural, but for a time his mother appeared lifeless. They stood like that for over an hour, but time was different for a vampire. Four cigarettes and one of Gillian’s candy canes later, Moira finally surfaced from her thoughts and blinked. All she had to offer was, “I was here to beg you, if necessary.”

  “Was…?” Having replaced his top hat, Marshall pulled the brim in a devil-may-care slant. “With respect, your ladyship, you speak as if I have already accepted the offer.”

  Moira’s violet eyes softened with maternal love and she almost looked human. Almost. “You will. I know you will.” She drew him into her dainty arms. It was like being held by a glass. A soft barely there touch. Cold and unnatural. Unassuming and unyielding. “I carried the dark knight in my womb.”

  He peered over her mass of teased ringlets, staring down the hall with unseeing eyes as he gathered her against his chest. So many choices. So many paths. How quickly the fey and the job assignment that had brought him on this ship had become such a small problem when compared with this new, ever-growing variety of annoyances.

  Moira slid her icy hand into the lapels of his coat. She dragged a lusty finger against the chords in his throat, expertly undoing the top buttons of his shirt. “Marshall…I’m peckish.”

  His mouth curved in a vacant smile. “I hear the gingers are nice this time of year.”

  She swatted his arm. “Imp.”

  Marshall tilted his head automatically as she rose on her tiptoes and snaked her tongue across his jugular. He didn’t shake anymore. She’d trained him since he was a small child. She’d made sure he could bear the bite with dignity. Fangs pierced, tiny spikes of ecstasy. Blood lust rushed his veins and his own fangs thickened against his swelling tongue. It was twisted and painful pleasure. Oddly comforting.

  When she’d had her fill, he caught the ruby beads lingering on the corner of her delicate mouth with his thumb. Her violet eyes met his and he knew very well Henry Ansley had been right to assume he would do anything for his mother. Even if he hated her, even if she’d abandoned them in favor of power—he didn’t have it in him to leave her helpless. Like Elsa, he just couldn’t let go. His empathy for her damned him.

  The sun began its bloody ascent into the starless sky and Moira offered him one final smile—a true one, revealing her lovely curve of white perfect teeth—and then, she simply collapsed. Her curls were swept in the inertia, her lovely white hands limp as she drifted back like a doll carried on the colors of the wind. Marshall caught her tiny body, cradling it in his arms before she was ever in danger of hitting the ground and tucked her away in a shiny white coffin.

  He covered the gold image of the Chimera on the lid with his hand, and then he slipped out of his mother’s suite and walked across the ship to his suite. The door opened and a chill rushed from the dark room. Elsa was gone. Her bag, the smattering of clothes she usually left all over the floor, the cupcakes and the weird random artifacts—it was all gone.

  The room had been cleaned in his absence. Not even the scent of apricots and cinnamon lingered. Marshall closed the door and gave himself to the soothing darkness. He crossed the distance to the balcony and slid open the doors. Wind and sea blasted the curtains. Brocade fabric whipped and snapped violently. Scraps of papers wheeled across the room. Currents ripped his top hat off, raking through his disheveled hair as he calmly plucked his cigarettes from his pocket.

  “We had an agreement, Gwen. You were supposed to keep my parents distracted. You were supposed to keep them away from the ball.”

  “I did what I could, but your mother isn’t exactly the friendly type.” Gwyneth slipped from the shadows clad in a red silk nightgown. “Besides, she’s gone, Marshall. Elsa left.”

  He blew out a stream of smoke. “What did you offer her?”

  “Only what she needed.” She molded her willowy curves to his side. “What about you, my prince? How can I make your dreams come true?”

  Dreams? Marshall snaked an arm around her waist and peered at her from the corner of his eye. Her ghostly white flesh was glowing in the moonlight. Her lips shining, he could almost see himself in their glossy red reflection. She spoke of dreams. What dreams?

  The life he’d built for himself, everything he’d been working toward, the light Elsa had been holding at the end of the tunnel—it was over. All he was left with were pretty words and the hollow curves of a woman he was starting to hate.

  Dreams? There were no dreams in darkness.

  Only nightmares.

  Doe eyes bright, Gwyneth cradled his cheek. “Can we start over? I promise things will be different this time. I will be different.”

  What do I say, Elsa? No answer came, and he still didn’t know what to do. So, he did what he always did. He offered her that clandestine smile that always made him seem so much more despicable than he actually was. “Sure.”

  They kissed—coffin nail.

  * * * *

  The nightmare came for him just like he’d known it would. This time, he found himself sitting in the middle of his suite on the Palatine Light. The black recliner had been replaced with one of the suite’s wingback chairs, but otherwise it was very similar to the first encounter, his vision of the past. Screams were vibrating in the walls. Most of which, he didn’t recognize. And there was nothing in the room save for red-tinted moonlight, a vampire, and a raven perched on top of a skull coat rack.

  Marshall steepled his fingers. “If you want my cooperation, I want to know who and what you are.”

  The raven tilted its head, beady black eyes narrowing, but otherwise, it provided no answer.

  He lifted the shadows and began to strike at the walls. Reality vibrated and wobbled. Pain spliced through his mind, but he was far removed from it. He was past the point of games. Patience was quickly approaching its bloody end and he’d simply had enough.

  “Answer me,” he sneered, lifting more darkness. It pushed and stretched at the confines of the illusion and he dropped his voice to a guttural whisper. “Now.”

  The raven released a terrible, raspy squawk that seemed to shake the world right down to its molten core. Mist and magic laced w
ith tiny spectral ravens whipped around in a tight tunnel of transformation, and then spiraled in double helix jets of London fog and mist.

  The figure that emerged from the smoke was familiar. Thin and elderly, Mrs. Potts pushed her winged vintage glasses up her nose and offered him a tight frown. “Happy?”

  Happy? With all this fresh hell? Ecstatic. He dropped his head back, peering up at the ceiling as shadows fell to the wayside. “I…should’ve known.”

  “Get up, boy,” Mrs. Potts snapped. “We’ve got precious little time.”

  Marshall levered himself out of the chair gracelessly. “And if I don’t want to?”

  “Your mistake is assuming I’ve given you a choice.” Mrs. Potts ripped his red leather duster from the rack and flung it at him. “You’ve pissed me off fierce tonight, Sir Ebenezer. I suggest you watch your mouth or I’ll make sure you take a dick and a dragon.”

  “Was it Gwyneth?” He threaded his arms through the sleeves. “I only hurt her a little bit. Besides, I doubt she felt the difference. Pain, pleasure. It’s all the sam—”

  Her knobby hand collided against his cheek with a surprising amount of force. He wasn’t even given a chance to recoil before she caught the front of his shirt and yanked him down to her eye level. “Understand this, child. You may speak to your mother and your lowly whores that way, but you will never dare address me in such a disrespectful fashion again. I put a lot of work into you and Elsa.” Her beady black eyes narrowed. “Do you know how many glass slippers I have to stitch when I get home? There is a Mad Hatter serenading a toaster as we speak. There could be mayhem wreaking havoc all over the love in New Gotham, granted what thankless ingrates you are.

  “But here I am! I’ve taken a chance on you! And how do you repay me? Hmmm?” She pressed her mask of fury against his gaping expression. “By staying here and lying down with that floozy! Do you know what you’ve done? Why didn’t you go after her? Why did you not chase after Elsa—”