'Twas the Darkest Night

by Sophie Avett

  “I want you, vampire. I want all of you.” Her raspy, smoky, shot of pure moonshine voice rolled across his mind and his throat worked as he sank back against the glass. Did she still want him? He was sullied now. He’d lain with Gwyneth. He’d conceded to becoming the Wingates’ next guard dog. He couldn’t even go back to the way things had been nearly two weeks ago. He couldn’t even pretend to be the same man because he wasn’t. He was something else. Something new and strange.

  And he wondered from the bottom of his heart whether Elsa would ever want this version of him the way he wanted her now. Painfully. Like a man parched with thirst. He wanted a stern shot of whiskey and a smack—just in case the sugar didn’t go down properly.

  “Chop, chop, Boris,” a tiny voice hurried.

  Marshall tilted his head at the gargoyle closing a door near the bar that read “Office” behind him. Perched on his head was a pixie. She tugged on the reins strapped around the two horns protruding from his brow and huffed. “As a general rule, Boris, if there is a naked man on my bathroom floor—leave him there. Obviously, I intend to use that later.”

  Her purple translucent wings twitched and she narrowed her eyes on the crowd. “Ingrid should already be on her way to the Dungeon and I don’t want to be late.” She tapped her foot. “Mush, Boris.”

  Marshall followed the direction of her gaze and spotted Ingrid carving through the crowd in the direction of the Dungeon. Her slender finger hooked in Sebastian’s collar, she led a small party through the mob like the pointed nose of a crocodile. She was followed by a woman in a catsuit.

  It took him a few minutes and a few gulps for breath to accept the woman leading Brendon by the collar was Elsa.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Club Brimstone’s Dungeon had been decked out in boughs of glitter and streamers. It was packed with monsters and the occasional human. All of the lounges and seats were full. Other spectators had taken to kneeling in neat crescents around the catwalk and gleaming white dais. There was a strange current in the air. Anticipation, excitement, lust. Thrill. Pure thrill filled the room. Purple and green will o’ wisps gave the stage a magical brushwork. Living tapestries peeking in-between the pockets of monsters to observe what was to be a grand show.

  Mistress Ingrid had planned something particularly devious for her adoring public. Elsa was to play an active role in the festivities. Or at least, that was what the gargoyle perched over the doorway had said. If he understood correctly, she was to use Brendon as her own for the evening.

  It didn’t take Marshall very long to persuade the gargoyle over the arch to allow him backstage. Begging and batting his pretty eyelashes had gotten him through the door. Blatant flirting had charmed him all the way up the steps behind the brocade curtain. A promise to come back and play with the gargoyle another time had guaranteed him whatever else he wanted.

  The backstage area was cluttered with all manner of mischief. Leather contraptions of all tastes and variety all neatly stored for later use. Racks of instruments gleamed. Studded, supple leather. Steel links and chains. Rubber and latex. It was a funhouse of brutal fucking and he found himself peering at a gargoyle idol standing in the middle of it all.

  It was similar to the gargoyles that acted as guardians for the club, but different. Smaller. Animalistic. Short shriveled stone wings. Like a stout goblin with horns and a hideous fiendish expression. Its clawed hand was braced around the hilt of a short stubby broad sword. The only indication the relic even belonged amongst the other equipment—rather than in some cathedral in France—was the shape of the blade’s hilt.

  Fat and menacing, it was smooth and blunt, capped like a penis, and it suddenly dawned on Marshall that what he was looking at was some kind of dildo stool. And French perversion continues to shock and amaze.

  Standing on the far right of the brocade curtains, the vampire peeked through the thick, heavy panels. The pixie riding the gargoyle named Boris, Ingrid, and Elsa stood on the center dais. The blonde and the pixie addressed the crowd, while Elsa stood with her shoulders bunched, staring down at her boots.

  Whoever had put her in the shiny catsuit was a fucking sadist.

  Hunger and lust unfolded in his groin and he winced at the sharp pang of arousal. Shiny leather hugged her wicked curves. Catching the light in sharp crescents around her powerful hips. Her tits were braced tight, bound. Begging for him to streak his tongue in tight circles over where her nipples would be. He slid his eyes down the curve of her luscious ass. His fangs ached. He wanted to sink his teeth into her. Every glorious inch.

  He couldn’t see her face. It was walled away from him behind a sheen of pale, iron-straight hair. It shone, glistened. She stood, haloed in soft purple and green light. Uncomfortable. Awkward. How the hell had Ingrid managed to convince her to participate in these antics anyway?

  Ingrid introduced Elsa to the crowd and the buxom ginger curled her fist at her side, knees drawing together like she was bracing herself against the crowd’s collective scrutiny. She looked nothing like the menacing mistress he knew her to be. Right then, standing alone, she looked impossibly…fragile. She looked like the woman he’d seen standing in this very room so many days ago. It seemed like another lifetime, but somehow Elsa managed to be the cake-eating wallflower and the only woman with enough will to break him, all in one ornery ball of little witch.

  What the hell was she doing here? What the hell was he doing here? He had no business being where he was. What was he planning to do? Was he going to barge out on stage and declare his undying affections?

  He could barely stand the notion of them to begin with. He had no business on that stage. He hadn’t participated in the games at Club Brimstone in some time, and he refused to play Elsa’s game in front of an audience. It would ruin him. All of those years carefully constructing the persona he wore like armor in and out of Club Brimstone would be gone in an instant. His reputation in New Gotham would be destroyed.

  But he wasn’t willing to just walk away, either. So, he stood like a street urchin, peeking behind the curtains, listening to the opening monologue provided by Ingrid and the pixie, at a loss. He didn’t know what he wanted. All he had was a vague idea. And it was starting to scare him.

  “She’s gonna kill you, you know that?” It was a seductive, teasing little timbre that managed to be a threat and a helpful warning all at once. Trickster.

  Marshall looked over his shoulder to find Sebastian standing with Brendon at his side. The fox-shifter examined Marshall with jaded narrow eyes through a sweep of silvery blond hair. It licked his shoulders, feathering and flaring around his face in layered silver tendrils. So soft and light, it almost didn’t look real. His firm lips screwed into a smirk. “Seriously. You’re gonna die.”

  Marshall lifted an inquisitive eyebrow. “Really?”

  Sebastian nodded and his hair shifted, two delicate ears peeking from the silver waves. The dim light from the single candelabra in the area sparkled off the rings and rhinestones adorning the curves of his ears, ending in two gaping, shiny black gauges in the lobes. Strangely enough, it was the only part of his apparel that appeared…natural. Everything else looked like a clever illusion. His body just didn’t seem like it was made for clothes. His face was almost effeminate, but not quite. There was a rugged jut to his square jaw line. He was a pretty man and a very dangerous little shifter…for those who liked that sort of thing.

  Brendon made no comment. He pulled the loose-fitting black T-shirt over his head, ruffling his shaggy black hair. The hulking bear was almost two feet taller than his fellow counterpart, but his rugged features and large, dense bones were graceful. His nose was crooked like it had been broken and reset once or twice. A strange deduction, considering he seemed to do everything with an exceeding amount of patience. He almost reminded Marshall of a bull—something that wasn’t violent unless you pissed it off something fierce.

  Everything about him seemed utterly calm. It was a marked difference from the first time Marshall
had ever seen him. That night, he’d seemed so…new. So awkward and uncomfortable. Almost out of place. Compared to Sebastian’s exquisite, almost angelic beauty, the bear almost seemed…wasted. Bland. Common and ordinary. And yet, there was something…enigmatic about him. Magnetic and compelling. It reminded Marshall of innocent sensuality and he back-stepped into the shadows, wondering whether Elsa had chosen him or if Ingrid had made the choice for her.

  Sebastian finished baring a lithe, narrow, toned body. The white veil of hair spilled across his face as he dropped the last piece of clothing in a pile. “So…any last words, vampire?”

  Cocky little bastard, isn’t he? Marshall braced his arms behind his back. “Need I remind you, the animal in you is no match for the demon in me?”

  Sebastian waved dismissively. “My goodness, don’t I know, but you see, vampire, I’m not the one you should be worried about.” He fingered the tight simple collar braced around his throat. “But, boy, do I belong to some kind of terrible.”

  Rumor had it that Sebastian had outlasted any of Ingrid’s previous submissives—that before Brendon had come along, he’d even buried a few when they couldn’t cut it anymore. Marshall had little doubt Ingrid was a force to be reckoned with. Nor did it escape him that any attack on Sebastian was a direct attack on her. Not that he was going to attack him. Any man so willing to dive beneath a woman’s skirts to settle his disputes wasn’t worth his time. He turned his attention back to the slit in the curtains. Sebastian didn’t register Marshall’s refusal to comment further as defeat.

  On the contrary, the fox sidled to his side. “Are you sure you don’t want to run?”

  “You’re starting to vex my nerves, animal.”

  “Oh, I’m shaking now.” Sebastian molded his lithe little body to the vampire’s back. “See?”

  Marshall was a vampire with considerable influence in the city. The fox knew this. This was bold even for him. A little too bold. A blatant violation of social custom that wouldn’t be done without a method behind the madness. And yet, it could not stand.

  Shadows manacled the fox’s delicate wrists and pulled, forcing the fox to his knees with a solid thud. Marshall cast cold eyes down the slope of his nose. “How about now?” he whispered. “Are you shaking now that you’re kneeling at my feet where bitches belong?”

  Sebastian didn’t struggle or pull. He hardly seemed fazed. Comfortable. Like binds were just another piece of clothing. He motioned to the curtains with his nose. “You’re really gonna get it now.”

  “So you’ve said,” Marshall quipped, unimpressed.

  The binds constricted and the blond winced. “Easy, now. I’m sure if you ask nicely, my Mistress will let you play with me.”

  Marshall lifted his chin. “You’re not my type or my kink.”

  “So I’ve heard.” Sebastian shrugged a delicate shoulder. “If it isn’t our dear Marshall Ansley. King ding-a-ling. Diamond dick Dom. A gift to all submissives, he’s been sent from the pits of Hell to spank us all into a glorious subspace of unicorns, lollipops, and tears,” he continued sarcastically. “From what I hear, the Devil’s Hand—that’s what they used to call you, right? The Devil’s Hand? Well, his royal corpse doesn’t play nice with other boys. He barely plays nice with girls. And he won’t play with anything he can’t break.” He sighed heavily. Dramatically. “Oh, and lest we forget to mention that His Majesty almost never plays with weres and shifters.”

  Marshall frowned. “Tactless beast.”

  Sebastian grinned. “Tact is for vampires who can’t manage sarcasm.”

  Is he…baiting me? Marshall tilted his head with aberrant curiosity at the animal kneeling at his feet. His confidence. There were no cracks in it. No vulnerabilities. Well, almost. Marshall reached out with a tendril of darkness and touched the boy’s smart mouth. “Your attempt at manipulation is endearing.” Sebastian narrowed his eyes, but allowed the shadow to seek entrance into his hot little mouth. “And while I understand that I am rather pretty, you’re…not…my…type.’” He released the shadows, popping Sebastian’s mouth with the recoil. “Now, go on…toddle off and tattle to your betters.”

  The blond sneered at him, rising to his feet. “My, aren’t you a brave and rude little suckhead—”

  “Sebastian.” Brendon caught a gentle fist of the fox’s hair, silencing him midsentence.

  Sebastian’s cheeks colored, his eyes widening. “Brendon.”

  Suddenly, the smart-mouthed fox didn’t seem so bold. He almost looked cute. The bear tugged gently, silvery blond hair gliding though his meaty hand. “That’s enough. You both got your licks in, so let it go.” He pressed his long fingers to Sebastian’s collar, eliciting a little hitch in the other man’s throat. “Take it off. We’re supposed to take it all off.”

  Sebastian hesitated, gazing past Marshall’s head with a hideously vulnerable look in his eyes. “Okay.” He wheeled around slowly and offered Brendon his throat. “You do it….” His gaze drifted to the bear’s mouth. “Please.”

  Marshall bristled with the uncomfortable sensation that he was witnessing a private moment. The sex and intrigue was fine. Whatever had motivated Sebastian’s immediate surrender to Brendon was not. It was too…intimate.

  Brendon pressed his mouth to Sebastian’s temple as he unsnapped the simple black collar.

  Marshall receded deeper into the shadows. “Your Mistress allows you to remove your collars at will?” He asked because he really couldn’t believe it. Ingrid just didn’t seem like the type.

  “These?” Sebastian plucked the collar from Brendon’s hand and wrinkled his nose. “These are nothing.” He tossed it over his shoulder like a wad and Brendon cursed and caught the strip. “We do not need collars.”

  Sebastian pointed his foot, framing a steel linked anklet with a glowing jade stone as its only pendant. Brendon wore a matching one. Obviously, there was no need for the holy symbolism of a collar—they were already shackled.

  Marshall touched his throat, his mind taken with images of the red amulet resting around Elsa’s neck. What would that mean beyond the bedroom? Would anything in their current relationship change? Would she try to assume more control or grant him more freedoms? Brendon produced a different set of collars fitted with ‘O’ rings from one of the racks. He donned his and then collared Sebastian.

  Apparently ready for his debut, the fox-were turned and seated a hand on his hip with attitude. “Last chance, vampire. You’re not one of my Mistress’ favorite people right now. I’d run.”

  Marshall flashed fang. “I don’t run from food.”

  Brendon frowned at Sebastian and opened his mouth, it seemed, to chastise him. The fox shushed him over his shoulder with a skillfully placed slender finger. “Well, let me say, good luck to you, sir vampire.”

  The hairs on the back of his neck rose with warning and Marshall stiffened. “She’s standing right behind me, isn’t she?”

  “Of course.”

  “Sebastian…” He licked the front of his teeth. “You asshole.”

  “Ha,” Brendon snorted, shaking off Sebastian’s finger. “You don’t fuckin’ know the half of it.”

  “Sebastian, Brendon. Get on the stage. Now,” Ingrid snapped. Steel. She sounded like pure steel. Maybe even harder. Something natural and indestructible. Dangerous. Like blood diamonds. Yes. The woman standing at his back, blistering it with fury, was a hard, cold diamond. He had his work cut out for him.

  Sebastian immediately started toward the catwalk, aided by a teasing little spank from Brendon. The fox flushed pink up to his studded ears, carefully avoiding Marshall’s sharp blue eyes as he disappeared through the brocade curtains and was greeted by a round of steady applause by the audience.

  Brendon didn’t move, aside from bracing his arms behind his back and lowering his chin. It was a standard submissive’s rest position. Otherwise, he made no movement that might suggest he was getting ready to follow the order anytime soon. Nor did Ingrid correct him for his disobedience.
r />   Marshall slanted an arched look over his shoulder. “Where’s Elsa?”

  Ingrid stood in leather glory. Straps acting as a skirt, mild womanly curves bound in a tight bodice that offered up her breasts, she looked like a petite pagan goddess. There was a sensual quirk in her mouth that persisted even when she was frowning…like now. She peered at him through sleek and shiny blonde bangs. “On stage.”

  The vampire cursed and reached for the curtain. “You left her out there by herself. Are you mad?”

  Ingrid shot him an incredulous look and smacked his hand away. “She’s no weak, shrinking violet.” Her gaudy assortment of rings gleamed in tracks across her fingers as she holstered her hands on her hips. “What are you doing here, vampire?”

  Good question. “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

  “I don’t have time for this. Leave or I’ll have Boris remove you.” Ingrid stomped past him on particularly festive leopard print heels to a rose print physician’s bag very similar to Elsa’s carpet bag, and popped up the latches. She plucked out a long wood stem. It looked like a regular twig pulled from an aging birch.

  The bear took one long look at the branch and bit his bottom lip. Ingrid uttered a sultry incantation, staining the air with black magic. The twig vibrated with energy and then softened. Most of it melted like a spaghetti noodle, turning it into a barbed whip of vine and thorns. “Well?” She snapped the tail in a wicked arc. “The door is that way.”

  Energy pulsed from the weapon. Fey and familiar. He glanced at the jade stone threaded around Brendon’s ankle. “You’re a troll, too.”

  “I am huldra. But yes, I am of the troldfolk.” Ingrid lifted a blonde eyebrow. “Does that affect your plan?”

  Fuck my life. Marshall rolled his eyes heavenward. “Not at all.”

  Obsidian tendrils snapped out and collared Brendon, forcing him to the floor. Other tentacles whipped around Ingrid’s wrists and disarmed her with a harsh tug. He’d expected them to resist. They didn’t. Brendon allowed himself to be hauled onto his knees and didn’t move past that, arms still braced behind his back.