by Sophie Avett
Ingrid addressed the crowd and they burst into massive applause. She hauled Elsa around for her dues, allowing the men privacy to carry the vampire backstage where they laid him on the leather bench. “You did well,” the bear murmured, touching the vampire’s head.
Lying on his side in a little shaking heap for the world to see, Marshall listened to the faint sounds of a bell ringing on the mixed-floor.
It was a new year.
A new day.
A new beginning. At last.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
It had been easy to forget the crowd during the show. She’d had much bigger things to worry about. Teeth, sex, and sarcasm all over the place. Even now, she stood utterly consumed with thoughts of her vampire and the urge to care for him. He was hers. She could barely fathom the reality of her situation. In one hour and a half, she’d gone from staring down the barrel of eternity alone to a whole heap of problems—with fangs. She felt giddy. And dread. And so wholly annoyed with the ridiculous riling of Ingrid’s crowd that it took every iota of her considerable will to keep from kicking the huldra from beneath her skirts like a mangy devilish cat.
Ingrid slanted a sharp look in her direction and Elsa no longer felt so confident. Annoyance evaporated, replaced by the bashful urge to knock her knees together and shake like a naughty child.
She offered a slender arm. “Shall we tend to the boys?”
They walked. Ingrid cleared her throat. “You’re going to love him anyways, aren’t you?”
Elsa halted and dropped her chin. Her palms began to sweat, shame and indignation crawling up her body to burn her ears. “I can’t…help it.”
Ingrid was quiet for a while. She was watching, studying. She could feel her closest friend’s eyes rove over her like she was a wild minotaur. Something dangerous and wild that needed to be put down. It was similar to the looks that had eventually chased her out of the Veil and back into the waiting arms of her father and his broken little shop.
Finally, they started walking again and Ingrid slanted a surprisingly tender look toward the curtains as if she could peer straight through the fabric and mark Sebastian and Brendon out as hers. “You could’ve done worse.”
Elsa’s eyes widened. Sebastian and Brendon? Really? It was almost unbelievable.
“Like I said…” The huldra shrugged. “You could’ve done worse.”
A pixie mounted on a massive gargoyle appeared near the women. “Stop.” She stomped her foot on the beast’s brow. “Stop.” She dropped her reins and balled her hands in tight fists. “Confound it! Boris! I will take a whip to your hide!” Ingrid and Elsa exchanged similar looks and the pixie’s mouth pinched. “What? I can’t have a whip?”
The pixie finally managed to heel the beast and Ingrid shooed Elsa off to the backstage area so she could discuss the event with her employer. The minute Elsa pulled back the brocade curtain, all the emotions that had been swirling through her after the vampire had been carted off stage came rushing back—tenfold.
The other submissives were tending to themselves. Near Marshall’s bedside, Brendon stood vigilant. He’d dressed and dark splotches of T-shirt clung to his muscles, the oil and sweat soaking through. Kneeling at the bear’s feet, Sebastian remained nude, his brow resting against Brendon’s leg as the bear idly combed his fingers through his silver tresses. They were quiet. Understandably so. It had been a long night for all three of them.
Marshall was the only one who remained…beaten, lying on a cot in a broken little heap. Elsa nodded with respect and appreciation to the bear and closed the distance to her submissive on shaky legs. Her heels clicked across the smooth, shining wood floors and she fisted her hands at her sides and bit her upper lip. She couldn’t understand why, but it felt like she was approaching the rest of her life. In approaching Marshall. In reaffirming that he was hers—to herself, to him, to the very world in all of its crooked entirety—she’d made a choice that would forever change her. Her mind was filled with thoughts of the Palatine Light observatory and the first time she’d ever laid eyes on Gillian Ragnar. “And your vampire,” Elsa had asked. “Is he so transparent?”
“Yes,” the other witch had affirmed with eyes full with love so profound it was spellbinding. “In his own way.”
When the witching hour finally came for Elsa Karr—as it would for them all—she would greet death a different being than she’d been at birth. She would be different, irrevocably changed. And she would be better for it.
Elsa gingerly touched her vampire’s head. “Marshall?”
The vampire stirred, but did not answer. Lying on his side with his coat draped over him, his glamour had slid into place out of habit. Brown tresses had shrunk into disheveled, short locks. His fangs had receded and his body was flesh and blood, the patchwork of shadows gone. Folded and curved as he lay, covered in sweat and blood, he looked even more like a child than ever. He looked innocent. She knew better.
Elsa leaned a hip on the leather bench. “Vampire…”
Marshall stirred and gazed at her over the curve of his shoulder. His expression was lethargic, drowsy. He almost looked drunk, save for his eyes. His eyes were blue broadswords. He pierced her with a long, vacant stare and rolled back over.
Elsa sat, peered at his downy brown waves with a rising sense of hysteria. If he would not have her now—she could not fathom what would become of her. She couldn’t entertain the idea of losing him. Green. Rampant green energy flooded her system. Her entire being was filling with envy and raw jealousy, the emotion pushed past the boundaries of what humans understood as coveting. It pushed past the bounds of desire straight into the absolute need for possession. She wanted this vampire. If he would not have her, she would kill him, and then he would be hers…forever.
Bones shifted beneath her skin as the tide rolled and she threw her head back in a desperate gulp for air, pleading with her gods. She would not change. She would not change. She would not change.
No, no, no.
She stood and nearly keeled over on the unfamiliar height of her heels, eyes desperately seeking the door. A closet. A corner. Anywhere she could run and hide until it was over. She didn’t make a step. Marshall’s slender fingers curled around her wrist and she went still, her body ringing with awareness as she lowered her gaze to his hold. Mercifully, he still held a woman’s arm—not a haggraven’s.
“Elsa…”
Marshall did not turn over, nor did he face her, but she saw the pleading in his eyes anyway. “Not yet. I’m not ready to go, yet.” He pulled and she wordlessly followed his lead. She maneuvered herself onto the cot and spooned his back. He hauled her arm under his, pressing his mouth to her hand like a treasured comfort. “Just a little longer,” he whispered. “Can we stay a little longer?”
The heat radiating from his body fused the leather catsuit she wore to her skin, and she huddled closer around him, burying her tears in his hair. “We can stay as long as you want.”
It was a long time before Marshall eventually allowed himself to be coaxed up. He’d watched her as she’d dressed him, much like he’d dressed her time and time again. His expression was listless and serene, but his eyes—well, those eyes were Marshall.
Her fingers trembled as they redid his buttons. “I can take you home now.”
“No.” He caught a lock of her hair. “I hate going home.” It sounded like a confession years in the making. His grip tightened around the titian tendril as his gaze found her mouth. “I want to go…with you.”
“With me?” she repeated in a tiny little squeak.
He nodded, searching her eyes like he’d just asked an impossible question. “You.”
Elsa laced her fingers through his, heedless of how her palms were sweating. “Me too.”
“Elsa?”
Yes.
Whatever it was, yes. He had her heart—he could have anything else he wanted in the world. She would make sure of it. Marshall touched his thumb to her bottom lip, painting the digit in red lipsti
ck. “Do you forgive me?”
They had wiped the slate clean on the dais. He knew that. And yet, he asked. Elsa touched her vampire’s cheek and his eyes fell closed as if his mind was filled with a heavenly hymn only he could hear. “Do you want a reward, vampire?” she asked earnestly. Did he need more reassurance? Did he need to simply hear her say it? What did he need?
“No,” he shook his head slowly and banded his arm around her waist without reserve or respect for the fact that she was his Mistress. He slid his palm against her cheek and arched her neck back with slender fingers. There was an intensity in his gaze—suddenly, she felt as if he was looking past her glamour, past her flesh and bone, and straight into the wicked depths of her heart. Fear—she felt fear. It perfumed her bloodstream, making her heart race as he stripped her naked with a hot look. “I want a kiss,” he whispered. “You know, the proper kind where a witch puts her lips on a vampire’s.”
Marshall claimed her mouth and she opened herself wholly to the mastery that was her vampire. They stood embraced, haloed in the shadows and the few streams of purple and green light poking through the splice of the curtains. They could’ve been on the moon, or in hell—it wouldn’t have mattered. They were together.
Fully dressed, Brendon appeared at Marshall’s side, shrugging on a simple leather jacket. The O-ring had been replaced with a simple black collar and his expression was easy. “I’m out.”
Sebastian trailed after the bear with a distant, somber look. “Me too. Mistress will expect us at the door.”
Elsa stood back and gave Brendon and Marshall space to shake hands. They exchanged a long look filled with a sentiment only another man could understand, and parted. Sebastian seemed content to shuffle after the bear, but Marshall wouldn’t allow it. He caught a fistful of the man’s silver hair, tugging a startled little gasp from the back of his throat.
“Later, vampire,” Sebastian whispered. “We’ll argue later.”
“No,” Marshall answered firmly. “We won’t.” He yanked the fox around and suckered him into a surprisingly deep kiss.
The fox’s eyes fluttered shut and he grappled weakly at the vampire’s chest for a time, before he seemed to remember himself, and shoved. Hard. Not quite as steady on his feet as usual, Marshall stumbled back a few steps and the corner of his sensual lips quirked.
Sebastian wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “You…asshole.”
“Oh, you’re all assholes!” Ingrid sashayed through the curtains and sighed. “And at this rate, I’m going to have to start charging admission.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The cab ride out of the city to Bits and Pieces passed in a blur. He couldn’t focus long enough to be sure of anything, but he was vaguely aware of being led down the trap-door and narrow stairs to Elsa’s apartment by the collar he still wore. There was water. Light. And then, warmth.
The sun was nearly up the next time his snowy blue eyes opened from a deep and mercifully dreamless sleep. He found himself peering up at smooth domed ceilings. He wasn’t home. He’d been stripped of his clothing and his collar. And judging by the kink in his neck, he was quite certain he’d spent the night on the floor. Goddamn her.
The fraying quilt draped over him slipped to his waist as he eased to a sitting position and rubbed the nape of his neck. “Elsa?”
Seated in her recliner, Elsa slept. Her thick red braid was resting down the shoulder of her faded gray tunic, the quilt draped over her knees and feet old and worn. She looked like Cinderella. She was Cinderella. His Cinderella. His witch. His Mistress.
Marshall touched his throat, his gaze falling to the ruby hanging limp around her neck. Brendon and Sebastian had worn similar jewelry around their ankles. Would she ask him to wear hers? Would she want him to? Could he?
He found his clothes folded neatly at the edge of his pallet and plucked his phone from the top. Midway through a work email, he found himself staring off into nothing. Thinking. Replaying and reliving all that had happened the night before.
Elsa—she was once in a lifetime. He would never have another opportunity like this again. A memory of Henry Ansley’s voice filtered through his thoughts. “Don’t be weak, imp.”
“Shut up, old man,” Marshall muttered and hauled on his clothing. He paused at the staircase, looking over his shoulder to Elsa’s sleeping figure. Her expression was serene. Her long lashes fanned over her eyes, her lush mouth flat. Frowning even in sleep.
It was a long time before Marshall convinced himself to take the stairs and leave her in peace.
* * * *
Elsa woke that morning to find her vampire gone. In his place, she found a neat stack of blankets and a piece of receipt paper from her register. On the back of the waxy paper, he’d drawn her a gargoyle. It was nothing like the massive beasts parading around Club Brimstone. Small, delicate, and elegant. It was perched on a tea cup like a tiny fallen angel.
“Well,” Ferris padded into existence and hopped up on her dining table, “will the vampire be staying for supper or forever?”
She tucked the picture where she kept all the others in the small antique “treasure” box beneath her father’s picture. “What are you talking about now, cat?”
Fenris’ ears twitched. “You and the vampire made up, didn’t you? You have claimed him as yours, have you not?”
Elsa anchored her hands on her hips. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
The tabby cat held his chin in his paws as he sank down to lie on his belly. “Oh, I would never…”
A cool shadow stretched over her and she narrowed her eyes on the cat. “He’s right behind me, isn’t he?”
The tabby shrugged, fading from existence.
“Fenris,” she growled.
Marshall chuckled. “You asshole.”
Her familiar faded completely and Elsa donned her composure and faced the vampire with a lifted chin. He was close. On a whim, she wondered if he would always remain so close to her. She hoped so. “Vampire,” she offered with a curt nod of greeting.
Wherever he’d been, it wasn’t at work. His clothes said so. As a matter of fact, she hadn’t even known he owned a pair of jeans. The skintight black 501s clung to his legs, the snug placard and zipper offering her a tempting view. He paired them with a simple long sleeve black V-neck and her mouth burned with the urge to mark his neck with love bites. He was owned—curse it all. Marshall’s eyes warmed with male humor and he offered her a paper cup. “Hot chocolate.”
She slitted her eyes and snatched the drink. “What did you do?”
“Nothing.” His mouth quirked. “Yet.”
Yet? From Marshall that was as good as a blatant promise of mischief to come. Elsa stilled. Cup hovering a few inches from her lips, she studied the devious light in his eyes over the rim of Styrofoam. Her heart began to race and she frowned at the butterflies in her stomach. “What?”
Marshall lowered his eyes to her amulet. “What does it mean?”
The thick molten chocolate leaving a warm wake down her throat was suddenly chalky and stale. Her tongue paddled through the marshmallows and she swallowed and offered flatly, “It’s a troll’s amulet.”
The vampire shook his head. He drew nearer and set his cup of chocolate on the table behind her. “What would it mean if I wore it?”
Elsa blinked. She almost couldn’t believe what he’d said. Marshall molded his pelvis and the top of his thighs to hers, resting his hands on the edge of the chest at her back. His heat was blistering and she leaned back to search his expression. She found nothing but Marshall. No pretention. No intrigue. No vampire. Just a man. She held his gaze and her hand shook around her cup. “A trollkonor’s mate is both her submissive and her protector. It is a relationship very similar to patron and knight.”
The corner of his mouth curved at the word “knight” and she made a mental note to ask him why later. Marshall’s gaze fell to her mouth and her bottom lip trembled. “What if you were to tire of me?” he whispered. “Would
I die as Ingrid’s submissives do?”
“No.” She bit her bottom lip. “I am not huldra. We are both trolls, but her people suffer a different curse.”
He shook his head and used the pad of his thumb to soothe her abused mouth. “A different curse?”
“I am cursed with Greed. It works very similar to Desire, or any emotive curse for that matter.”
Understanding dawned and he lifted his eyes. “Your eyes…”
She took another deep swig of chocolate. “Yes.”
“And…” He eased forward and trapped her cup between their chests. “…If you were to tire of me?”
Impossible. Her mouth was dry and she was mildly surprised the molten fudge didn’t boil between them. “No, you would not die. The charming ritual can be undone with relative ease and no harm to either participant. The binding ritual… The binding ritual is permanent and cannot be broken without death.”
He twisted his finger in one of her curls. “The difference being…”
“The difference between the rituals is the difference between a committed relationship and a marriage.” She shifted her attention to one of the tapestries. “Similar, but very, very different.”
Marshall gave the lock of hair a gentle tug. “And if I should agree to all those things…”
Elsa lifted her cup to her mouth in an effort to buy herself time to think. Otherwise, he was going to make her choke. Did he have any idea what he was proposing? Was he crazy? Her mind flashed with terrible memories of the last time she’d been so cavalier with her amulet and she flinched. “You will have to return to your clan, will you not? You will live in Europe. I will live here. We should end this conversation now.” She forced him to take a few steps back, slipped from between him and the chest, and wandered to her kitchen.
The shadows beneath her dining table riled, snapping at the hem of her tunic until she was forced to inch back to the vampire. She opened her mouth to protest and collided with a solid wall of fang.