'Twas the Darkest Night

by Sophie Avett

  Thank you for taking the time to read this tome. If I made you smile once or twice, I’m a happy troll. Welcome to New Gotham. I’m so pleased to introduce you to my nightmares. ‘Twas the Darkest Night is the first book in a reverse engineered series. (Well, that’s how it will be released in any case.) Therefore, lots of characters and cameos were included as a way of welcoming all my splendid new readers to the city of the damned and the wide array of naughty that lives there.

  About Sinister Stitches and Bodice Ripper, Book One

  The official cannon trilogy of the Sinister Stitches series is scheduled for debut early mid-2014. Fear not, I’ve decided to release a couple of short stories featuring characters from the series to hold Mrs. Pott’s ravenous ravens at bay until I can finish penning book one, Bodice Ripper.

  Bodice Ripper will tell the story of how Gillian Dweyer nabbed herself a mob boss, Art “the Butcher” Ragnar, in my alla Grimm retelling of Beauty and a Beast. But never mind that, I bet you’re all itching to see that first antacid, eh? Well, no cookie for you—it’s not finished yet. No, bribing the dragon with marshmallows will get you nowhere.

  Well, since you insist, I’ve included the first chapter to Bodice Ripper for your enjoyment. Thou shalt have to bear with its imperfections as it still is in the works. All manner of crap is subject to change as I have little control over what my characters blackmail me into writing. (Yes, that’s right. They withhold the cookies like godless savages.)

  You can expect a return of the Dweyer trinity, their mysterious brother, Wynn, and their flamboyant mother, Madame Mari. And of course, the dresses! More Lolita princesses, Gothic corpse brides and leather queens! Plus, rakes of fresh and weird creatures I haven’t even heard of yet. Expect that mid 2014! I’ll keep readers posted with information on my website, and via newsletter. (www.sophieavett.weebly.com).

  A Note Concerning Reviews and Free Reads!

  Complaints about the pixies, questions, requests, and feedback are always welcome and appreciated. Please feel free to leave me a review wherever my books are sold, or send me a direct note via the contact form on my website. (www.sophieavett.weebly.com.) Um…please? *blush*

  Also, I’m totally open to reader requests. If there’s a pairing you’d like to see a little free short story vignette—naughty or otherwise—for, please, feel free to contact me. Such vignettes would be offered in my newsletter and uploaded as free e-books wherever my books are sold.

  Wanna see Elsa and Marshall suffer the hell that is a shopping mall? Or perhaps, you’d like a little Russian with your coffee? Leave me a message after the scream! And…yeah, so….awkward. Like do other authors talk as much at the end of their books? Seems mildly suspicious to me that I’m having to talk this much. Like seriously.

  Interested in Winning a Dress From Sinister Stitches?

  Yes, that’s right. I’ve got an in with the witches over at Sinister Stitches and they’ve agreed to hook me up with some threads for my lovely readers.

  “What do I have to do?” you scream and flail your arms like a crazy cactus. (Just go with it.)

  You have to sign up for my newsletter! That’s it. Every time I host a contest, your name will automatically be added to the raffle. I was drugged and coerced into participating in blog hops and several other retina-scarring attempts at socialization. Therefore, there will be plenty of giveaways. I will also give away a dress for every new release!

  If you’re interested, please visit my website and sign up for the naughty list! Wow. Totally done now. I feel like an Anime character, yelling things I don’t understand with an inappropriate amount of cheer. Woe is me. But whatever, catch you guys on the darkside! ~Sophie

  Preview of BODICE RIPPER book one in the Sinister Stitches Trilogy

  Chapter One

  Night had fallen over New Gotham.

  It was time to wake up…at last.

  Skylights ripped into the twilight as every manner of bad-ass crawled from the dark caverns of human imagination to mingle with their paranormal brethren. NATO’s International Dante Act gave them a city and the freedom to “live out in the open.” Built on the ashes of burned ruins and what was left of a Native American burial ground, New Gotham was one of many such “haven” cities operating across the globe.

  Every sun that rose over the city was red with blood. And any moon that hung like a pendent amongst the twinkling stars was cursed. Of course, it was a frequent for tourists. Spring brought markets, festivals, and fairy circles. Winter lured the theatre bound and fashion crowds in by the coffins.

  Humans were most welcome. They could shop until they dropped. Dance until they bled. Try their hand at black magic and steal a nibble from a vampire. There was a vice for every wicked heart in New Gotham.

  Most made out it alive. Others, didn’t.

  And, of course, there were some that ended up like this—passed out in the middle of Club Brimstone, face first into an ashtray. It was the third in the last forty minutes. Given the bar in the Solar Sanctum wasn’t technically open yet, it was probably cause for some concern.

  “How sad.” Perched on a ladder in four-inch Mary Janes, Gillian Dweyer, affectionately known as the Candy Witch, plucked a fresh handful of rainbow gumdrops from the heart-shaped pocket sewn on her French-maid apron. She shrugged a careless shoulder. “Someone should go get the Pixie.”

  She was busy.

  The wide oak shelves above the countertop weren’t going to stock themselves. Blue and purple, yellow and orange, slender bottles glittered neat in rows. Short, stout bottles, tall, skinny ones with decorative trimmings. Scores of herbal liquor especially made for coven—all of them were labeled with oval parchment tape. It had taken nearly all afternoon.

  Sweet, fat swirly letters of bubbling-sunshine goodness marked Gillian’s job well-done. She licked the tip of her quill. Labeling was a thankless task, but by the gods, it was a beautiful obsession. Tossing a cherry gumdrop into her mouth, she plucked another bottle from the crate floating at her side. The half-laden box was held aloft by the glowing bittersweet-pink will o’ wisp that insisted on following her wherever she went.

  “There’s a man dying at the bar,” she cooed to whomever might be listening. “Someone should get the—”

  “PIXIE!” It sounded like a word, but it wasn’t. Walls wobbled as the terrible, skull-rattling rumble of sheer fucking rage blistered eardrums all over the club. It was the kind of sound that could’ve only come from one thing—the Dragon.

  The tall Cathedral doors marking the entrance to Club Brimstone’s office swung open and smacked against the cool, teal soapstone walls. A gargoyle was thrown from the eerie black darkness swallowing the room. It raised ribbed, fleshy wings like a shield as it braced against the brunt of the fog, smoke, and tiny flecks of glowing embers.

  Boris the Gargoyle was seven feet of stoic with molten silver eyes. Long black silk locks spilled between massive shoulders as he straightened and folded his wings, baring smooth silver and heavily muscled skin to beautiful effect. He held what appeared to be a purple Post-it in the center of his clawed hand. Scribbled on the square of lavender paper, in large fat red letters, were the words Brilliant Idea.

  “Boris?” A tiny pastel green hand punched through the paper like a deranged daisy. The tiny fey sat up, paper folding and crinkling, and pulled her forehead from the adhesive strip. “Didn’t I tell you it was scathingly brilliant, Boris?” She licked her thumb and snuffed out the tiny lingering flame at the end of one her antennas. “She loves it!”

  Her voice was shrill, ringing. Loud. Pixies always seemed to be yelling. Must have been the size issue, but given the fact most of them liked to get eye-to-eye with whomever they decided should be listening, the yelling wasn’t necessary. Just a charming little extra.

  The ambience of chatter between the witches decorating the pillars in blue will o’ wisps, the hammering from the dwarves carving the massive black fireplace, and the werewolves sawing timber into long boards for gnarled oak crescent ta
bles—all the construction evaporated into silence.

  Never mind the gargoyle. It was rare that a pixie show itself. There were too many idiots trying to smuggle them out of the city in jars like fire-flies. Of course, there were laws against that sort of thing, but the brave usually happened to be stupid. The Pixie who owned Club Brimstone didn’t have that problem. The Pixie who owned Club Brimstone had the Dragon. And a color-coded list of things to do.

  Twin translucent wings twitched at her back as she fluttered to her feet and rolled the Post-it up like blue-prints. “Now, then…” She zipped up to the gargoyle’s eyebrow. “Let’s see…” Tiny emerald green eyes narrowed in search. “Ha!” She spotted a witch carrying a carton of take-out from Hell’s Kettle and snatched up the reins wrapped around the ivory horns protruding from the gargoyle’s ridged temple. “Fetch, Boris.”

  Boris lifted a massive arm and barred the witch’s path, and the Pixie pointed with her scroll. “You! Yes, you. What’s in that cup?”

  The witch’s Honolulu blue eyes flitted from left to right. “Coffee?”

  “Fantastic!” The Pixie snapped her reins, and Boris grabbed the woman by the cheeks and hauled her face up to his forehead so the pixie could speak with her directly. “Here’s what I want you to do. I want you to take this”—the gargoyle plucked a pink-paper cup from the witch’s carrying tray and handed it to her—“to the good Dragon.”

  Big blue eyes widened into saucers as the witch chanced a peek into the black abyss waiting between jarred doors. “But…”

  The Pixie snapped the leather and Boris gave the woman a gentle push. “Go on…”

  If she had anymore objections, the witch kept them to herself as she slowly shuffled into oblivion. There was a pleasant rumble. A greeting, perhaps. And then, a slurp. Followed by the wrath of all-consuming hell-fire, sulfur, and pungent black smoke.

  The Pixie tapped her chin. “What could’ve …?” She snapped her fingers. “Ah…”

  The scent of roasting human flesh stung the air and a skeletal arm, holding a charred pink paper-cup, shot from the darkness. It hit the ground with a gruesome clatter and rolled. Once again, the room was swallowed by silence.

  Gillian popped a square of creamy caramel in her mouth. “Never liked her anyways."

  The Pixie scribbled on a Post-it she’d brandished from the small pocket on the flat of Boris’ loin cloth. She smacked it on what was left of the dismembered witch.

  Squished, tiny letters read NO DECAFE! NEVER DECAFE!

  With a satisfied sniff, she dusted a few stray pieces of ash off her airy green dress and then launched herself into the air, flailing arms like an angry pinwheel. “Back to work, everyone! I want this bar opened on schedule!”

  Everyone erupted into a flurry of movement, and Gillian tossed a blueberry gumdrop into her mouth. “Oh, Pixie,” she hummed. “Someone’s dead…again.”

  “Who does a wizard have to charm for a drink ‘round here?”

  Smooth and savory. Words barbequed and roasted on a Kentucky grill. Gillian would know that voice anywhere. Fuck a squirrel—why was he here? Why hadn’t he just climbed inside a cauldron and died, already? Did she have to see him at every turn? True, she hadn’t seen him in almost a year, but whatever, too much was too much.

  Nick Shannan was nothing but startling electric coffee brown eyes and All-American clean-cut deliciousness. The kind that wore cowboy boots and snug faded blue jeans, and wiped black car grease on his white T-shirt. Twin silver triangles threaded through a beaded steel chain like dog tags caught the starlight dome overhead in a twinkling blanket as he tugged his black baseball hat backwards and leaned a hip against the bar.

  “Ya’ll know there’s a dead man at the bar, right?” he drawled.

  The sound of his voice, the scent of his cologne…

  Spider Shine’s Black Sabbath. Red hot old spice, cedar wood, and fresh trimmed Kentucky blue grass. “Excuse me, sweetness?”

  Her fist closed and the quill snapped in half, black ink staining her snow-white skin in black and blue bruise splotches. Of course, she was the only one manning the bar. Everyone else was doing the Pixie’s bidding. “Fuck a duck,” she cursed and climbed down the ladder.

  Pink and violet spectral dust sparkled around her as she seethed, perfuming the air with a ribbing sting of scorn. As if he’d just noticed the cloud of angry magic filling the room with the threat of impending violence, Nick tore his eyes from the corpse and glanced over his shoulder. “Uh…” He straightened off the bar and lifted his eyebrows as if he’d finally realized just who he was trusting not to poison him. “…hey, darlin’.”

  Darling?

  What a fucker. Oh, she just wanted… Well, she didn’t want to kill him. Or else, she would’ve done that already. She just wanted to stick some gum in his hair or rip out his fingernails with her pink tweezers. You know, ruin his day a little bit.

  She folded her arms and narrowed her eyes. “You’ve gotten fat.”

  “You sure…?” Raw brown eyes bright with challenge, the wizard lifted the hem of his black T-shirt, baring washboard abs and the sexy line of grey spandex peeking out from the waist of his blue jeans. “Cause I doubt that, Gilly-bean.” She turned her cheek, and he dropped his shirt. “I wanna drink.”

  “We’re not open.”

  “The Pixie’s offering taste tests, right?” Nick’s eyes drifted to the man lying face-down in the ash-tray and the smoking goblet resting in his limp hand. He plucked a shiny black card from the pocket of his leather jacket and flicked it across the gold pentacle-dusted granite counter. “Says you’re giving out free samples.”

  “Oh…” Gillian snatched up the twisted bottle labeled Cat Cry and pulled a fresh iced Medieval goblet from the cooler. “Silly me.”

  With any hope, the wizard would be the next thing that dropped dead in an ash-tray. Their fingers brushed as he accepted the goblet. His were calloused. Rough like sandpaper. And her skin tingled with the sickening memory of how he’d touched her body the way he strummed his electric guitar—like a motherfucking riot.

  “Miss me?” Heat lit the amber flecks in his eyes as if he’d registered the very same thought, at the very same time, and she stiffened and snatched her hand back. Not that it mattered. The damage was already done because being an empath certainly had its disadvantages. All it took was one touch and a lapse in concentration, and she could feel everything from a naughty passing thought to the beginnings of preconceived murder. If she really wasn’t paying attention, she ended up giving everyone around her a nice big helping of whatever emotion was driving her to insanity.

  Most of the time it was bearable. Annoying and endlessly awkward, but bearable. Times like these it was retina-scarring, nerve-rending awareness, and it was a wonder she hadn’t pulled her fucking eyelashes out to distract her from the misery.

  The Pixie strolled into view, twirling a toothpick stained with ink like a train conductor. Whistling Alice Cooper’s I Just Wanna be God, she took notes of which drinks had been tried the most on her tiny clipboard made out of a rose’s jagged leaf. She halted in front of the dead-man and poked his bluish finger with her stick. “Gilly, is this one dead?”

  Gillian fished a piece of Godiva chocolate out of her apron. “Seems that way.”

  “Odd.” The Pixie fluttered up over the goblet, translucent wings waving as she sniffed the frothing smoke. “Smells all right to me.” She licked the tip of her toothpick sliver and noted the death in her leaflet. “We’ll have to get to the bottom of this before opening time. Hmmm…? What about you?” She pointed to Nick, and he went still, goblet suspended inches from his lips. “How many heads did you have when you came in?”

  “Uh…” He sought Gill for guidance, and she flipped him off with a lollipop. One.”

  The Pixie scribbled furiously in her leaflet and zipped over to a satyr. “What’s in the cup? Did you have horns when you came in? Oh. What? Why are you looking at me like that? Finish your drink.”

  The Cathedr
al door leading to the mixed floor opened, and a leggy vampire with a screw-mouth poked his head into the room. “Pixie? Pixie? Ah, yes, Pixie—there’s a dead man in the lobby.”

  “Another one? Bloody hell, how dead? This is getting out of hand.” She zipped off with the vampire, leaving Gillian to fend for herself against the blond wizard. “Call the graveyard. We need to staff a necromancer.”

  “Not bad. A little on the bloody side, but nice.” Nick set the finished goblet on the counter with a soft clink. “Thanks.” He backed away like he’d already walked that road and learned his lesson. “Later, darlin’.”

  Gillian’s nails dug crescent-shaped welts into her arms. “In Hell.”

  The wizard offered her a snippet of chalky, smooth laughter over his shoulder. “If you’re lucky.”

  That man…

  She snatched up the business card he’d left behind. Magic sizzled around her fingertips and thick emotions rolled, sloshing over her mind like wet paint. Love, hate, joy, pain—unrequited desperation. Every emotion he’d experienced since the card had come into his possession was bared before her eyes, and memories plunged her into an abyss.

  Suddenly, she could feel his hands work over her body. Taste the lingering remnants of ice cold German beer and the cinnamon gum he favored. He was still wearing the stupid chain his brother gave him before he went off to die in Dante’s Seven Year War. The silver triangles used to sway back and forth against her collarbone as he hammered between her thighs.

  Swore he never took them off. Said the pendants brought him luck. At one point, he’d even claimed they’d brought him…her.

  Well, hopefully, whatever had killed the Ash-tray man—as he would forever be known from this point forward—would finally work its magic, and Nick Shannan would trip and fall off the face of the planet into hellish clock oblivion. She had candy and labels. She didn’t need him. She didn’t miss him. And she sure as hell didn’t want him back.