Frost & Filigree: A Shadow Council Archives Urban Fantasy Novella (Beasts of Tarrytown Book 1)

by Natania Barron

  “Atrocities?” asks Nerissa. She’s hissing again, and Vivienne would like to tell her to cease those bestial vocalizations, but now is not the time for such admonishment.

  “You must feel very proud of yourself for finding us,” Vivienne says. “But I am quite sorry to say that I do not know the terms of the agreement, and I am afraid without my recollection…”

  Before she can even finish the sentence, a young man standing close enough to Miss Crane to be almost inappropriate begins reading from a scroll.

  On this day, dated the sixteenth of February in the year of our Lord Eighteen Hundred and Twenty-Six, I, Vivienne du Lac, solemnly swear an oath of debt to Katrina Van Tassel and all her descendants. In return for a boon, I shall grant…

  “Enough,” Vivienne says. Yes, she remembers now, and any flailing around the matter won’t delay the fact that someone has outsmarted her. It is nearly enough to make her consider freezing these humans. She could do it. But living her life without hunting human beings has been so much more enjoyable than when she couldn’t stop destroying them. It’s not their blood that she wants, it’s their hopes, their dreams, their thoughts. She wants them to love her, and her alone.

  It is clear that Worth and Nerissa both sense this change in her, for they move slowly toward her.

  “This creature that hunts us does not just thirst for human blood,” Christabel says, continuing as if Vivienne’s refusal is inconsequential. “It desires, we think, your sort as well. Worth came to us with his friend, Yvan Tousignant, who may have been killed by this creature; we, too, have lost many, as Mr. Rockefeller said, including my own parents who delivered me here to Tarrytown.”

  Nerissa glares at the Glatisant. “Oh, the beast helping a maiden in distress. Quite poetic.”

  He looks affronted. “Yvan was a dear friend, and one of us, a vampire by classification. You know not of what you speak; this danger is a threat to all of us.”

  “It all just seems rather convenient.”

  “When Christabel came to me with this difficulty, I mentioned that I worked with you, Nerissa, and that we were a good team when it came to destroying Aberrants,” says Worth. “I have looked into the issue myself, but I fear I am incapable of dealing with Aberrants of this magnitude on my own. I thought I would have to go through great measures to find you again, but then I heard rumor of the eccentric new tenants at Lyndhurst, and I had to reconnect… even if it meant dragging up old… difficulties.”

  Vivienne winces at that name, Aberrants. She’s never liked it. Not all creatures of power can manage to contain their wits over long years and, once long ago, Worth and Nerissa were particularly good at tracking them down and destroying them. When they could not be rehabilitated, of course. Though that was very difficult to do. It had only worked once or twice, and even then, not for long.

  But she misses Worth. She misses his smell and the way he always checked himself in the mirror when he took on human form just to make sure he got all the details right—which, it should be noted, he most certainly did—and she longs for that time they had. Those beautiful years of intimacy and, perhaps, love. As close as she has ever come. He doesn’t look at her that way any longer, doesn’t reach out for her. But at the very least, he has only become more beautiful with age.

  “What kind of creature is this?” asks Vivienne. “You say ‘Aberrant,’ but I do not think you’ve got the entire picture. Aberrants don’t generally go after the Fey.”

  “This creature is unlike anything I’ve seen before,” says Worth. “I have never seen it, but what it did to Yvan defies explanation. I cannot speak of it in such company, but trust me when I say it is of the utmost importance.”

  Vivienne always has trusted him. That is ever her problem.

  “So what is your decision?” asks Christabel.

  Nerissa tries not to hiss but does not do a very good job at it. Something about the Crane girl makes her want to gnaw off her own arm to get away.

  Worth looks pale and uncomfortable. He is still naked. Nothing is quite so comical to Nerissa as the naked male human body. So clownish in the fiddly bits.

  “I did promise,” Vivienne says weakly when no one speaks. By the way she’s looking at Worth, Nerissa is well aware the assumption is that he will be part of whatever Aberrant hunting they will be doing.

  And even if Nerissa wants to refuse Vivienne, which she does down to her narrow bones, her heart is a traitor. For Nerissa is fond in the way Romeo pined for Juliette, fond in the way Cyrano longed for his Roxane. For the poor lamia, this pursuit is quite in vain, but it makes little difference. In her heart of hearts—of which she does have three—she knows that refusal will get her exactly nowhere. One glance from Vivienne, one pout, and she will be undone.

  Of course, the whole business would be significantly more tolerable were that that hideous Glatisant not mixed up in the thing. Nerissa has yet to puzzle out exactly why Worth is involved. But she will. Once she’s feeling better and her guts aren’t wiggling like worms and her three hearts have stopped flitting about so helplessly.

  “Yes, you did promise,” says Mr. Rockefeller, a grin spreading on his face. “You signed it in your blood after all, Lady du Lac. And as I have always said, blood tells. Whether it is in our lineage, or in our hands.”

  There is an air of superiority to the man, and Nerissa decides she won’t even bother to eat him if she kills him. Just leave him to the carrion birds while he’s half alive, perhaps, so that they can slowly devour his innards in their way, drawing out his demise in long, red-ribboned agony.

  “But I cannot ask my friends to be part of this,” Vivienne continues. She raises her chin and looks every inch a queen of ice and snow. “I beseech you to let me to the task and allow Nerissa and Worth to be on their way.”

  “I wouldn’t hear of it,” says Worth. “Nerissa and I are the ones with the experience, as I have told Miss Crane time and again. Forgive me, Vivienne dear, but your forte has never been in tooth and claw. Whilst we were working partners, we undid many an Aberrant knot. You are somewhat unpredictable.”

  Nerissa is infuriated that Worth beat her to the punch, but her words never come out so honeyed.

  “We had a partnership,” Nerissa says. “And we have a partnership now, though of a different kind. I wouldn’t let you to the vultures alone.”

  “Then it is decided,” Christabel says, the tension in her eyes and gait relaxing.

  Nerissa watches Vivienne as she continues to hold on to her brightest glamor, what she can manage with dampened magic. Iron in its pure form, without the rest of the composites of blood, is a pox to all Fey creatures save a few, pure, few. It is said to be the enemy of corruption.

  “We are somewhat stymied,” Vivienne admits, gesturing to the circle about them. “I’m afraid at the moment, we won’t be of much use.”

  Mr. Rockefeller makes a dismissive gesture. “We must contain the threat while we can. But I have something for you.”

  He reaches into his jacket pocket and produces a large, gold-embossed envelope. “You are all invited to our holiday ball Friday next. The creature will more than likely appear there, and we expect you to neutralize it before any blood is spilled. My wife has gone through great toil to organize the event. You are, of course, more than welcome to come before the event to get an idea of the layout of the place.”

  “That would be helpful, yes,” says Vivienne, quietly, brushing her hands over the ornate invitation.

  Christabel makes a signal, and the members of the Circle of Iapetus all lower their hands; some begin walking away.

  Vivienne almost decides she doesn’t detest the Crane woman when she turns to Nerissa and says, “Thank you. All of you. Your assistance is most appreciated. And please, bring that djinni of yours along. I have a feeling he will be most useful.”

  An Invitation to Dine

  Back at Lyndhurst, Vivienne sits alone in her bedroom holding the beautiful, gilded invitation from Mr. Rockefeller. It is handwritten, th
e lovely scrawling script speaking to an artistic heart, or else a person of exceptional breeding. Her name, or at least the one she uses, is written most strikingly. The way the leading capital slides into the double n has always looked balanced to her, and though it has never looked so gorgeous, she finds she is most empty inside whilst gazing at it. Having a human name makes her no more human, and her run-in with Christabel Crane and the Circle has left her chilled. And quite sad.

  Worth has promised to call, to discuss more details. To help, as he says, to elaborate on some details of what might be considered confusing in this matter.

  Since they returned from the ambush, Nerissa has done everything in her power to keep a distance. And Vivienne doesn’t blame her entirely, even if her reaction is a bit over the top. Then again, that sort of reaction is par for the course where the lamia is concerned. Her anger is rare, but when it flares, it is unlikely to be sated save with large amounts of blood. Which explains why the servants were discussing just how many sausages they could get out of half a flock of sheep who mysteriously appeared on their property, bled and ready for butchering. Nerissa is never subtle in her anger.

  Still, Nerissa has never wanted to be human.

  Even if she has always loved them more than Vivienne.

  It is she who convinced her that Aberrants and Exigents—those who knowingly went about murdering human beings en masse—were best kept at a distance and, when proved too dangerous, to be killed. She would never admit it, but the lamia hated living among the Fey. The Grey has always suited her better.

  Still, the gilding is so beautiful on the card. Yet, somewhat dimmed due to the facet the sentiment is not genuine. It is a concession. It is payment. It is only on account of her monstrousness that it has been given.

  Vivienne doesn’t cry, but her layer of sorrow feels very close. It is quite akin to the permafrost, perhaps adjacent and sometimes intersecting, like strata on the earth.

  She turns the invitation over in her hand, noting the address. And that is when she realizes her fatal error. The man within the Circle of Iapetus is not even John D. Rockefeller, but his lesser brother William. The spark of joy left at the invitation extinguishes.

  What horrid creatures.

  Nerissa rarely visits Barqan if she can help it. He makes her feel lesser just by existing, knowing that she’s got a debt to pay to Vivienne that she hasn’t fulfilled. If it only weren’t so complicated…

  But for the sake of their current situation, she must speak with him, even if she doubts it will be fruitful. The Circle knows about him, and it’s her job to make sure he isn’t exploited. The magic that lurks beneath his enslaved exterior is dark and unpredictable, and he’s always been a wily one, willing to wait far longer for revenge against his mistress than one might guess.

  As she makes the walk up to his quarters—a small bedroom overlooking the private garden, far from the other servants—she decides that his inherent lack of blood may be the reason she doesn’t trust him. While her blood may be neither warm nor red, it is still extant. He is a being of smoke and magic and, while bound, always seems to be on the teetering edge of either madness or fury.

  Barqan slides through the door before Nerissa can even knock, materializing with a grin on his face, knowing full well how much such shows of trickery bother her.

  “Greetings, mistress,” he says, making a show of shimmering before resolving into his human guise. It is convincing enough that the rest of the staff think him just exotic rather than unsettling. “I thought I heard your distinct slither, but thought I must be in a dream. You would never sully yourself by seeking my company on purpose.”

  “Circumstances are dire,” Nerissa responds. “I assume Vivienne has spoken to you.”

  “About the Circle? Indeed.”

  Down the hall, the clatter of lunchtime goes on. Lyndhurst is always host to guests of the owner, and it is never quiet in the servants’ quarters.

  “And you’re not concerned?” she asks.

  “Their charms do not harm me,” he says, his eyes flashing blue a moment before settling. “A lovely side-effect of enslavement. A stronger magic ties me to my mistress, and therefore, I am unaffected.”

  “You haven’t been around them.”

  “That much iron?”

  “Old iron. The kind of thing we were trying to find our way around years ago.”

  “Pity that it doesn’t work on the djinn,” he says, holding up a cuffed wrist. It tinkles faintly, on a frequency impossible for humans to perceive. “As superior beings, we require far scarcer elements to weaken us and make our scales slough off.”

  “I know you have no love for me, Barqan,” she says. “But in this, we must work together. Vivienne has promised a boon to these people, but I fear there is more danger than she is aware. She is clouded by her admiration of—”

  Barqan interrupts with a word the lamia has not heard in many centuries. Dark and wicked and precisely what she had in mind when describing Worth. A word for humans, and other inhabitants of the Grey, that does not bear repeating.

  “I see we have a mutual dislike of Mr. Goodwin,” she says, somewhat gladdened.

  “I do not trust a beast that can never be truly caught,” he says. “It is against the laws of our kind.”

  “Our kind?”

  “Regretfully, I must agree that we are of a similar ilk. The Glatisant does not feel… familiar.”

  Nerissa relaxes a bit. This is the longest conversation they have ever had without devolving into name-calling and fisticuffs. She had promised Vivienne on her life that she would do anything to prevent such altercations, even if it meant pretending that the djinni did not exist at all.

  “You remember when Worth and I worked together. You remember what we did,” she adds. “I am not his friend, but we did have a good go at being decent colleagues for a while.”

  “You sought and destroyed Aberrants and brought Exigents to justice. Even if you might have been considered one of those at various points your life. I suppose it’s a matter of perception.” He grins so sharply his teeth might as well be daggers.

  “Yes. I suppose that is more or less true. Rehabilitation is possible for some of us. Especially those unable or unwilling to make our homes in the Fae.”

  “At the cost of the goat population this side of the great Mississippi.”

  They both laugh, together, and it feels good. She has never laughed with Barqan. The opportunity for humor has never crossed her mind. He is a wily djinni who, she is nearly certain, is patiently plotting her death. And perhaps Vivienne’s, too. But they both abhor Worth Goodwin, and that is a most promising beginning.

  “If you help me in this,” Nerissa says, “I will make sure you are released at the nearest convenience.” Making the words causes her a great deal of personal nausea. It’s the only bargaining chip she has with him.

  He perks up at this, rising at least six inches off the ground before settling again. The chains around his chest glow momentarily under his weskit, then dull again.

  Before he can speak, though, Nerissa continues. “If you help. If you aid us in this—both in destroying the Circle and Worth, and above all, preserving Vivienne’s good name, we will do right by you.”

  Worth arrives late, as always. The sun is just setting and Vivienne has tried to burn the invitation at least six times. She feels herself slipping into her introverted state, that level of her emotions where she seeks an audience with none but herself. There she is free from argument and disruption, and she can more properly heal herself when ruminations of sorrow become too close.

  But Worth’s presence distracts her before she can drift too deeply into that quiet, for she hears him walking about outside her door.

  “You may come in,” she says, casting her voice into the hall, as she is able to do. It is an old sylph trick, and one she rarely uses these days save for distracting the staff when she is trying to be clever, or else not wishing to be discovered.

  Worth does not need t
o be invited, per se. Vivienne leaves the door open for him because she wants, in her heart of hearts, for him to seek her out.

  The door opens softly on its hinges, and Worth enters the room. He is dressed in his resting attire, a long white robe lined in silver floss, silk trousers, and warm slippers. This is all show for him, considering his true body is covered in all manner of fur and scale. But, as with many other vainglorious creatures, he adores the show of it. Even if he has utterly forgotten his shirt underneath. Vivienne does not mind the view, glamor though it may be.

  “Thank you, Lady du Lac,” Worth says, all grace and civility. “I feared you would bar me from entrance considering our less than cordial meeting.”

  “What is this?” Vivienne asks, taken aback by his most ridiculous manner of address. “Lady du Lac? I am no more a Lady than you are a djinni. And speaking of which, I cannot seem to find him. He is ignoring me. Which, I thought, was against the rules… Why are you looking at me like that?”

  Worth takes a deep breath. “I admit, I am, as always, enchanted by your presence and utterly uncertain as how to proceed.”

  “Now that you bring it up, parading about a pert hussy with less class than a Boston donkey was not the ideal first impression after this dreaded absence, no.”

  “You mistake my relationship with Miss Crane.”

  “I never mistake that look,” Vivienne says. “It’s the one you used to give me.”

  “I did not come here to talk about our past trysts, Vivienne, nor current dalliances. I came to talk about our business arrangement,” Worth says, but his body language speaks otherwise. It is very difficult to disguise both one’s bestial self and one’s bestial desires. Knowing that she still holds such power over him gives her a most overwhelming sense of satisfaction.