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

by Natania Barron

  It’s a bit of a lie. She and Barqan kept letters from Vivienne, did everything in their power to keep them apart. But she knew that, eventually, it would all come around again. The connection between those two was just too powerful. And now her own foolishness with the ledger meant their lives were all in danger. She should have just let it play out, but jealousy had worried its way so deep into her heart she didn’t know how to cope. Those blessed decades alone with Vivienne were supposed to be time for them to grow together, time for her to show the sylph just how much she was desired and wanted. Instead, they fell into a life of lazy human indulgence and boredom.

  “You don’t miss Waldemar and Goodwin?” he asks.

  She doesn’t want to admit it. She doesn’t want the words to come out. But it’s like something in her has broken these last few days. As if centuries of protective layers have sloughed off and gone, leaving her raw and exposed.

  “I’m tired of hating you,” she says at last, which is the closest thing she can manage to an apology. “Let’s wreak a little havoc, shall we?”

  Worth grins. “By all means, milady. The pleasure is mine.”

  The night before the gala at the Rockefeller house, it snows in Tarrytown. It’s a perfect, light snow, the kind that dances by windows, luminous flakes clustering like icy fairies in the lantern light. Everything is hushed as the snow falls, just enough to be beautiful without causing distress for travel, and even the animals in the town bow to the silence in the world around them. When Nerissa goes to feed from Flossie, her second-favorite goat, there is no complaint to speak of. After she is finished, she sits in the open rafters of her barn and watches the snow fall, thinking of Vivienne.

  Christabel Crane summons the courage to visit Lyndhurst alone. The last interaction with these creatures left her more than a little confused, but also doubtful of their help in the matter. She trusts Worth because he is, by nature, built to please. It’s the lamia, in particular, that discomfits her. She needs assurance. Her reputation rides on it, her legacy.

  And Worth has not called on her in person. He has kept a great many correspondences, but he has been at Lyndhurst since their last meeting. They have not spoken of their last time together, nor of their harsh words.

  The djinni meets her at the front door, opening it before she can even manage to knock.

  “It is a strange time for a woman to be out by herself,” Barqan says to her. He has made no effort to hide his nature, his feet nothing but a blue mist on the ground. The rest of the staff appears to be away, most of the windows unlit in the expansive mansion.

  “I wish to speak to the ladies of the house,” Christabel says. “About tomorrow’s plan. My… investors are concerned.”

  “I have yet to figure you out, Ms. Crane. But I will,” the djinni says.

  “And how will you do that?” she asks, unsure to what he refers.

  “You are not what you seem.”

  “And what do I seem?”

  But Barqan is silent, though he lingers for a moment too long to be comfortable, and then vanishes. It is unsettling and leaves a feeling like wiggling worms in Christabel’s stomach. But she waits, nonetheless, clapping her hands on her arms and wishing she had packed an extra pair of socks. Her feet are half frozen to the ground.

  By the time Vivienne appears at the doorway, Christabel is thinking in such detail about just how many layers of clothing would be required to gain her some measure of warmth that the sylph’s appearance doesn’t merely shock her, it almost makes her laugh.

  Vivienne is wearing a long robe of sheer fabric, and nothing else. Her thin, pale body appears impervious to the cold, her black hair streaking down her breasts and curling ever so slightly at her waist.

  “Hello, Christabel.”

  “Lady du Lac,” replies Christabel, lips trembling but her voice still strong. She has made it a habit not to show fear in front of these people. A lifetime of living among such creatures has helped in some respect. Vivienne is different, though. She is older than the vampires and Fey common to Sleepy Hollow. Though the Horseman might give Vivienne a run for the money if he wasn’t avoiding her.

  “Won’t you come in?” the sylph asks.

  “I don’t want to inconvenience you,” says Christabel, giving her most luminous smile, the one that her father once told her could convince an angel to work for the devil.

  “That has never been of concern to you before, my dear. Why should you start?” Vivienne asks, showing her teeth in a wide grin that can only be described as hungry.

  “I fear we have gotten off on the wrong foot—”

  “Oh, you dear mortal child. We have gotten off on the wrong plane of existence,” says Vivienne. “But that is neither here nor there. Our mutual affection for Worth Goodwin keeps me from gutting you on these very steps and scattering your entrails from here to the Bowery. It would make such a lovely contrast against the snow.”

  The threat is not idle, and Christabel can taste her fear on her tongue. She breathes deep into her belly, urging her heart to calm. It’s a practice she learned as a young child when her mother would parade her out in front of the scarier neighbors in Sleepy Hollow. Never let them sense your fear, she told Christabel, for they hunger for it.

  She must admit, however, that she has never seen a creature quite the like of Vivienne du Lac. The very air around her crackles as if infused with ice crystals. Though she is naked for all intents and purposes, there is not a single line of her out of place. Her nudity is, in some strange way, precisely appropriate.

  “May I come in?” Christabel asks when Vivienne does not.

  Vivienne gives no verbal agreement but tosses her head with a clear lack of concern. Since she does not bother to close the door in her face, Christabel assumes that she is to follow her into the house.

  The cavernous mansion is very dark, very damp, and very cold. Unlike the other great houses in the area, Christabel hears no indication of movement: no clanking of plates and cups, no sweeping of floors. A cold blue light illuminates the path around Vivienne’s feet, just enough to ensure that Christabel doesn’t fall into an errant piece of furniture or accidentally molest a statue.

  At last they come to a room with a red carpet and red velvet walls lit by a series of brass lamps. Christabel recalls similar decoration in one of the rooms in Kiquit, but it’s hard to remember. After a while all the opulence blurs together. Coming from relatively simple means herself, such excess is distasteful.

  Vivienne, still avoiding any mention of her lack of clothing, arranges herself on the sofa and begins to comb her hair. It is such a simple action, yet both inappropriate and perfectly orchestrated that all Christabel can do is stare at her for a while.

  “You know I could have Worth if I wanted,” Vivienne says. Her strange, icy eyes don’t meet Christabel’s, but instead stare off as she pulls the teeth of the comb through her hair. They look like little bony fingers.

  “I don’t doubt it,” Christabel says, “but I believe you are mistaken. Worth and I… we were courting, for a time, but it became quite apparent to me that I would not be able to provide for him in the way that he needs.”

  The creature stops her meticulous combing and turns to face Christabel, her eyes unblinking.

  “Provide for him? Why, he isn’t some winsome waif with nowhere to go,” Vivienne says. “He’s quite capable.”

  “He’s still mourning Yvan,” Christabel says softly. “And you. You know that, too, I think.”

  It’s hard to say these things out loud because, of course, she loves Worth Goodwin. From the moment they met, he implied as much: people have a habit for falling in love with him; it’s just his nature. At first, she didn’t understand what he meant, but in time, the pieces started to come together.

  The admission, however, does not register any emotion or physical change in the sylph. She stands in one fluid motion, the silk dress pouring down her form with a whisper across her cold skin. Christabel knows it’s cold without touching it
, though she isn’t sure exactly how. Being around the sylph makes her tired, drowsy, as if she’s had a little too much wine.

  Slowly, slowly, Vivienne approaches Christabel. She’s a good head taller than her, and when they are toe to toe, she must look down, her hair curtained around her angular face. She looks more like a tree than a person in that moment, some machination of fauna and shadow. Vivienne stares Christabel down, saying nothing. She breathes long, soft breaths, more like half whispers.

  Christabel is transfixed; she can see the power in Vivienne, sense it in her bones. Yet there is enough within her to resist.

  Vivienne stretches out one long finger, her smooth nail tracing a line down Christabel’s cheek and then withdrawing sharply.

  “Who are you?” the sylph asks.

  Christabel blushes, her guard suddenly crumbling. “I am but myself,” she says, taking a step back.

  “But do you even know who that is?”

  “I… don’t know what you mean.”

  “Don’t you?” Vivienne asks with a light laugh. Whatever she has seen in Christabel has given her a lively glow about the cheeks. “I could taste you and find out.”

  “I should be going,” Christabel says, wondering how on earth it has gotten so late. “The coach will be wondering where I’ve gone off to.”

  “Do you think you’ll have the fortitude to survive tomorrow?” Vivienne asks, returning to her chaise. In a moment, she resumes brushing her hair, looking as intentional as a painting.

  “I promise to do my part. Your help is much appreciated, but you must understand we also have a contingency plan. If things go awry…”

  “They won’t,” Vivienne says simply. “Or at least, not on our account.”

  With this last word, her eyes flick back to Christabel.

  Then the sylph says, “You may go.”

  And Christabel does.

  Beautiful Terrors

  “The dress is simple because you are simple,” says Vivienne, standing before Worth, Barqan, and Nerissa on the evening of the Rockefeller gala.

  By the measure of any other eyes than hers, the dress is far from simple. The design looks painted on by hand, watercolors splashing across silk in green and blue hues blending into one another in an almost organic frenzy. The material is gauzy and shimmering, shot through with streaks of silver. The edges are trimmed in a sharp, delicate lace edge, vanishing to points like teeth at their peaks. And there is a series of buttons, polished mother of pearl, which is the simplest portion of the outfit.

  Nerissa supposes, by Vivienne’s standards, the resulting gown is plain in that it is absent of much embellishment beyond the pattern and material.

  “In the off chance that we need to use Barqan’s full form,” Vivienne explains, “you will need full range of movement.”

  “The last time I was freed, I ate an entire brothel. Sad little stringy things, I recall,” the djinni says, almost wistfully. “I do hope your plan works. This design may not be enough.”

  “It is all we have,” Vivienne says. “And I’ve adapted one for myself, as well.”

  “We could run away,” Nerissa says. “Slightly less messy, I’d think.”

  “We could,” Worth says, “but that would only delay the inevitable.”

  “But at what cost?” Nerissa asks, thinking again of Christabel and her beautiful starlit eyes, and wondering if they aren’t all simply bewitched by a talented human being. How ironic.

  “We need to find out what happened to Yvan,” says Vivienne, looking pointedly at Worth, for the first time her eyes hinting at pity there. Then she looks at Nerissa, and there is actually hurt registering in her face. Shame, perhaps. It is only a moment, but enough to make Nerissa’s heart leap at the thought. “So it doesn’t happen to any one of you.”

  Ah, that last bit. It cuts sharper for the fact that it came upon the edge of hope. Nerissa is reminded, yet again, that Vivienne desires to be human, to be accepted. And more and more she is building walls between them: so it doesn’t happen to any one of you. Not us.

  Worth hears it, too, judging by the set of his jaw. It’s why they’ve had to have their own plan in all this business. They cannot rely on Vivienne, not with her plans to take the journal; they cannot trust their lives—and the lives of the guests—to her whims.

  It is why Barqan is so important. And why Nerissa must, at last, let him go. For she knows the words, and she has known for some time. But she had been hoping to save it for the right moment, that time when it would be a gift to Vivienne, a peace offering. A present. Except the longer that she held on to the knowledge that she could free the djinni, the less she believed that Vivienne wanted him gone in the first place.

  And it is so difficult to find a good footman these days, anyway. At least he is good at that job.

  “You’re all clear on the agenda, then?” Vivienne asks. She has never taken the lead on an assignment before, always preferring to stay in and keep blood off her dress, but Nerissa has to admit—in spite of her rising anger—that she’s got a knack for it.

  Vivienne walks back and forth before them, her skirts swishing at her feet as she paces, her hands clasped behind her back. Every bit the commander.

  She pauses to look Barqan in the face. His eyes smolder, and for a moment, Nerissa glimpses the monster beneath. “My friend, if we are successful, I swear on all my past loves that I will find the key to your freedom.”

  Is Nerissa imagining things, or does the djinni glance her way for a brief moment? Is he aware of her thinking?

  The lamia’s thoughts come short, however, when Vivienne stops before her, cupping Nerissa’s cheek in her long, cold fingers. Every scale on Nerissa’s body comes to attention—each one tuned to sense changes in temperature and humidity—as the sylph reaches out to her. It is the most intimate they have been in an age, and seeing her so close now, all else in the world fades to the merest touch.

  And in Vivienne’s eyes…

  Pity.

  It is worse than hatred. It is worse than anger. It is rejection on the harshest of terms.

  “When this is over,” Nerissa says, just as Vivienne moves on to Worth. “I’m leaving.”

  “I know,” Vivienne replies, not looking back.

  Nerissa hears their interchange, understands they say words to one another about love and fealty and the many years as friends, but it matters little. She has waited too long to explain to Vivienne how she has pined for her; if there ever had been a chance, and now she doubts that was ever even the case, it has long since evaporated.

  “This is what comes of silence,” she hears the djinni say beside her. “You give the sylph a chance for the dramatic, and she will, of course, take it.”

  Nerissa keeps quiet in the brougham as they approach Rockwood, avoiding looking across the seat to Vivienne. Barqan and Worth are in another carriage, likely ensconced in the same deep quiet. She has never known them to endure one another long, but given the circumstances…

  “You look lovely, Nerissa,” Vivienne says softly. “I just wanted to tell you that.”

  Nerissa fumes inwardly, then cools. Waves of love and hate wash over her in direct dissonance to one another. She says, with effort, “Thank you.”

  “You’re still mad at me.”

  “I said thank you.”

  “You’re never grateful unless under extreme duress or all-encompassing rage,” Vivienne points out.

  That is a valid point.

  “And you don’t compliment me unless I look human,” Nerissa replies. It’s another hurtful truth, but at this point, what matter is it? She’s already riddled with barbs from the sylph.

  “You never show me anything other than human,” Vivienne replies, smoothing the fur about her collar with an errant hand. “It’s hard to remember these days that you are anything but a woman, if slightly more frazzled and less put together than the average.”

  The two women fall into this kind of discussion, or used to, quite often. It is a comfortable ten
sion between them, the silences between words full of other modes of communication far too complex to manage in the limited language of the English. No, that is not fair: no language, living or dead, could come close to satisfying this interchange; it is best left off the pages, for every attempt to do otherwise merely adds to the mire.

  They do not apologize. They do not make amends. They simply recognize in one another faults too deep to ignore. It is a stalemate of enormous proportions, neither creature willing to bend or move to the side for the other. The lamia does not profess her love for the sylph, and the sylph does not let open even the slightest indication she might return the feeling.

  “I suppose that is that, then,” Vivienne says, taking one last glance in her mirror compact to check her face. The color of her lips is blood red, but not a line out of place.

  “Be careful that you’re not too confident,” Nerissa warns as the brougham comes to a stop. “Lives are at stake.”

  “When we’re involved, lives are always at stake. It’s only a matter of precision and self-control.”

  These are the very words Vivienne first spoke to Nerissa, finding the lamia glutting herself on diseased soldiers in a bog. She had seemed so poised, so full of control, yet bubbling with power just below the surface. The sylph promised to help Nerissa rise to a better calling, a place reached by ethics and her duty as a long-lived creature, not governed by a continual thirst for blood and entrails.

  It took a long time to wean herself off the entrails. And now, Nerissa watches Vivienne across the way and wonders if this is where it all ends. If all those broken, beautiful, delightfully flawed parts of their relationship are about to end.

  The wind swirls the dusty snow from the eaves of the immense home, passing back and forth in the lit lanterns and electric lights like pulverized diamonds. Yet, somehow, Nerissa feels it is colder within the walls of the carriage.