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

by Natania Barron

  She must attack with all she has left. She must go even deeper than the permafrost. She must drive herself into the heart of the beast.

  Nerissa anticipates Vivienne’s next move. It is a bold one, but she loves Worth. She always will. It is a desperate, unavoidable love, one that Nerissa herself knows all too well. It is a sweet thorn, a bloody kiss.

  As Vivienne drives her power into the heart of the beast, the walls of the cellar shudder, plaster dust and bricks disintegrating with the cold, the hot, and the pressure of the place.

  The sylph cuts into the heart of the beast, her body a sharp weapon, like a star falling from the heavens. The creature shivers, pulling back all its long arms at once, a great glowing anemone of souls, but then dims.

  The voices slow.

  Christabel fights against her restraints.

  Nerissa glances from the unicorn—just thinking the word makes her skin crawl—to the pulsating mass containing her best friends who may, or may not, be alive.

  “Barqan!”

  Misstresssssss.

  It is not his voice, and it is his truest voice.

  “I need you to save them. Then I need you to destroy the creature.”

  I am not strong enough, missstressssss…

  “I will free you when you deliver them to me.”

  Barqan shifts back to his more or less humanoid shape as Nerissa finally manages to make her way completely around the perimeter of the creature, now significantly smaller than it had been before. She puts herself between Christabel and the creature, drawing up to her full height, sprawling out her long tails and raising her hair, opening her mouth and eyes wide to show her black teeth and yellow irises. It once was enough to scare Medusa, a distant half-cousin sadly lacking in skills of concealment.

  “Go, servant, and deliver me my friends,” she says to the djinni.

  Barqan changes, twisting into a high column of blue glass rotating at dizzying speed. A tornado, it seems. His magic is different, tastes and feels different than anything Nerissa has experienced. In all her travels, none had the acrid tang or lingering dryness she experiences now.

  The tornado gathers remarkable speed, and at first it looks more like a pretty showpiece than anything, so much so that Nerissa calls out most unkindly.

  But then the tendrils about the beast begin, one by one, to pull away from Worth and Vivienne. As if taken by the wind, they flutter and are consumed, joining the rest of Barqan in a dizzying dance. Again and again, and in spite of some remarkable resistance, screaming all the way, the lost souls—likely promised a great deal of redemption were they to regain Christabel—depart.

  Christabel moans behind Nerissa, and she catches a backward glance to see she has fully transformed herself. So disappointing, unicorns. So small. Really not much larger than a healthy goat and nowhere near as elegant as a deer. The idea that one might ride one is not only preposterous but a literal impossibly. Still, that’s part of their power. They do not look powerful. Little white faces with big black eyes, silvery mane of thistledown fur, just the barest of indication of spots about their backs. It has been a very long time since Nerissa has seen one and is reminded again of just how ugly they are.

  For her part, the unicorn seems entirely unaware of what is going on, likely struggling to accept her new body. Pushing the revulsion aside, Nerissa plows forward, anchoring her tails to the flagstones to buffet the wind. It is getting most difficult.

  At last the final tendril is cast aside, and Nerissa sees both Worth and Vivienne stumble—helping each other—to stand. Worth is a combination of a hart, a boar, a hawk, and something else that might be extinct. It’s difficult to tell, but clearly his time among the filaments has left him a little befuddled. He has never been quite so out of context.

  Vivienne looks resplendent, save for the look of fury and betrayal in her eyes. She is always most lovely when she is furious, and perhaps that’s why Nerissa never goes out of her way to avoid it.

  But this time…

  Mistressssss… your promise.

  “I’m sorry, Vivienne,” Nerissa says. “I should have told you earlier.”

  Misstressss…

  The spinning tornado will destroy all that is left in the place if left to its devices, and so Nerissa says the words she has avoided since the day Barqan was gifted to her.

  “Djinni, your life is no longer mine. Do as you will.”

  She recalls the words written on the bottom of the box in which he was delivered, clear as day. Only Nerissa rid herself of the box, burned it, smothered it, buried it. She wanted the gift to be Vivienne’s. Not hers. Not hers. Never hers.

  The words change everything. Nerissa cannot ignore the call of her slave.

  What was once blue flickers into bright magenta, a saturated, intense color befitting of the deepest sunsets. Then Barqan expands again, going wider, then flattens into the shape of a disc. Upon the ground, a pair of shackles drop, making an ugly metallic sound, but are then whipped up again into the roiling mess.

  Then the room goes bright, so, so impossibly bright. It’s a light that burns and breaks, a light of freedom and judgment and righteousness. All that prevents the rest of the house from going into flame and the people with it—though, Nerissa doesn’t think, that would have been so much of a shame save for the irritating headlines—is Christabel. Somehow, she counters the djinni’s magic, as well as the dissipating power of the filaments.

  They stand at the feet of a giant for the briefest of moments. The djinni, in his full size, has skin like lit lava, a beard as smooth as obsidian, and eyes as radiant as ten thousand stars.

  Now, the price.

  Worth is wounded, his body whipped in a myriad of places by the filaments trying to claim him as their own. They burrowed into his skin like maggots to a corpse, and only his quick thinking and shifting smaller prevented complete penetration.

  Vivienne is shivering. She never shivers.

  It’s the unicorn, of course.

  Christabel.

  Worth is never fond of feeling an idiot, but now…

  Barqan.

  Nerissa.

  The price!

  He sees the look of confusion on the lamia’s face. She is at a loss.

  But when Barqan swoops a long-fingered hand toward them and takes Vivienne, as effortless as a little girl taking a corncob doll, and pulls her through the floor itself, it makes sense.

  He takes what is most valuable to the lamia in return for his long tenure as her servant—which, clearly, he is. Worth would have to get the full story from her soon enough, but now is not the time.

  “Vivienne!” The lamia is screaming, scrabbling at the floor as if her digging will bring back the sylph.

  Worth abruptly vomits, all four tongues experiencing the same acrid burn. Between knowing, feeling Yvan’s pain and seeing Vivienne destroyed, he is rather beyond any emotion known to him. Purging seems the best choice, all said and done.

  The unicorn has found her human form again, but she is most naked. He will have to show her how to pull a glamor, providing she can do the same as they.

  “I didn’t know it,” Christabel says, touching her skin with her little fingers as if for the first time. “I didn’t understand what it meant. The feelings I had. This… need that could never be sated.”

  “Christabel, are you well?” Worth asks, mostly because he knows Nerissa is not currently, nor will ever be, capable of asking such a question.

  “I’m alive,” she says softly, looking at her fingertips. “I don’t think I was before.”

  “Well, we’ve figured out what’s been haunting the Rockefellers, at least. As to whether or not…”

  “How can you even mention them when Vivienne is gone!?”

  This is, of course, our lamia, who has perhaps for the first time in her life, gone entirely hysterical.

  “You loosed a djinni,” Worth points out, “and I know you needed to. But, together, we can find her, we can save her.”

  “I dou
bt she needs saving,” Christabel says, blinking into the spot where the sylph disappeared. “I suspect she is putting up a fight.”

  “Not if she’s shackled,” moans Nerissa. “They’re worse than old iron, he said. Gods, what have I done?”

  Worth looks down at his feet. There, the cover a little charred but mostly intact, is Vivienne’s journal, annotated with Yvan’s work. He takes it into his hands, the leather still warm, and cradles it to his chest. Someday soon he will have to look deeper, but tonight the pain is too deep.

  Goodwin, Waldemar, and Crane

  Even aside from the utter devastation of their wine cellar, the Rockefellers count the event as quite a failure. It goes down in the books as a rather boring event, for once everyone had returned to the house after the explosion, no one had the heart to dance.

  You must understand that these people were not intentionally malicious, the Circle of Iapetus, only careless. They dabbled in magic far deeper than they ought have, and as a result, nearly killed some of the most wise, powerful, and entertaining creatures on earth. Had they known they had a unicorn in their presence, and not merely the great-great grandchild of Ichabod Crane, they never would have bothered with fake tinctures or going toe to toe with our Beasts of Tarrytown.

  Christabel, Worth, and Nerissa eventually find their way back to Lyndhurst, and then on the road. The ride is not easy, as the Glatisant must sit between the two women constantly to prevent the lamia from continually gagging in the presence of the unicorn.

  “We will find her,” Christabel says when the silence has grown too great. “This is all because of me, and I feel terribly guilty. I really thought the Circle of Iapetus would help; I never stopped to think I might be attracting these creatures.”

  “We make mistakes,” Worth says.

  “Though generally they end in less despair and depression,” adds Nerissa.

  “Why couldn’t you tell what I was?” asks Christabel.

  “Unicorns are so pure they are invisible to us,” Worth says. “It is a protective reflex, and wisely done. Not all the Fey react with revulsion; many would devour you or sell you to mortals so they could seek their immortality.”

  “And here we thought we would give Vivienne her wish,” Nerissa says. “That this journal would be the key to…” She trails off. Since taking it from Worth, Nerissa has not let the ledger go.

  Christabel frowns into her stole. “Where shall we go next?” She is glad they have promised, however reluctantly, to bring her into their work. Even Nerissa admitted that having a unicorn would speed up their chances of finding Vivienne, or avoid anything untidy along the way. Unicorns are almost as rare as Questing Beasts, and few have managed their study. It is a cold comfort amidst the loss.

  “We have to meet with the sultan who gave the djinni to me, or else his descendants. And then we have to trace it to its home. My guess is that Barqan would take her to his cave, or castle, or wherever it is he lived. The djinni are most territorial. It may not even be on this plane, neither in Fae nor the Grey.”

  “How far away is that? Like New Jersey?” Christabel asks.

  Worth chuckles. “Much, much farther than there. But perhaps a little less in the way of cow pies. New Jersey has always struck me as one big pasture. Difficult to get around without messing your boots.”

  “I will work hard,” Christabel said. “I don’t have family, and I owe a debt to Vivienne.”

  “I know you will,” Worth says. “Goodwin, Waldemar, and Crane has a nice ring to it, don’t you think, Nerissa?”

  Acknowledgments

  I must first thank John Keats, for bringing my attention to these lovely ladies of myth, La Belle Dame Sans Merci and Lamia. While he may not have considered their more humorous undertones, I still hold that after a shared bottle of claret he might have at least cracked a smile over Nerissa's goat drinking habits.

  Thank you, also, to Julian Fellowes, Edith Wharton, and E.M. Forster, who all contributed to the narrative with their Victorian and Edwardian storytelling, and their attention to the stories of women.

  Thank you to my husband, Michael, who listens to my prattle as I figure out plots, and to my children Liam and Elodie for being fierce and bold in every way. They are not-so-little monsters, but in the best way.

  Thank you to John Hartness for making space for this story, and to Melissa McArthur for lending her skilled eye to the pages.

  And, as always, to my writing group, the Broken Circles posse. In particular, to Jonathan Wood for keeping my sanity daily with gifs and banter, and to Paul Jessup and Michelle Muenzler for tolerating my snippets of work in progress.

  About the Author

  Natania Barron has been traveling to other worlds from a very young age, and will be forever indebted to Lucy Pevensie and Meg Murry for inspiring her to go on her own adventures. She currently resides in North Carolina with her family, and is, at heart, a hobbit--albeit it one with a Tookish streak a mile wide.

  Also by Natania Barron

  Wothwood

  Pilgrim of the Sky

  Falstaff Books

  Want to know what’s new

  And coming soon from

  Falstaff Books?

  Try This Free Ebook Sampler

  https://www.instafreebie.com/free/bsZnl

  Follow the link.

  Download the file.

  Transfer to your e-reader, phone, tablet, watch, computer, whatever.

  Enjoy.

  Copyright © 2017 by Natania Barron

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is coincidental. Except that bit about that guy. That’s totally a thing.

  Created with Vellum