by Eden Myles
As we crossed the courtyard I spotted several house servants waiting for us, lanterns held aloft to ward off the quickly descending dark. They swept forward to greet us, enshrouded in their long, fur-lined cloaks. Quickly they pulled open the coach, footed us down, efficiently and with little ceremony.
“We should hurry, Lord Belmont,” one of the servants told my father as they rushed us toward a pair of huge, iron-banded doors. “Night has already fallen and these are not lands to be about in.”
“Yes, of course,” my father answered.
I had only time to gather my gown and cloak before a particularly stout man shoved me along. His strength and determination surprised me. I was a tall, hardy woman like my gypsy mother. There was meat on my bones and I was not so easily moved. My legs had gone all pins and needles during the long ride, and my knees all but buckled as we dashed into the hall as thought the hounds of hell were nipping at our heels.
Only when we were safely inside the cold, torch-lit corridor, the iron-banded oaken door securely locked behind us, did the men finally relax and offer up the proper bows and courtesies that our respective ranks demanded. Then we were ushered down the cold, swarthy corridor to the end, where a rough-hewn, stone staircase spiraled upward into darkness.
We’d be staying in one of several guest towers, and the idea excited me. I wondered how much of the Low Country we could see from our tower windows.
The light of the men’s lanterns had pushed back the darkness only feebly, but I immediately recognized a broad, looming shadow standing at the end of the corridor, near the stairwell. It took me a few moments to recognized it as Lord Simon Devereux, and only because my father had given me sufficient warning in advance to beware the lord and his questionable past and pedigree.
Lord Devereux was an ally of Lord Rothschild’s, a sort of wandering mercenary soldier who fought, it was said, for money rather than honor. He did not come from these lands, but he had fought beside his friend Rothschild in many campaigns in the Darklands to the far west. Rothschild now employed him as Captain of the Guard in the Hall. He carried no lantern, but then, he seemed quite at home in the dark and probably knew his way around the Hall rather well by now.
He was a large, lean, powerfully-built man at the height of his youth and strength, his jet black hair cut just a hair too long at his collar to be fashionable and swept somewhat haphazardly away from his face, which was as sharp as a blade. He looked like a formidable warrior, and his face bore the old, pale scars of his many campaigns. He had strong cheekbones, winter-pale eyes, and a slight underbite that made me think of stubborn and ruthless men.
The moment he looked upon me, I felt my heart quicken in my chest. He bore a hunter’s look about him, wary and always watching, and unlike the evening finery of the servants and footmen who had seen us in, he wore an oiled oxhide jerkin over a doublet, knee-high equestrian boots with big buckles, and a heavy cloak, like a man who had only just recently returned from the battlefield. A thick belt crossed his chest from shoulder to hip, and slotted into the belt were a number of finely forged knives. His cloak, when we drew close enough for our lantern light to fall upon it, revealed itself to be as dark and sleek as his hair. I thought it might be forged of wolf fur.
He watched us with those pale, silvery eyes as we approached. He did not move at first, but I sensed a quivering readiness about him, and his thickly muscled limbs looked poised in a way that made him seem to want to spring, or perhaps to reach for the dirk at his hip. I imagined he’d made quite a magnificent warrior in his day.
“Lord Devereux,” my father said congenially as we came upon him. “It’s good to see you again.”
Lord Devereux’s nostrils flared briefly, like an animal sensing a dangerous lie, but then he smirked in return. Perhaps he knew my father had little use for mercenaries. “Lord Belmont. It’s been too long,” he said in a low, whispery voice that seemed to rumble from deep within his broad chest.
He and my father exchanged brief, stilted bows before Father put his hands protectively upon my shoulders and said, “My daughter, Lady Marie.” The tone of his voice indicated that this was a formality not to his liking and that Devereux was to look but not touch.
Devereux fixed those icy grey eyes on me in challenge and I swallowed against the lurching heart in my chest that was trying desperately to crawl up into my throat. I wasn’t short by anyone’s standards, but the man still managed to loom over me in a way that could be construed as either threatening or comforting, depending on his intentions.
I was certain many men feared Devereux. Still, I had never been the type of girl to be cowed by the boys of my village and so stood up straighter in the presence of this human wall of a man, throwing my shoulders back proudly and eyeing him with as much cool indifference as I could muster. Let him see I had no fear of him, or anyone.
A corner of Devereux’s mouth quirked up as if he were impressed by my gumption. The musky smell of his black wolf fur cloak made my head swim as he drew close enough to take my hand and brush his surprisingly warm lips just below my knuckles.
“Lady Marie,” he said, and I noticed for a man who had supposedly lived a mercenary lifestyle (at least according to my Father) he had beautifully white and powerful-looking teeth. Too often, the men in our own lands came back from Darkland battles dissipated and ill, with rot upon their skin and teeth and the horrors of war firmly lodged in their frightened eyes, but Lord Devereux looked positively untouched by his campaigns.
I was about to ask him about his battles when my Father interrupted. “Marie, would you be good enough to go up to your quarters now and prepare for dinner?”
I hated the way my father tried to instruct me as if I were a little girl! Was I not the reason we were here in the first place? It was for my aid that Lord Rothschild had personally requested our presence, not my father. I stubbornly raised my chin to him. “Actually, I was hoping to meet our host, Lord Rothschild…?”
“I’m afraid Elric is indisposed until nightfall and cannot greet you personally at the moment,” Devereux interrupted, “which is why he sent me to make certain you are well taken care of.”
I immediately turned to look at him and recognized some form of duplicity in his expression. Not an outright lie, perhaps, but there was something left unspoken. Call it a gift from my gypsy mother. I could feel when someone was lying to me in some way. Devereux was lying now.
“I hope his health is well,” my father said, thankfully forgetting my insolence for the moment.
Again that insouciant smirk. It made Devereux looked positively predatory. “He’s quite well, I assure you. Some business of his he could not delay. I’m sure he’ll tell you all about it at supper.” He indicated the stairwell with a flourish of one long, thin, sinewy hand. “Now, I’m sure you and your daughter would like to rest after your long journey. If you will, my lord. My lady.” He bowed graciously.
I gathered my skirts and started up the long spiral stairwell, trying not to shiver or cast a look over one shoulder. I could feel Devereux’s eyes on my back the whole way!
***
Read an excerpt from Devices & Desires (Blackstone Hall #2) by Madeline Apple:
Chapter I
The first thing I saw was light.
The first thing I heard was a man’s exuberant voice saying, “She’s alive! Franz, come see, she’s alive!”
The light sharpened and took on different forms. I saw darkness and shadow and strange, glistening metal and glass apparatuses surrounding me where I was lying prone on a gurney.
I was in a laboratory of some sort. I saw test tubes, tesla coils, endless shelves of strange poultices in dusty bottles on the walls. I heard a dull buzzing noise in my head. Out beyond the walls of the lab, I heard the dull roar of a storm creeping in.
Soon I recognized two men standing over me. One was tall and broad, middle-aged, with greying hair at his temples and round glasses. His face was severe but very handsome. The second was short and funny-lookin
g. I realized the second man must be a dwarf. He smiled at me and I smiled back.
“She can smile, Franz. Look.”
“You did an excellent job, Doctor,” said the dwarf. “She’s perfect.”
“She is, isn’t she?”
My eyes returned to the larger man. Pride had softened his severe face a little and I felt my heart skip a beat at the sight of his gentle grey eyes, the way they were trained on me. I felt an instant connection with the man.
I’d never believed in love at first sight until now. But yes, I loved him. He was all to me.
“Dr. Von Holtz, you’ve finally done it,” the little man said with admiration. “You’ve created life!”
I tried to say something, to ask questions, but a wave of fatigue overwhelmed and I slipped back into absolute darkness.
***
Read a 3-chapter excerpt from Cry Wolf (The Wolves of Wall Street #1) by Jay Ellison:
Chapter One
The hot, longhaired man at the end of the bar was watching him again.
Kevin Sullivan finished mixing the dirty martini for the middle-aged out-of-towner in the blue business suit and slid it down to him on a paper napkin before making his way down the bar to the stud with the long hair. Kevin smiled because that was the way he did things in his job as barkeep at the Barracuda, one of the more popular gay clubs in downtown Brooklyn, but it was a guarded smile, as always.
The man watching him was tall and slender, a sleek body in a tailored black suit. He had chiseled, vaguely Euro-fine features, and long, straight black hair to his waist that he kept back in a tight ponytail. His snug Brioni tux made Kevin think of a younger version of James Bond. It was pretty obvious that he was moneyed and from out of town like so many of the men who frequented the club.
He certainly was a tall, cool drink of water, Kevin thought. And he smelled sweet and slightly wild. But Kevin told himself he wasn’t in the market to pick up anyone tonight. Not tonight of all nights. It was the first warm night of the year, and the moon was gravid and clear. It was his night to run. “What can I get you?” he said, wiping his hands on the bar mop he kept tucked in the waistband of his dark uniform trousers. “Martini? Shaken, not stirred?”
The man looked momentarily confused, then smiled, showing strong white teeth and incisors that were a hair too long. My, Grandma, what big teeth you have. “Manhattan.”
“I haven’t had an order for one of those in a dog’s age.”
The man smirked in a playful, sexy and perhaps slightly dangerous way. “I’m a bit old fashioned, I’m afraid.” He spoke in a soft, lilting British voice. “What does the young crowd drink these days?”
“Julius Orange, the Latte, Odyssey Number Ten. I can make you anything you want.”
“What if what I want isn’t on the menu?”
Is he flirting with me? Kevin wondered. “Try me.”
The man with the ponytail gave him a sly look. “I might just do that, young man. But for now a Manhattan will do.”
Kevin’s cock twitched in his pants. “Manhattan it is,” he said as he reached for the whiskey, sweet vermouth and bitters.
The Barracuda was pretty laid back on the weekdays, but on Friday night it turned into one huge pickup, mostly randy undergrads from CUNY or closeted businessmen from uptown looking to cheat on their wives. The place was low and packed tonight, the lighting intimate and slightly lurid. The poorer students were drinking on the edges of the room, the guys with money to burn sitting down by the stage where a number of handsome, well-muscled, oiled male strippers were strutting their stuff onstage. Synthpop and house music beat at the walls of the club like the wings of giant, invisible moths.
Kevin delivered Ponytail’s drink, two cherries in it. Kevin didn’t know why he’d done that; in the Barracuda, two cherries or olives meant a guy was interested. He shouldn’t be doing that, he chastised himself, not tonight of all nights.
Ponytail sipped his cocktail, sucking a cherry playfully between two fingers, his eyes never leaving Kevin for a moment. “I expect you see your share of trouble in a place like this.”
Kevin started mopping the bar, not bothered by Ponytail’s obvious advances. Most guys thought he was cute, and he got at least one or two propositions in a night. He was inured to it all. If he’d wanted to get offended by every guy who’d ever leered at his ass, he wouldn’t have been able to hold down this job for going on seven years now. “Not really. The regulars are pretty well-behaved. Sometimes the mucky mucks get rowdy, but only when they get too much drink in them.”
“Mucky mucks?”
“I think you Brits call them Lord Mucks? The execs and CEOs.”
“Ah,” said Ponytail. “And what do you do with the mucky mucks who get out of hand?”
“I show them the door.”
Ponytail looked impressed. “You don’t call a bouncer?”
“I’m stronger than I look.”
It was one of the reasons the club owner, Jolene, had hired him in the first place. Seven years ago he’d been just like one of these young undergrads working his way through college. Back then, he’d had a lot more misdirected anger and hadn’t minded busting up a few troublesome customers. Even now, when he wasn’t tending bar, he often walked the floor, keeping an eye on the dancers. Two years ago he broke a man’s arm in two places when he tried forcing himself on one of Jolene’s boys. After that, most folks had come to respect that the dancers in the Barracuda were here to be seen, not touched.
Kevin wasn’t much to look at, he knew, but Jolene said he had “mad ninja skills” when it came to taking out the trash. He was tall and lithe, with good reflexes. He was a pacifist by nature, but having grown up in Brooklyn, he knew how to fight when he had to.
Ponytail was watching him again. He was definitely interested, and any other night, Kevin would have taken him home, banged him good, bought him breakfast, and then explained in no uncertain terms that he wasn’t into committed relationships. But tonight was not a good night for company. It was almost two weeks since he’d last let the wolf off its leash, and he knew that if he didn’t let it run soon, he’d risk shifting in front of a human.
“A man gets pushed into a corner, he comes out fightin’,” slurred Ron, a local barfly and permanent fixture in the club. By day, he was an exec with two ex-wives, alimony, child support and chronic depression. By night, he was a drunken philosopher and straight man who only felt safe in a downtown gay bar.
Kevin smiled at Ron and started polishing some glasses.
“The weekends here must be interesting,” Ponytail persisted.
“I don’t work weekends anymore. I have an assistant now,” Kevin said, referring to Allison, his protégé.
“So your weekends are free, then?” Ponytail inquired.
Kevin didn’t answer. Normally, he wasn’t a grumpy type of person, but something about the man was putting him on guard. He made the wolf within pace nervously back and forth within its mental cage. His teeth felt sharper in his mouth, there was a hollow, almost painful, emptiness in the pit of his belly, and he felt uncomfortably aroused. The heat in the room was stifling him and he knew he needed to get away soon. Tonight. Drive into the mountains, let the wolf off its leash. It was time. He’d done a lot for Jolene this past week, taken extra shifts, broken up a potentially bad fight; she’d understand if he needed to get away early.
Kevin wasn’t usually so straightforward, but the wolf was growing, making him bolder, more aggressive. He turned to the man with the ponytail and said, “Are you a narc?”
The man’s eyebrows jumped. He met Kevin’s eyes head on—a clear, focused hazel that seemed, for just a moment, to lighten, then darken once more. A trick of the light, perhaps. “No. Just making conversation. You look lonely, young man.”
“Well, I’m not,” Kevin said defensively, making a mental note to avoid the guy next time he showed up in the club, maybe switch with Allison. Let Allison take care of him. She was bubbly, friendly, and vapid.
Thankfully, at that moment, a couple sat down at the far end of the bar. Kevin headed that way to take their orders. Along the way, he smelled too much alcohol on Ron and decided to cut him off. By the time he’d served the couple their drinks, Ponytail had gone.
Just as well. He picked up his phone and texted Allison about taking over his shift a little earlier than usual. He told her he wasn’t feeling well, that he might be coming down with something. She texted him back, telling him no problem, she was on her way. “A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do,” Ron was slurring into his empty whiskey glass. “You get that, kid? There’s just a time for things, that’s all. A time for everything under the sun…”
“Yeah, Ron, I get you,” Kevin said as he took Ron’s car keys and hung them on the pegboard behind the bar. He understood Ron all too well even as a trickle of nervous energy crawled down his spine, tensing his muscles. Ten minutes later, as Allison breezed in the door, he found himself sighing with relief. The city was stifling him and he needed to get away. He needed to run before he completely lost control.
A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do, he thought as he loosened his bowtie and quickly headed into the back. Unless, of course, you were not a man at all.
***
Chapter Two
As soon as Kevin got back to his flat he started packing an overnight bag. He threw things haphazardly into the duffle, making an unholy mess of things. He knew he was going too fast, that he was too full of adrenaline and excitement. He told himself to slow down. He didn’t want any accidents on the road.
“Going to the mountains?” his sister Hannah asked, stepping into his room. She was wearing a pajama top and shorts, her long, dark blonde hair hanging in ribbons across her shoulders. She was twenty-two now, majoring in law at CUNY. Kevin had practically raised her by himself, and he always felt a little guilty about leaving her alone in the city.