by P. F. Kozak
But he loved those sneakers.
Next, she’d gone into an audio equipment store with the interesting name of Bang & Olufsen. Apparently buying their high-end goods was supposed to be akin to a religious experience, not retail. Nancy decided that God didn’t want her to spend a month’s salary on speakers for a guy who’d blow them out listening to heavy metal anyway.
That left something sexy. She wasn’t going to wrap herself up with a bow and a tag that said ho-ho-ho, although he probably wouldn’t mind. He could have her anytime, without the wrapping paper, and she didn’t want him to think she was too cheap to buy an actual gift.
As to what he was giving her, Steve wasn’t saying. Not dropping the most infinitesimal hint.
Nancy closed the spreadsheet file on her computer when her cat strolled in front of the monitor. “Hello. You hungry again?”
He meowed. The Lump was always hungry. She had an irrational notion that he was capable of eating the bananas, peel and all, just so he could fill his furry belly and go to sleep in the bowl.
Leaving him sitting on her desk, she got up and went into the kitchen, rattling the box of cat food to get him to follow. He appeared a few seconds later, and she dropped a few crunchy bites into his dish, just for form’s sake.
Then she made herself a cup of tea, cinnamon apple something that smelled vaguely Christmassy, and sat down to think. The black velvet dress came to mind. But she couldn’t buy that for him when it really was for her.
And besides, he’d said it wasn’t really for sale. Nancy sipped her tea, letting the warmth and spicy smell clear her mind. Actually, he had been a little vague about that dress from the beginning and some of the things he’d said about it hadn’t made much sense. A pricey store like Racks wouldn’t hand an expensive dress to an honest cop, even if it was a sample, even if he had brought shoplifters to justice.
Jeez, maybe she should have been brave enough to buy it, even though she hadn’t wanted him to blow that much on it, back when they hardly knew each other. As grown-ups, that is.
She finished her tea, feeling refreshed but well aware that she still didn’t know what to get him for Christmas.
The sound of thundering feet in boots coming up the stairs snapped her out of her reverie. Steve was back. There was a rustly sound—pine branches—in the hall, followed by a thump as he set down the sawed-off trunk. Nancy opened the door. The tree was taller than he was. Steve peered around the side, grinning. “Just got back from the frozen North.” There were pine needles in his hair and pine needles stuck in the wool of his plaid jacket. “Whaddya think? Not big enough?”
“Bring it in. With the star and the base, it’s going to touch the ceiling.”
“All right,” he said with evident satisfaction. He pinched the needles to release their cold, sharp fragrance. “Nice and fresh. Hope you like it.”
“I love it. Our first Christmas. Jeez. Hang on while I get the camera.” She went down the hall, trying to remember where she put it.
He dragged the tree in, holding onto the trunk with a leather-gloved hand. “What for? It isn’t decorated.”
“I want to get a picture of you with it,” she called from the living room. “All lumberjacked up and looking cute.”
He stood it up when she came back, looking brawny and sexy and sweet enough to make her swallow the sentimental tears that made her a little misty. She squinted at the little digital screen and tried to get him and the tree into the frame. “Smile,” was all she said.
Christmas Eve…
They’d visited his parents. Her parents. His brothers. Her college friends. They’d wrapped and shopped and wrapped and shopped. Nancy had given in at last and gone to Racks to see if she could find the black velvet dress. No one there even knew what she was talking about. She’d resigned herself to getting him a big, fat gift certificate to an electronics store so he could pick out the laptop he’d been talking about.
Not very imaginative, but what else could she do? A really good laptop was the best present she could come up with at the last minute, and she knew he would love it. She’d tucked a black velvet thong for herself and for him into his stocking, along with a Matchbox car and candy canes.
They collapsed on the sofa and looked at the Christmas tree they’d decorated together. Steve had found about a million ornaments in the basement of his parents’ house and brought them over, carefully hanging every single one once they’d got the tree to stand up straight. She almost couldn’t see the needles under the decorations. The tree sparkled richly and the big colored lights made her think of childhood Christmases, before everything got so damn tasteful and into white wicker reindeer that nodded electronically.
Steve poured himself a shot of single malt from the very expensive bottle his brother had solemnly presented to him. Nancy had been pleased to see that Steve had given Stanislaus the same thing. They did it every year. So maybe he wouldn’t mind that her present for him wasn’t so imaginative.
He sipped it, savoring the flavor. The Lump jumped up on the coffee table and sniffed the glass in Steve’s hand, widening his golden eyes when the fumes went up his nose.
“It’s whiskey, Lump. Have some. Good for your whiskers.” The cat shook his head, not liking the fumes, and Steve laughed. “Look at that. He’s a teetotaler.” He scratched the cat between the ears and got him purring. The Lump settled down next to him as he sipped and watched Nancy put back an ornament that had fallen off. “Ahh. Doesn’t get any cozier than this.”
“Nope.” She was feeling wonderful, absolutely wonderful. Being alone with him at last and looking forward to sharing breakfast in bed with him on Christmas morning was bliss, pure and simple.
“When do you want to open presents? Now or in the morning?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I’m a now kind of guy myself.”
“And why is that not a surprise?” Nancy’s voice was gently teasing.
“Well, I got you something really good.”
Her heart sank a little. “Oh, my.”
“Go ahead.” He leaned back with the shot glass in his hand and gestured to a long white box under the tree. Nancy looked at it with surprise. She could swear it hadn’t been there when they’d left earlier in the evening.
“That isn’t…”
He was humming to himself, trying to look nonchalant. Much as she loved the guy, he couldn’t carry a tune. Could be Metallica, could be a Christmas carol, there was no telling.
Nancy crouched under the tree and pulled out the box. “You didn’t.”
“I did.”
“You spent way too much money.”
“My sales associate friend gets an employee discount. I’m not completely crazy. Except about you.”
Nancy was too blown away to reply. Or meet his loving look. She ran a fingernail down the tape that sealed the box and opened the top flaps. There was the tissue paper, neatly folded, and there was the Racks label, gold and gleaming. And there was the black velvet dress.
“Take it out. Put it on. Christmas comes but once a year.”
She left the room and came back wearing it. Steve’s eyes lit up. “Yeah,” he said with feeling. “Come sit in my lap.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her down to him, making her laugh. The cat meowed a faint protest until Steve turned to him. “Hey, kitty, I heard they’re serving free mice in the kitchen. And three’s a crowd.”
Lump stayed put until Steve put a hand under him and scooped him off the sofa. The cat stalked out.
And then the fun began.
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Prologue
“W e’ll all be dead by morning.” Martin’s voice quavered as he emptied another glass of Frau Sophie’s precious peach schnapps.
“Who’d have guessed it’d be nigh onto impossible to find a virgin in this valley?” his comp
anion said.
“Pah! Even my own daughter,” Martin moaned. “What’s the world coming to, Edgard? Young women giving themselves like barmaids…”
Edgard’s shoulders slumped. “I tell you it was the last May Day celebration. The bürgermeister should never have let Sophie provide the drink.”
“We should have locked every last one of the unmarried maidens in a cellar. Well, no use grousing.” Martin set down his glass. “We have a problem. Now’s the time for clear thinking.”
“There’s no solution. The village will disappear, swallowed by Hell itself when we fail to provide his bride.” Edgard’s reddened eyes widened. “Couldn’t we mount a raid on Fulkenstein down the valley…take a girl or two…”
“There’s no time left. We only had the new moon to give that devil his due. It ends tomorrow night. We’d never be back in time.”
Edgard shook his head, sighing. “We’ve failed. Daemonberg will be no more. Best get the women packing tonight so we can flee come morning. A thousand years of prosperity and health—gone for the lack of a single maidenhead.”
“We’re doomed, I tell you.” Martin lifted the schnapps bottle and tilted it over his glass. He gave it a shake, and then slammed it down on the table. Turning toward the bar, he shouted, “Sophie, liebchen, bring us another bottle, will you?”
As he turned back to his friend, he saw a woman step through the doorway of the inn. Her beauty arrested him: far prettier than any of the strapping blond women of the village, this one was slender and delicate, with deep reddish hair that glinted like fire in the torchlight, reminding him of the bay he’d bid on and lost at an auction in early spring.
He elbowed Edgard beside him. “Look there.”
Both men turned to stare at the young woman.
“Where’s her escort?” Edgard whispered.
“She looks wary. I’d wager she’s on her own.”
They shared a charged glance, shoulders straightening.
“What do you suppose the chances are she’s a virgin?” Edgard asked softly.
“She’s beyond fair. What man would care whether he was her first just so long as he’s her last? Besides, what other options have we?”
Sophie slammed another bottle in the center of the table and gave them a scathing glance. “If you go home to your wives legless with drink, I’ll not take the blame.”
“We’ll have just one more glass,” Martin assured her, reaching around to pat her rump. “For the road. We’ve business to attend.”
Sophie rolled her eyes and turned, her ample hips rolling as she walked across the room to greet the young woman who waved her away.
“If they only knew the solemn duty we perform,” Martin whispered. “They’d call us heroes.”
Only, Martin and Edgard could never tell a soul. That, too, was part of their sacred oath, handed down from father to son.
Edgard poured them both another drink, then lifted his glass. “To another hundred years of peace and wealth.”
Martin lifted his glass with one hand and crossed himself with the other. “To the fair maiden with the red hair—God rest her soul.”
1
V oletta felt faint with alarm; her stomach was in knots. I can’t have lost it. Someone must know where it is!
But what were the chances anyone here would just give it back to her? She didn’t have any gold to offer as a reward for its return. She’d already had to steal the voluminous cloak she wore so she wouldn’t walk naked into their midst.
She stepped farther into the entryway.
“Hullo, Miss,” an elderly gentleman said as he approached, his avid gaze sliding over her hair.
She clutched the edges of the cloak, only too aware its thick folds hid her nudity. “Good evening, sir.”
“You’re a stranger here.”
Her nose twitched at the sour smell of liquor and unwashed skin that emanated from him. Not many men believed in the value of a thorough cleansing.
If only she hadn’t been so fastidious herself, she might never have paused beside the gurgling brook, then noted the thick green curtain of foliage that rendered the glade an irresistible temptation.
“Miss, are you looking for someone?” he asked, his gaze looking beyond her shoulder furtively.
She took a deep breath. How to explain? “I lost something.”
“Yes?” he said quickly. “Perhaps we can help you find it. Why don’t you come have a seat? Can I take your cloak?”
“No! I’m chilled. And I won’t be staying long. I’ve just come to make an inquiry.”
“Come along, now,” he cajoled. “You must join my friend, Edgard, and myself. I am Martin, by the way. I promise we are as harmless as we are hospitable. We might even be able to help.”
The old fellow seemed a friendly sort, although she didn’t feel quite comfortable with the way his gaze kept searching her face.
“Come, come. You seem overset. Have a wee drink with us—just to warm you up. Then we’ll help you find whatever you’ve lost.”
Unused to talking to men, to anyone for any length, really, she tried to demur. “I shouldn’t. I must keep looking.”
A frown drew his thick peppered brows together, then quickly faded as he smiled once again. “What is it you’ve lost?”
She nibbled her bottom lip, then blurted, “My fur. I’ve lost my fox fur.”
“A fox fur, you say?” His glance slid away, and his gnarled fingers scratched his head. “Was it part of a garment?”
“No…not yet. It was…a gift. I need it back.”
“Come along. Edgard purchases furs. Although one fur is hardly distinguishable from another.”
“Oh, mine was unique,” she murmured.
She let him lead her to a table at the rear of the establishment. Another man stood, younger than his companion, with a large, round belly and ruddy cheeks. He drew up a chair and indicated that she should sit.
“No,” Voletta said, holding out a hand. “I really should be on my way.”
“But your fur…” the elderly man began.
Each passing moment deepened her unease. “I’m sure I just missed it in the darkness. I’ll retrace my steps.”
“A fur, did you say?” the fat man said, giving a pointed glare at his companion. “Where did you leave it?”
“Beside a brook. I put it down for only a moment.”
“Today?”
“Yes, just before dark.”
His gaze sharpened. “A fine fur, was it? Unblemished by any trap’s teeth?”
“Of course!” she said, feeling hope at the man’s brightening expression.
“And red as your hair, miss?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, it is.”
“I saw just such a fur. The bürgermeister brought it to me. My wife is even now sewing it onto a fine cloak.”
“Sewing it?” she asked, pressing her hand to her belly.
“Yes, as part of the dowry for a nobleman’s bride.”
Voletta reached for the man’s arm. “I must have it back.”
The heavy man dropped his gaze to her hand, then reached up slowly to pat it. “And you shall. We will go to my shop in a moment. Would you have a drink with us first?”
Relief made her lightheaded, and she nodded. “But quickly, please.”
“Of course. Don’t fret yourself.”
Voletta accepted the beaker the older man handed her and took only a sip, then set her glass on the table. “Sir, I apologize for rushing you, but could we please go retrieve my fur?”
“Of course.” He stared expectantly. “How are you feeling?”
Voletta shook her head. “Fine, can we go now?” Only she didn’t feel fine. Her head swam. The men before her seemed to teeter and stretch. “How odd,” she said, her voice sounding to her own ears as though it rose from the bottom of a deep well.
“Best get her out of here, Edgard, before she topples.”
“Come, miss. You wanted to see my shop?”
She tugg
ed at the collar of her cloak. “S’warm.”
“Catch her!”
“Seems a shame. A beautiful girl like her.”
The voice, Edgard’s, she remembered, came from right beside her.
“Just get the trunk off the cart,” Martin whispered harshly.
Voletta tried to lift her head, but the movement made her nauseous. She pried open her eyelids and found herself looking down at a rutted track. Graying daylight stabbed like tiny daggers at the backs of her eyes.
The air around her was damp and cold. Her skin prickled—she was naked! A fog had rolled in, droplets catching on her breasts and cheeks. The bastards had taken her cloak!
She forced up her head and stared after the men riding atop a cart rolling down a long, steep trail. Then she noticed other things: her hands were tied behind her; a rope was wound around her waist to keep her upright against a pole.
She pulled at the ropes around her wrists, to no avail. Should she call out? Naked, she felt terribly vulnerable…human.
Then she heard a sound…soft, measured footfalls.
In front of her a shadowy form appeared beyond a dark iron gate at the end of the trail. The outline of the figure shimmered, then solidified before her widening gaze. She blinked. Maybe the apparition had just been a floating tendril of fog that had given her that impression.
The fog cleared for a moment to reveal the imposing figure of a man.
Voletta’s breath caught. The man stood still, only feet away, his hard-edged face devoid of emotion, his lips drawn into a thin line.
He was tall, his shoulders broad, his hair and eyes black as midnight. The cotte and chausses he wore were equally dark, unrelieved by any embroidery or a bright cuff. He lifted his hands, pushed open the gate, and stepped through it.
“Please,” she whispered, “untie me.”
“I shall,” he replied, his voice deep and ragged, as though rusty from disuse.