'Twas the Darkest Night Read online

  “Oh hush, Miriam.”

  John tugged at his sister's pigtail, infuriating the seedling further. She huffed and swung at him with the business end of a haggard plush doll. “John! Stop it!”

  Forgotten behind his siblings, the last child was truly the runt of the litter, hobbling with an uneasy gait as if his left leg were little more than dead weight. Though his cheeks were ruddy from the excursion and the cold, he had a merry little way.

  The enormous fir towering in the center of New Gotham square was lit. Hundreds of blue and white, red and green lights blinked to life, showering light upon the ghoulish crowd. Millions of stars gleaming against the glossy glass bulbs.

  The boy stopped, rubbing his tattered blue sleeve across his snotty nose, mesmerized.

  Fool. Marshall made it a point to nearly trample him.

  “Timothy!” The mother brownie whirled around and darted forward in time to snatch her son from beneath Marshall's heavy black sole. Hugging her child to her generous bosom, she glared at Marshall's retreating form. “Animal!”

  Just a vampire. Marshall didn't spare her a glance. “Keep closer rein of your brood, fey.” He side-stepped the frowning father and flicked the edge of the map. “And you're most definitely going the wrong way.”

  By day, Grendel Avenue was civil enough. Shops and seasonal festivals arranged by the city council in the spring, Sabbaths and sleigh rides in the winter. By night, it was no place for humans and children alike. Too many things with teeth came out at dusk to mingle and bicker. What he would give to go back to the days when the world still made sense. The fey did whatever the fuck it was they did in their realm, vampires kept to their crypts and castles, the animals to their dens, and witches to their fucking scheming and cauldrons.

  It had been a fraction more than half a century since the international Dante Act had been instituted worldwide. It made New Gotham and a handful of other cities “safe havens” for beast, man, and the poor souls in between. Apparently, some vampire in a stiff suit had finally gotten fed up with having to do his dirty work from a rickety old casket. Plus, someone had to take back the night from the sparkling nimrods and shirtless idiots.

  It was a tentative peace between the factions. Some believed it would hold. Others didn’t. Marshall didn’t believe a charter and a Bill of Rights were going to stem the tide. Monsters and humans were greedy little creatures, bent on slaking their passions until the world was bled dry. There would always be grief because there would always be greed. And nothing chased that naughty green pill like a breakout of violence. And it was there, hovering beneath the surface of the city. Clinging to every elegant cast-iron lamp post and graffiti stamped street corner like a hungry whore.

  As if to punctuate his grim thoughts, Club Brimstone rose into the inky black sky like some sort of twisted spire, an eerie beacon for those who could stand the heat behind its tall cathedral doors. Music poured from the narrow slits of the arrow windows spaced evenly across the top floor of the warehouse. Beneath the club’s name on the edifice’s ridiculously large purple moniker was a warning. In large, fat fairy-tale letters read “Don’t bother, if you can’t take the heat.” Below that there was a dedication inscription in ghostly print: “In memory of the “The Witching Hour. ~M.H. 1849.”

  Heathen magic. Matted fur. Stale blood. And sex. And beneath that dangerous cocktail, the ashy mist of industrial soot, sweet specks of spectral dust, and the acrid after-bite of demonic sulfur thickened in the air. Water and melted ice splashed up his leg, and he muttered a curse as he wove through sparse pockets of monsters and the token human daft enough to haunt this part of hell’s kitchen this early in the night.

  The zombie couple before him shuffled inside after a quick exchange with the bouncer. The gargoyle’s massive ribbed wings dwarfed Marshall. Molten silver eyes studied him intently with the leisure and patience of stone.

  “Password,” he prompted, his voice low. Monotone and metal, ringing like faint cathedral bells.

  Haven’t the slightest and… Marshall flashed handsome fangs, “Don’t care.”

  Folding his hefty arms, the gargoyle lowered the fleshy wing barring Marshall’s entry. “Sir vampire.”

  Scenes of man, monster, and animal captured and frozen between woven wool watched with roving, lively, life-like eyes as Marshall’s feet sank into the plush, deep-toned runners. Living tapestries, as they were called, adorned dramatic stone walls in between wrought iron sconces and rich wooden accents. Mantles and bulky rosewood furniture with high, steeple backs. To walk into the anteroom of Club Brimstone was to cast off the modern shackles of the present to dance wildly in Medieval magic, mischief, and mayhem.

  From the outside, the warehouse appeared ordinary. Inside, magic had been seared into the brick and mortar to create a well-stocked funhouse of sinister amusement for the paranormal ilk. Themed rooms. Each with a different theme. A different audience. A different vice. All of them equally delicious to the trained eye. It was shaped like an ancient star. There were five doors, all of which intersected in the middle—the anteroom and mixed floor.

  A curvaceous body slid alongside his and soft warmth seeped through his trench. Clad in a shiny leather mini and a plum corset, she was miles of legs in fishnets. Made all the more delicious by the flaxen ringlets pinned beneath a saucy top hat. Black cherries. Some kind of musk. And magic. Lots and lots of magic.

  She batted her eyelashes appreciatively, “What do you look like when the lights go out, sweetheart?”

  It wasn't an attempt at flirtation, but a gentle reminder.

  Marshall's gaze fell to the small pewter cross-shaped employee badge cinched to the corset pushing her generous breasts to her chin. Titling his head in apology, he undid the threads of his innate glamour.

  Innate glamour was a skill most monsters practiced during their elementary years, like writing and reading…and stalking. Mastered by adulthood, it was honed throughout adolescence, minus the occasional slip ups—the accepted origins of the first sightings and mystical folklores and legends. Among a few other things, his glamour lulled his lunch into sleep—he smirked with thoughts of the coat closet—and muted his supernatural appearance.

  Smoke billowed from his sleeves as some—not all—of his flesh was turned into arid shadows just barely restrained by corporeal form. His fangs dropped, pillowed against his bottom lip. His nails lengthened, sharpening into ivory razors. Demonic, black orbs instead of muted blue ports in a storm peered from his gaunt face. Charcoal brown hair grew, the heavy silk mane spilling down his back to his waist.

  “Gorgeous.” The witch winked at him and offered to take his coat.

  Declining politely, Marshall left her to attend to the next patron, and closed the distance to the double dungeon doors on the far right, where a leggy vampire with a screw mouth and similar employee cross pinned to his plum vest lurked.

  “Season’s Greetings,” the bouncer offered flatly. He wrinkled his snub nose. “Ye are welcome in The Hall of Screaming Trees, sir…vampire.”

  Oh, bite me. Marshall rolled his eyes as the doors opened to reveal a swanky lounge with dim red lights and villainous clientele. He stepped inside the threshold and was enveloped by the heady scent of blood. Sanguine and delicious. So much blood. So many sources. So many possibilities.

  Corpses hung in their painted minis on wires strung from the wooden rafters. Gruesome dolls on strings. He almost pitied them, but everyone knew the rules.

  Humans were welcome. Humans could shop and mingle and gawk. Humans could even party amongst the mixed ilk at Club Brimstone. But no one was responsible for the sheep who wandered too far from the yellow brick road. No one was responsible for getting you out. Some didn’t make it. Most did. Others ended up like this. Neither dead nor alive. Reduced to nothing more than haunting decoration.

  Wretched and pathetic little fools. They were and would always be prey first. Instituting an entire city grid where monsters could fuck, fight, and feed without the constraints of living in
secret was the equivalent of announcing open season to a horde of suck-heads.

  He dragged his tongue across a limp, bleeding wrist. How sweet.

  * * * *

  Music was pounding, shaking, rattling, solid and thumping at the back of her skull in terrible cacophony. It was noise. And it was terrible. This was precisely why she didn’t leave her house. What was the bleeding point? She always got dressed, only to get there and immediately regret it. Boredom. Social awkwardness. A marked absence of chocolate—it was always something.

  Tonight it was the noise.

  “Order you another, cricket?”

  And him—he was not helping. She tugged the sides of her hood to make sure her face was shielded.

  The hulking wolf peered at her from piercing emerald eyes. Broad shoulders and thickly muscled arms. Husky, but not fat. A solid wall of muscles rippling beneath the lapels of his brown leather jacket. He wasn’t unattractive. Just rugged. Roughly drawn and hewn from a sturdy stock of forest wolf. “What, were?”

  He lifted his empty tumbler. “Another?”

  Elsa peeked at the bottom of her tankard. “Another.”

  The witch at the bar set to work. “Another Horseman and Cat Cry coming right up.”

  “That one’s on me, cricket.”

  If this were didn't stop howling up the wrong tree…

  The gaudy clock on the south wall chimed. It was almost time for Ingrid’s exhibition. Finally.

  The witch served their drinks. The were wiggled wily eyebrows and raised his glass. “Cheers.”

  Elsa snatched her tankard from the waxy mahogany bar and downed the frothy amber liquid in a few gulps. Apricots, yeast, and rum. Spicy ginger. Blood. So sweet it was almost rotted. The drink selection was one of Club Brimstone’s only saving graces.

  She was being watched. Elsa swallowed and craned her head to the left.

  The were’s brow creased. “How ‘bout a peek at what’s under that hood?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?” He shrugged, “I’d let you scratch my bark anytime.”

  Elsa blinked myopically. “Odd little creature,” she muttered to herself as she pulled her change purse from one of her sleeves and counted the exact total of her tab.

  Every coin was precious. Terribly and bewitchingly precious. Dirty pennies and silver, gold or bauble, it didn’t matter. They were all wonderful and welcome for her collection. The gnarled tickle of Greed bristled against her mind, saliva pooled in her mouth. She swallowed, nonplussed, tucking the base weakness to the back of her mind as she hopped off the stool.

  “Not so fast, cricket.”

  * * * *

  Marshall stepped out of the Hall of Screaming Trees onto the rich wood planks of the “mixed floor,” the dance club portion of Club Brimstone.

  Pulses. So many glorious heartbeats. And music. Teles’ voice wound its way between the clusters of bodies. They danced, thumping and shimmying with their hands waving in the air. Like the vaulted ceiling couldn’t contain them for long.

  Naked skin, puffs of fur, and leather brushed against his coat as he descended into the fray, heedless of the appreciative smiles cast in his direction. He tried to siphon out Elsa's unique blend of scents—cinnamon, soil, and the musk of old books. There were just too many.

  Club Brimstone was owned by a pixie and her pet dragon, or so those were the rumors. Which one was responsible for the glass boxes built into the teak support beams? In each box, couples were entwined, actively locked in coitus. How crass.

  Marshall paused before one of the columns littered throughout the spacious room. There was iron braced over the glass like a slender dungeon cage. A cinnamon-skinned jinn and a Persian sorceress were embraced, her legs locked around his waist. The box was just barely big enough for both of them, and the balls of her knee caps were pressed against the fogged glass, her palms slipping and sliding as she tried to find purchase. Her lover fucked her to the heady rhythm of the music, keeping beat with electronic bass turning the entire room into one smarting, throbbing expression of spell-binding energy.

  At the top of the pillar, there was a dedication engraved on a gold plaque.

  It read: “The infinite of the universe is in each one of us. You're grace, faith. Hopelessness, despair. Violence and anger. Beauty. You overwhelm me. J.W.H.”

  Fierce Bengal-orange eyes met his over the slope of her lover’s finely sculpted shoulder. Joy, lust, and something not quite of this world shone from her gaze. She curled her fingers in the nape of her lover’s midnight blue hair and flattened a Henna-embroidered palm against the glass. The veins marking her life lines were wide, deep, inviting him to share in the beauty she’d found and he balled his hands in his pockets and pivoted on his heel. Oh, piss off. Not in the mood.

  Flaming orange hair drew his attention to a couple far removed from the dance floor. Huddled together, the occasional lingering kiss. Bright flash of white teeth and throaty, hushed laughter. Their handholding was almost grossly inappropriate, considering their surroundings. But they didn’t seem to give two wits about the world beyond their private corner of the room.

  What would it be like to be looked upon the way the ginger with the freckles was gazing at the warlock at her side? Kind of like how that woman at the far end of the bar was looking at the tiered cake arranged amongst the other goodies on the long refreshment table. Messy cherry waves spilled onto her shoulders from the darkness of her hood.

  Finally.

  A man with a playful quirk in his bushy black eyebrows stalked toward Elsa with purpose and slid into view. He was most undoubtedly a were. Husky, even by werewolf standards, he was a picture of the kind of cornbread-fed jock that had kept his species on the bottom rung of the paranormal ladder for the better part of creation.

  Whoever he was, she wasn’t impressed. She skirted around the table and abandoned the cake in favor of the doorway that would lead back to the final and best room.

  The Dungeon.

  Standing apart from the few monsters filing into the leather palace, she was easy to spot. Was she lost? Apparently not. Elsa murmured consent and understanding of house rules to the gargoyle perched over the doorway and disappeared over the beaded threshold.

  Marshall's eyebrows rose. How unexpected.

  What did his little mousy landlord know of whips and chains? And just when he’d thought he'd reached an age of less and less mystery. Marshall treaded after her, pausing briefly to affirm and consent to the winged statuesque creature waiting and watching from the arch.

  Several heavy steps and clacking stilettos pulled his attention over his shoulder to the growing line behind him. Backing up to stand within the shadow of the creature's massive wing, he craned his neck back and shook his hair out of his eyes. “Pardon me, but is there some sort of exhibition tonight?”

  “Mistress Ingrid celebrates her new submissive.”

  “Ah, Ingrid. Lovely woman.”

  The beast's steely expression was passive, but he permitted a small nod. “She is sufficient. You,” his silver gaze sharpened with desire, “are also sufficient.”

  The corner of Marshall’s mouth quirked as his attention fell to the antique racks of paddles, crops, and other tools of seduction arranged for rent on a short table near the entrance. “I wouldn't be so sure, my friend. How long has it been now?”

  “Your last visit to this club occurred four hundred forty moons and two hours ago.”

  He whistled and ducked beneath the arch. “Let us hope I'm as good as you say I am.”

  “Stone doesn't lie.”

  Everyone lies. Marshall smirked and slipped through the beads hanging over the archway. The dark hall immediately gave way to a lavish parlor with garlands of royal violet wisps wrapped around the rich wood accents and iron wrought candelabras, dusting the bone-white walls into a rosy lilac. Plush, oval couches lined the walls, seating the audience for whatever would take place on the gleaming gold dais dominating the center of the room. A Saint Andrew’s Cross and a s
mall table with an eclectic selection of devious instruments stood neatly in the middle of the platform. Leather, stained cherry wood, and steel snared the light. Gleaming with promise.

  Mistress Ingrid, the gargoyle had said.

  Whatever was going to take place would happen soon. Monsters and humans inclined to leather shuffled into the oval space. Marshall slipped between a pocket of witches and warlocks.

  He offered an appreciative nod to a slave seated at her Master's knees. Their gazes met—held for a moment. Her cheeks darkened and her translucent wings twitched. The chain suspended between the wide steel collar and the leather band on the wolfman's wrist clinked. A growl slid between the Moor’s incisors. A warning.

  Relax. He turned up the lapels of his trench. I've already had her.

  The purple wisps dimmed, some of them shedding the color in favor of a lively green. Both colors played across the walls and the marble dais, giving the surfaces a spectral brushwork. Surreal and fantastic. Like the tapestries watching the crowd, listening to the discordant fragments of several conversations soften to a buzzing murmur.

  The baroque curtains hanging over the doorway to the catwalk parted and a gargoyle stepped out onto the dais. Arms banded across his massive, sculpted pectorals, his gray flesh shimmered silver beneath the lull of the will o’ wisps.

  A tiny pixie tugged on the reins tied on the ivory horns protruding from his temples. “Forward.”

  He took the center of the dais and she tugged on the reins, her tiny green wings twitching with exertion. “That’s far enough. Stop. Stop. Oh, heel, you big tree.”

  Muttering under her breath, she dropped the reins and smoothed the airy material dancing around shapely legs, ignoring the hundreds of eyes clinging to her every tick or quiver.

  It wasn’t every day a pixie graced the world with its presence.

  She took the ridges lining the gargoyles brow like stairs and cleared her throat, addressing the crowd. “Club Brimstone is pleased to present Mistress Ingrid. That is all.” She tapped her foot on the gargoyles’ nose. “That is all. All right, take me home, Boris.”