Black Briar (16 page)

“What if I told you that ratty little hole in the wall is about to become this agency’s biggest account?”

“Shall I consider myself told?”

“Yes.”

“What's the play?”

Silence. The call hadn't dropped, he didn't have to check his phone to make sure. Her breath was strong and steady, even loud to his sensitive ears. The sound of her scheming was even louder, like rusted cogs and clockwork grinding and locking into place. Her large, brown eyes were probably bright with the thrill of it.

Finally, she let out an especially resigned sigh. “Yesterday, for no apparent reason Teles—”

“—the siren?”
Marshall
’s mind swam with images of sultry olive green eyes and random threads of raspy lyrics and lilting, haunting musical notes.

“The very same—No, no, that's fine. Bring those mock-ups right here. Why, Chris, you’re sweatin’ like a whore in church. Are you scared?” Her voice sharpened with amusement. “You should be… Anyways,” she said, addressing the phone once more, “the siren walks into the store and decides she loves it. She wants to buy a partnership from the owner, Madame Mari, and launch an inter-realm fashion line.”

A veritable jackpot.

Marshall
crushed the filter between his slender fingertips. “How did you get wind of this?”

“My reach is very, very far.” Johanna chuckled, but it was a mirthless sound. “Want my job, do you?”

He weighed the outcome of several responses and decided on honesty. Anything else was a declaration of defeat. “Yes.”

“Honesty. Hmm, I like that,” she continued. “In any case, this is what I need from you. You're going to come in tomorrow morning and pick up two tickets to where Madame Mari is spending Christmas with her family. She really is some kind of hermit. I couldn’t even find anyone who’s glimpsed a picture of her.”

Warning lifted the hairs on the back of his neck. “And you want me to do what, sign her?”

“Yes, precisely. Bring Gwyneth. From what I did get on her, the family image is a must. Don't mess this up, Ansley. I spent a lot of money tapping my contacts in the hospitality industry to find out where she’s going to be. I won’t tolerate failure. This account is what we've been waiting for. And we
will
have it.”

“You’ll have to do better than that. I don't even know what Madame Mari looks like.”

“Use some of that voodoo you monsters are always carrying on about.”

“Hill, the fey… You're human, you don't understand. They have glamours that—”

“Sign that stupid fairy and I'll make sure you have your partnership.”

Marshall
's mouth went dry and he shook his head, trying to reason through the red haze of ambition. “Hill—”

“Do it,
Marshall
—or it's your job. See you in my office in a week. Oh, and Merry Christmas.”

He chucked his phone over the railing.
She's out of her bloody mind.

Marshall
pocketed his frostbitten fingers in his jacket, staring over the balcony after the phone as if it would rise from the grave and float back up over the iron railing to haunt him. Hill didn't understand. A fey who didn't want to be seen wouldn't be. It was their prerogative. One of the few blessings making their particular brand of miserable existence—whatever that was like—bearable.

Besides, he was a cambion. An organic chimera of human, vampire, and incubus—he wasn't a witch or some other manner of creature who regularly manipulated magic. He wouldn't even begin to know how to go about bypassing sorcery as powerful as fey glamour.

Maybe he could start over. Maybe he could convince some of his clients to leave with him and start up an agency of his own. The thought was daunting. Even if it wasn't for the non-compete clause he'd signed as a part of his contract with Mirage, he didn’t have the money or the capital to invest on such a grandiose start-up without having to…

Use a shilling of his father’s money—ha. He’d rather get kicked in the fangs.

The shop door swished open and a faint bell rang. He tracked the noise. Warm yellow candle light washed across the snow-covered pavement beneath the terrace.

“Simple-minded cat.” Elsa's raspy, whiskey voice splashed across the air like hot amber liquid on crackling dry ice cubes, melting and warming…and please-bartender-pour-me-another. “I can't believe I'm going to this stupid club. Of all the harebrained…” Her complaints dulled to a string of irritable mumbling.

He leaned a hip against the narrow ladder of the fire escape.
And people think I’m a cranky prat.

Tying a faded floral-patterned scarf under her chin, she stormed off into the snow-capped world with purpose. Her long, sandy brown wool coat dragged along the ice as she crossed the street and marched across the bridge. A breeze lifted the snow, sprinkling the white dust on her cherry red waves. They shook as she huffed. In the months he'd been renting his apartment from his five-foot shrewish shopkeeper, he'd never seen her smile.

Not once.

They'd gone through the leasing proceedings in staunch silence. He experienced that sometimes with humans who were often afraid and intimidated by the supernatural power bowing off of him in waves. He imagined it was a natural survival instinct. But she wasn't human—it was clear she was a monster of some sort. What kind, he didn't know. Some kind of witch, maybe. He'd never had any reason to inquire…

Actually…

The wooden shingle hanging over the vacant shop swung in the breeze.

In large, bold Olde English, it read:
Bits and Pieces.

Below it, in a smaller, irregular, and handwritten script:
Arcane Emporium for Rare Charms, Glamours, and Artifacts.

What if…

Surely, a shop such as hers would…

The idea took shape in his mind.

Marshall
leapt over the edge of the terrace. Snow crunched under his shoes as he landed with a tactile grace.

He'd work out the particulars later.

***

Hope you enjoyed!

‘Twas the Darkest Night
is available wherever Sophie Avett’s book are sold.

Other Books by Sophie Avett

Monster Farm Saga (LGBT)

Cry Wolf

Cry Wolf: The Hunt

Briar Beauties Saga

Black Briar

Darkest Hour Saga

‘Twas the Darkest Night

Sophie Avett is kind of a nerd. Like not even one of the cute, hip ones everyone brags about nowadays. More like the socially awkward hippie who eats way too much bread and dreams about being a dragon from behind towers of mythology books. Um…yeah. Picture old, tattered paperbacks and comic books—mostly Batman and Wonder Woman—dwarfing a tiny desk, with just barely enough room for the troll who writes there and the 70 pound hell-hound that insists on laying its wet nose on top of her bare foot. 

Granted, not the most exciting existence, but she tries to make up for it by writing romances populated with her own peculiar ilk of paranormal beasties.  Trolls, wyverns, the obscure Nordic brownie—she likes to keep things interesting. And bloody. (And mostly naked—but, we'll keep that bit between us.)
Sophie Avett loves to hear from her readers. (Hi, mom.) So if there's something on your mind, feel free to leave a message after the 
scream
. 

(Mom, you can just call me. Seriously.)

Dedication:
This craptastic short story is dedicated to my beautiful mother. Thanks for believing in magic and enduring endless reruns of Ferngully and Xena: The Warrior Princess. (And no, I can’t keep watching
Cougar
Town
with you. Seriously.) Thanks for all the professional cookie and pancake testing. For the reams of books, sewing lessons, and many, many laughs. Thank you for showing me how to run and fly but still teaching me there is no shame in crawling when I have to. Thank you for showing me what humility and honor really look like. You raised a bunch of badass nerds, Mom. I mean, really, legends shouldn’t be this dope. Thank you.

I carry you in my spirit, forever and always.

Sophie the Storymaven

Acknowledgements:
First, Sophie must give thanks to the Viking. It wasn’t for him, laundry and Sophie’s pizza boxes and cupcake wrappers would be piling up to the ceilings of this sithen. Secondly, she must give thanks to the Pixie. Without her, there is little hope for a dragon in this world. She must wave at Sensei and thank her for her tireless patience with the lunatic. Oh, and she is indebted to the Purple Grasshopper. You make me laugh, skank. And that’s worth the world to me. Thank you. And finally, she must wave at her wonderful editors, beta-readers, and the bowl of awesome that is her Cover Art Pixie. Thanks guys. This one wouldn’t have been possible without your magic.

Typos are the jack-in-the-boxes of the reading world. There you are, reading an amazing story, when suddenly—BAM! A typo rips you right out of the groove. At Skeleton Key Publishing, our editors do their best to correct the typos that slink by our authors, but sometimes they escape and go on their ruinous rampage.

So here’s the deal. If you found any typos,
go to our website and report it
. Every month we will put the names of everyone who reported a typo into a hat and pick one out. That person will then be offered a $25 gift certificate to either Barnes & Noble or Amazon.

That’s right…you can win a gift certificate just for reporting a typo. If you find more than three typos, send us a copy of your receipt and we’ll send you an updated version of the book.

Thank you for helping us improve the reading experience for later readers.

- The Skeleton Crew

Black Briar

©Copyright Sophie Avett 2014

Skeleton Key Publishing

Cover Art Elaina of For the Muse Designs © Copyright May 2014

Edited by Jennifer Douglas, Alix Richards, Julia Austen

This is a of work fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Skeleton Key Publishing, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in the context of reviews.