Black Briar (2 page)

She wasn’t looking to be saved.

Not by Enid the Hag or Drusilla the Bane. Not by Socrates. And certainly not by a prince—he could go fuck himself and the white horse he rode in on. If there was a tale to be told, it would end on Sybille’s terms. And as far as she was concerned, the dragon could have them—the dragon could have them all. And by the way, she’d get to cleaning her loft when she fucking felt like it. Thanks.

Feathers flown in outrage drifted to the floor. “And what in bloody hell are you wearing, Sybille?”

“A masterpiece.” Lifting a thin blonde eyebrow, Sybille lolled her head and smirked at her reflection in a nearby antique mirror leaning against the wall. She didn’t have shit for a body. Neither did Drusilla. Buying clothes was always a shared pain. Everything but spandex was a baggy second skin, hanging and horrible. She blamed infantile malnutrition for that. But in a place like New Gotham, miracles could be purchased down by the docks.

Upon donning, the Sinister Stitches black nun dress tailored to her slender, lissome form. Cute, short sleeves and the square pilgrim’s bib was trimmed with girlish white lace. The flared mini-skirt ended right at the mid-thigh “fuck-me” line. Paired with a white nurse’s hat, she fancied herself hellish salvation posted on a pair of knee-high, black patent combat boots with six-inch platforms.

“Behold and worship, sinner,”
is exactly what she’d said as she’d modeled her birthday gift from her best friend for
Enid
on her way out this evening. Oh, the outrage. That Hag’s ass was probably still up in smoke.

“Ha.” She snorted. “So worth it.”

Socrates continued to hoot on and on about whatever the problem was now. No, really. He was always talking. Forever talking. Very much like Charles Dickens, she wouldn’t be surprised if he was being paid by the word to annoy her.

“Why…” Sybille dragged slender dead-pale fingers through her somewhat knotted flaxen hair. “Oh, why am I here?”

Winds howled and raged, and the rafters creaked. Otherwise, there was no answer. There was no eerie rapping and tapping at the door. No raven appeared upon this weak and weary night. She was alone. In utter darkness.

Her mouth waned into another long and tired yawn.
Is that my answer?

Trees scratched at the panes and moonlight spilled through the tall, cathedral windows, throwing an ethereal kaleidoscope of olive, dark magenta, and Alice blue across the ceiling. The massive four-poster bed’s stone headboard was awash in chips of blue alexandrite and obsidian crystals. Glittering. Beckoning like a bottomless, cruel ocean.
So tired…

“Are you listening to me, Sybille? You have class tomorrow morning and Baba Yaga will not tolerate another tardy. It seems her pixie has spoken.”

“Fuck a pixie and a chicken witch.” She flipped him off . “I just won’t go. Besides, I got where I am by doing whatever the fuck I want, and considering I can’t make a move without my phone ringing off the goddamn hook, I think I’ll be all right without her oh-so-valuable wisdom.” She folded her willowy arms and muttered under her breath bitterly, . “Mom would think I was doing all right.”

It wasn’t exactly true. Well, maybe it was. She just didn’t know for sure. She’d never met her mother—had only heard of her. But, really, who hadn’t? Everyone knew who she was. Her time spent between the sheets was a thing of legend.

“Hush up with all that nonsense. Baba Yaga is an opportunity of a lifetime.” He crowed, “A chance at classical training. Don’t be ridiculous. We’ve come too far to…”

Drowning out the bird’s voice, Sybille railed her fingers across the smooth nightstand, short and severely masticated nails catching. Faint pain twinged up her fingers, and she relished it. Maybe the stimulus would keep her from falling face first into some stranger’s bed for a nap. She wasn’t Goldie—she had
some
respect, but even the curly blonde would admit that the damn bed was…irresistible. The bed skirt was silver taffeta and the overall frame was enormous. It couldn’t have been bought, and then, moved into the room. It had to be made there. It was that big. That heavy.

Eyebrows squishing together, she reached for one of the supple lace bows tied neatly around the abnormal bedpost, but didn’t dare touch it. It wasn’t asking to be touched. On the contrary…the stone pillars been lovingly etched with monsters and hideous visions of demons. Delinquent lighthouses and the curtains draped in fine gunmetal grey Japanese silk embroidered with silver serpentine dragons. Elegant and grotesque. Eerie.

Gold-dusted midnight fabric washed the vast expanse of the pillowed mattress, the comforter had been impressed with the very same veins of war, and she could almost feel the bloodshed pulse against her palm. Hemp, linen, and silk blended and woven into fire breathing dragons rolling and roiling amongst the stars—it was like watching the gods claw and bite at the ether of the universe. Or perhaps, they were making love. A glorious show of pervading and everlasting constellations. Such an elegant nightmare.

This bed, there was a…magnetic quality to it.

She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but as she leaned forward, slowly surrendering herself into the swing’s damning shadow, she felt utterly…compelled. Like her skin was withering, chipping away piece by piece. She rubbed her heavy eyes.
When was the last time I actually slept?

 
“Sybille.” Socrates snapped his beak. Outraged. “You
just
woke up.”

That was true…to a point.

Sleep was never quite restful for a dreamspinner. When you were blessedly cursed with the awesome power to spin a reality all your own, the last thing you wanted to do while you were sleeping was sleep. If she wasn’t engaged tearing her way deeper and deeper into the nightmare, she was busy getting off on someone else’s. Soon, madness would come. It was only a matter of time. One could only rage into the night for so long before the oil dried up, the wick ravaged—flame extinguished. She could already feel it. So much time navigating between what was real and what wasn’t. So many stories to spin, so little time…

“And behold,” she straightened and carelessly covered another yawn, “I still managed to be here on time.”

The bird’s fluffy chromatic tuxedo puffed. “Just barely.”

The heavy dragon bone clock hanging on the north wall gonged midnight, marking the first hour of her birthday, and she tugged at the sterling silver spindle pendant hanging against her chest. “Okay, seriously. He’s
so
…late.”

 
“Yes, well, he’d best hurry. The citywide shut down is still in effect,” the owl warned, eyes bloody and bright. “There is a monster stalking our cursed streets.”

Another gust of screaming winds, and shutters throughout the Gothic house blew open, slapping against the decaying brick. Flaying against the merciless storm. Cool air chilled and shocked her skin into gooseflesh. She rubbed her arms, and her eyes fell closed. Scents. So many different ones. Sandalwood, incense, and the musk of parchment scrolls and cannabis wafted from the fat, fluffy bear fur strewn haphazardly across the foot of the bed. They were weak. She hadn’t noticed them before.
Familiar?

She faltered a step and her shins bumped the mattress. Warning lifted the hair dusting the line between the nape of her neck and her nun habit, and she closed her fingers into a white-knuckled fist.
Who dreams here?

The side table carting the smattering of oils, antiseptic, and her Norman Rockwell black medical bag were set up on the far end of the room, between the privy and a portable leather bench. Supple leather was smooth and seductive, a pillow for painful healing. And none of the familiar items offered any comfort.

The bed…

She couldn’t take her eyes off it. She couldn’t even breathe.

This bed…

This bed belonged to some kind of badass. There really was no other way to accurately put it. His presence—whoever he was—was a living thing. Even when he was far from home, his soul seemed to linger, hang in thick and smoky, wet pockets of fog—permeate the air with the mineral note of steel and stone.

Get out.

Sybille’s thigh collided against the edge of the “untouchable” desk and she gripped the smooth, dusty ledge. There were iron bars braced on all of the windows. Wide enough for a bird, narrow enough to
absolutely
choke anything else. Her eyes flitted to the doorway and the shadows posted in the hallway devoured her only escape. “Socrates, get my shit, we’re leaving.”
 

“The dust bunnies in your loft, Sybille! The dust bunnies!” The bird hooted and scoffed, lost in a rant. Feathers flying with outrage. “The lot of them are growing teeth. Narrowly escaped with my life this morning! Wait—What, what? You can’t leave, Sybille. The Hag has sent you here. He has an appointment.”

Something was off. She could feel it. It was humming like glittering yellow tension in the air. “Who has an appointment? Who lives here?”

“WHAT?” Socrates crowed and then frowned. “Haven’t you been paying attention? This piece of tin belongs to Jael N. Ishi and the heathen mice who live here are out to get me—all three of them.” His feathers molted. “Thrice blind bastards!”

The house, the bed, the dreams…

They belonged to Jael N. Ishi. Yeah, she knew that. That wasn’t the question she was asking. In terms of recognizing the name, she did. Sort of. She felt like she’d heard the name before; her tongue tingled with a sensory memory. The texture, what it tasted like—the name was very familiar, but she couldn’t place it.

The Briar did a lot of business, it was only natural she lose track of all of her patients, but she would seriously remember a name like Jael N. Ishi. She would remember a house call like this one. This was one of the very few worth remembering. She’d never been inside a master bedroom quite like this before. If she had, she wasn’t sure she would’ve left with her knickers on and intact.

Get the fuck out. Now.
Unease folded her stomach and she raked her gaze across the room in search of a fucking clue. “Socrates, why am I here? Where is he?”

“
Hickory
! I tocked him for good, didn’t I?” Owl screeches of sinister glee, and then, cage rattling bluster and cough. “What, what? What now, Sybille? Can’t you see I’m talking? How dare you have the nerve to be talking while I’m talking—”

“Who is he? Does
Enid
know him?”

An image of the elderly hook-nosed old woman, hunched and swaddled in black velvet, hooded robes bloomed in Sybille’s mind. Right now—during the midnight hour—the Hag was always found sitting in her rocker by the firelight, scribbling patiently in her journal, her quill a gold feather torn from a dying Phenoix. Big brown eyes wet and glassy, bright with the thrill of her latest conniving concoction.

Crafty old bitch.
Have you nothing better to do with your time? Must you spend it thinking up ways to torture me into mating? Do I drive you that crazy? Why can’t you just knit and feed me cookies and candy like other grandparents?
 
Sybille’s jaw clenched and balled her hands into fist.
 
“What the hell is she up to now, Socrates?”

“Try not to sound so ridiculous, Sybille.” The bird rolled his eyes, pecked at his chest. “You know that old crone is always up to something.”