Frost & Filigree: A Shadow Council Archives Urban Fantasy Novella (Beasts of Tarrytown Book 1)

by Natania Barron

  The talons are, at least, ideal for extraction. There is that one vein, common in many domesticated creatures. The Maasai use an arrow, Nerissa uses her talon, to puncture the vein and drain the blood. By the time this happens, Millie is in a daze. Nerissa suspects it is her eyes. In the dark, her own are similar to the goat’s, curiously shaped hourglasses just faintly darker than the black around them. Perhaps goats see it, too.

  When, at last, Nerissa emerges from the shed, having made sure that Millie is sufficiently recovered, she is back to the guise she wears most days. This is as human as she gets. She chooses the details of eccentricity, not because she must but because it helps her get into character. It also means she is forgiven for avoiding some of the trappings of her sex—shoes, extensive petticoats, that sort of thing—and can be excused when she lapses.

  Now that she’s sated, however, she realizes how awful she’s been to Vivienne. This is what happens when she waits too long to feed. Ideally, she would feed every day. But now she stretches out her feedings to thrice weekly, making sure to feed strategically. When she was younger, and far more active, the food was a necessity. But this soft life of dinner parties and gardening does not quite require such gluttony.

  Yet it has been getting more difficult to maintain the abbreviated eating schedule. Goats are not as nutritious as humans, even with the special diet she has developed for them. And she must rotate through the herd to get ample feeding. In the back of her mind, she begins to worry that she may need to consider a new kind of beast. Goats are easy, but she doubts something larger like a cow would be so manageable. Going through two goats a sitting would be difficult, but so would changing the arrangement with Lyndhurst.

  Nerissa is so engrossed in her thoughts that she does not notice the shadowy figure emerge from the side of the shed. The figure is slight, cloaked, and swift moving. When Nerissa turns slightly to check on Millie one last time, the figure is gone, and while she senses an odd shift in the air, she thinks little of it and, instead, simply keeps on her way toward the main house to apologize to Vivienne.

  A Winter’s Ball

  Vivienne spends most of the next week planning for the ball at the Villiers’ mansion. While they are not her favorite family of note, they do have one of the larger properties and are known to invite a mix of foreign dignitaries, artists, and occasionally a more bohemian sort to their parties. George Villiers, the patriarch of the family, was something of a world traveler in his time, and generally accepted to be a gregarious and generous man with a penchant for making friends in and out of society with his charm. This extends, of course, to those of the gentler sex, for whom he is also generally accepted to have appetite. His wife, Lady Edna Montague Villiers is that pale, fragile kind of woman so often found in such circles, too concerned about her own diminishing health—much of which can never be corroborated by doctors, but always by palmists and soothsayers (none of whom are authentic)—to see what’s going on right beneath her own roof.

  To Vivienne, such concepts as fidelity feel very old fashioned. Having lived through a number of court situations in her time, and outlived every last one of her mortal lovers—or killed them, same difference—she finds the simultaneous shock and awe of matters between the sheets to be tiresome.

  No, what truly excites Vivienne du Lac about parties is the clothing. Since the first moment she set her eyes upon a human being, she knew in an instant that clothing, that fashion, connected her to them in a way it did none of her sisters. They are mostly happy to frolic in their natural forms, to weave weeds of water and air, flower and frond. And in a rather basic, primitive way, she supposes that is alluring. Sylphs have a reputation for treating nudity as a kind of art. Aside from their paleness, they do look very human indeed, yet suffer none of the unfortunate side effects of aging. So ever-curving breasts and unmarred skin make for a good show.

  But Vivienne adores materials. Patterns. The play of light on thread. She is quite good at her own handwork but has to play down her talents lest she attract too much attention.

  Her formula for success is simple: find a willing accomplice, typically a relatively little-known designer from Paris or the closest city, and strike a deal with them. She provides a healthy stipend and extensive notes, drawings, and schematics for each and every dress. All credit is relinquished, of course, and once they learn from her craft and approach, they are free to use it elsewhere.

  That said, the week before the ball is a dizzying maelstrom of samples, measurements, and fittings. She is even allowed to dress Nerissa, to her extreme distaste, because they agree to show a unified front. They can’t endure the gossip of a grand gown and a horrible one together. It would raise too many questions.

  Living in secret has its own great challenges. But Vivienne has discovered, over the many years of her existence among humans, that character covers up many ills. While she has not lived in this part of the world for quite some time, she knows this kind of people well enough. Especially those from the city. And the Villiers’ party will be filled with the elite, and by extension, the most fashionable in the entire hemisphere. She simply cannot miss such an opportunity.

  “Are you certain about this?” asks Mr. Pender, the clothier most recently employed by Vivienne du Lac. He is a short, thin man, with an even thinner mustache. He favors stripes and shiny buttons, and he generally doesn’t argue with her.

  But Vivienne already knows this is the point with which he is going to struggle. The colors are unusual—lavender and white and black fur—but he does not question. The accessories are unusual—raw mother of pearl and natural shapes instead of square facets—and Mr. Pender accepts with smile.

  It is simply the length, or lack thereof, that takes Mr. Pender aback.

  “Trust me,” Vivienne says, smoothing her hand across the top layer of her dress, a slightly darker shade of purple than the sheath below. “In a year or two, it will be all the rage.”

  “But—do you not think it’s slightly inappropriate?” he asks, with some difficulty. And then he adds, “You don’t think you’ll be cold?”

  Vivienne, of course, remembers her earlier days, in particular her wooing of many a knight and her favorite outfits comprised simply of strategically placed orchids.

  She smiles anyway, patting Mr. Pender on the shoulder. “You forget the black and white fur caplet. It will keep me more than warm.”

  “But the dress. Your ankles.”

  “My ankles will be fine, sir. You needn’t worry. Or are you so concerned for your reputation that you would give up the sum I have set aside for you?”

  Vivienne doesn’t need to look at him. She feels his energy, feels his sensations and heat like moving webs all around them. It’s an ancient dance, and many men have tried—and failed—to take the lead. She will not kill Mr. Pender, not yet anyway, but she is strong enough still, and wise enough now, that she is able to twist his thoughts just so. He won’t love her; she never could tolerate that sort of thing. But he will trust her, and that’s halfway there.

  Mr. Pender looks to make an argument, but then all the fight goes out of him and he says no more.

  The rest of the planning goes without incident, and Mr. Pender is even amenable enough to finishing the work on Nerissa’s dress, which is nowhere near as beautiful but just as short.

  When they finally arrive at The Drummings, the Villiers’ mansion—known locally as the Rookery for the ever-present ravens atop its spires, or Droppings, due to the unfortunate side-effect of the avian guests—the drive leading up to the front entrance is a mangle of broughams and carriages and frustrated valets. For the average partygoer, the weather is a horror: wind and drizzle have made the affair both soggy and frigid, casting uncomely splashes of red and snot across many a fair face in attendance, man and woman alike. To think of all that work dashed because of a cruel twist of climate.

  Nerissa and Vivienne never have to worry about such inconveniences. For Nerissa’s part, she can look however she wants, so long as she do
es not reveal her true face. For Vivienne, she is always flawless. Her skin does not age, nor needs embellishment. Her dark hair and glassy eyes could not have been better shaped had they been carved in marble.

  “Oh, look, it’s Lady Olivier,” Vivienne says, peering out the window with a crooked smile. “She’s fallen into a puddle, and she’s beating her footman about the head with her purse. And by the sound of it, she’s stashed the entirety of the family’s jewels in it. The poor man.” The way she giggles, however, reveals her true feelings on the matter.

  Nerissa fiddles with the sleeve of her dress. The whole contraption is ungodly uncomfortable. How is it that Vivienne manages to find one horrid dress after another with levels of such mind-boggling engineering for the sole purpose of tormenting her? Nerissa knows well enough that maintaining human form—any human form—is difficult as it is. One’s original form does not simply vanish into the aether. It must be cleverly hidden and maintained over a long period of time. She still has extra arms and a long, serpentine tail. It is only through her skill and concentration that she keeps them concealed.

  “Sometimes I think you want me to lose my glamor,” Nerissa says, pulling Vivienne away from the window. “And don’t gawk. You’ll draw attention.”

  “Of course I will. That’s the whole idea,” Vivienne says, stifling a giggle.

  When they finally reach the entrance, it is quite clear that the poor Villiers have done a very poor job of planning for the weather. There are not enough servants to manage the thick coats. The marble steps are slick, and while some effort has been made to throw salt, it’s still perilously slippery. Neither Vivienne nor Nerissa have any trouble navigating, of course, but they make a show of looking as if they are in need of help to avoid raising any eyebrows. They have both learned to do this instinctively, a kind of chameleon act around humans.

  Nerissa prepares herself as they present their cards to the footmen. Even in the chaos, it is time for the ball to begin; in fact, well past time. The smell of rich food reaches Nerissa just as their names are called, and she takes a few deep breaths, hoping that she can keep her wits together in the presence of so many frenzied human beings. She is rarely tempted these days to drink of them, but when they get excited and angry, she finds her tastes return in flashes.

  Vivienne has no such difficulty, nor such concern. The center of this space is her very element. Angry or happy or afraid, it matters little to her. Just being among the crush of the crowd infuses her with a glow she is otherwise lacking. Her stony features brighten; her hair shines brighter. She is prepared to make her entrance.

  The anticipation is almost overwhelming for her. As the heavy doors open—so thickly laden with holly, ivy, and juniper that for a moment it is as if she is walking into a hidden forest—her heart races, her pulse beats inhumanly fast. The feeling is not nervousness. Her body is not built in a way to experience such human emotions. But it is the thrill of the hunt, the promise of satiety, that so pushes her forward.

  It is her favorite moment, when all eyes turn to her. When she, above all others, is held up as the ideal. A point of jealousy, a point of adulation. Like a goddess of old.

  Except something happens.

  Something wrong.

  When her name is called, it is called wrong: “Lady Vivienne du Lac” and then, in the din, everyone is looking through her because they call another name, louder, and everyone has hushed.

  They are not paying attention to her.

  “Miss Christabel Crane!” comes a booming voice. It seems that someone has found a megaphone.

  Vivienne is unceremoniously ushered away, Nerissa separated from her before she can object.

  But just long enough that she can glimpse the face and form of her foil. A small girl, barely into womanhood, but graced with every measure of loveliness treasured in this time. Long, pale curls piled upon her head with precise twists and turns looking both refined and just tousled enough. Her face is sweet and her lips fresh. But the dress is truly the point of attention. Vivienne knows with but the merest glance that it is from the hand of a familiar rival, Jeanne Paquin.

  Ah, still. The dress!

  It did not rely on any kind of trick or gimmick, for the dress, while not cut in any unusual way, looked as if it had been painted with albino peacocks. A living painting. The material shimmered through each and every feather, and as she walked past Vivienne, it seemed that the birds moved their heads ever so slightly.

  And still, there is more. The dress is merely half of the trouble.

  On young Christabel’s arm is none other than Vivienne’s old paramour, Worth Goodwin, the son of the Questing Beast herself, may she rest in peace. Perfect, brilliant Worth Goodwin. Tall and clever, bright as the summer sun. Both the opposite and complement to Vivienne, and her greatest folly.

  She stands confused, thinking him dead for a very long while now.

  The last time Nerissa saw Worth Goodwin, it was 1850. He was to go off on an adventure to locate one of the Exigents they were ever fighting, a kind of Fey creature gone mad with evil and vice. Different from Aberrants who were dangerous but less conscious; a minotaur to a bison, respectively. But that last time, over long cigarettes at the William Blake in London, it was as if they had not all shared a house together for a hundred years, nor had they worked together to track down ancient artifacts with the power to destroy Britain and, indeed, most of the continent as well.

  Nerissa and Worth were a good team. A marvelous team. Until Vivienne fell in love with him. Until the two of them began feeding off each other’s powers and hating each other. It wasn’t a good situation for either of them. Worth needed to be wanted, to be hunted, and Vivienne needed to hunt. Both creatures woven of supernatural threads and should have been kept apart. Nerissa was worried they would destroy one another, and with the world in such short supply of beings as wondrous as they…

  She didn’t exactly destroy their relationship. But she nudged it in the direction of utter annihilation. Enthusiastically. She conspired with Worth to get him out of the country and assume his demise. It was easier that way for Vivienne, who would continue to follow him if she knew the truth. Lying to the sylph was surprisingly easy to do once Nerissa got the hang of it.

  Besides, jealousy over their relationship was making her scales go flaky.

  Now, seeing the look on Vivienne’s face, however, Nerissa realizes that all her work was in vain. Vivienne would always love Worth. The idea that she could have prevented such a thing seemed utter folly now. How could she have ever thought she had the power to prevent him from coming back?

  She thought they had an arrangement. There would be words.

  But then, no. Nerissa calms herself down. She can feel her skin going scaly, and losing her sense and her disguise would help absolutely no one.

  The panic subsides. Worth Goodwin is with another woman. And by the way she is casting loving glances up at him, he is no simple escort. Does the young girl have any idea how old he is? Likely not. Human is perhaps his most favored form, but a Glatisant, he can be any animal he wants. Nerissa is generally limited to the humanesque, though once she managed a satyr. It is as uncomfortable as one might imagine.

  Now, Viv.

  Vivienne. Yes. She is not happy. She is frozen.

  Nerissa must reign in her glee, must compose herself. Because while it is terrible to see Worth Goodwin, it is not terrible to see him with another woman. It is, in fact, delightful.

  Unless it inspires Vivienne to go into a blood-soaked frenzy. But it’s been at least a hundred years since she’s done that, so…

  “Vivienne,” Nerissa whispers, taking her friend by the arm. She is frigid to the touch, all the warmth and vitality of the event draining from her upon seeing Worth. “Let us go see what sort of canapés they have over here. I’m told that their vol-au-vents are amazing.”

  “I want to go home,” Vivienne says, and begins to sink back toward the front door. She does not look at Nerissa. She does not seem capable
of getting her eyes away from Worth.

  “He’s just a silly… creature,” Nerissa says, hesitant to use the word “man” since it is far from an accurate description. They are close enough that such words will not get caught by those around them. “Let him to his… whatever it is he’s working on.”

  “But I thought he was dead in Brazil,” Vivienne says, dreamily.

  Nerissa winces, as that is more or less what she told Vivienne. And more or less a fabrication. Their sundering was a long time ago, and the details a bit fuzzy, and Nerissa may have expanded on some details a little beyond the realm of the factual. The truth is that she knew Worth was miserable, but she was tired of hunting Aberrants. So, she stole Vivienne’s ledger—a remarkable book containing the details of the work of Waldemar and Goodwin, meticulously illustrated and annotated—and sent it off with Worth in exchange for his freedom. He did go to Brazil, at least briefly.

  “I’d thought the same thing, died hunting orchids and…” Nerissa says, hurriedly. “Oh, look. It’s… ah… Mrs. Bod—Bodding—er,” Nerissa tries, but she really has no capacity or desire to know the names of the elite of Tarrytown and New York City proper. They are but spirits on a similar course, but brief interruptions.

  “Rockefeller!” Nerissa hisses, and at last, this gets Vivienne’s attention, and the attention of most of the people around them.

  The impropriety is at last enough to cause Vivienne to turn on her friend, grab her by the arm, and escort her away from Christabel Crane, whomever she may be, and toward the canapés.

  Once, Worth.

  Once upon a time, Worth.

  Once upon a time, Worth and Vivienne. Together. Entwined. Strangers to the world, supernatural beings of curious, heavenly form. They were happy. And furious. And constantly rutting. To say nothing of all the arguing, though that was part of the passion, too…

  But Vivienne doesn’t remember the last part in that moment. When she beholds Worth Goodwin for the first time in nearly a century, her thoughts aren’t of the fights, the trysts, the jealousy, the lies. They are, instead, full to bursting with reminiscences of certain smells—olfactory being one of her strongest suits and most connected to her memories—redolent of coupling and frolicking and general mischief making. Worth always brought out the devious side of her, and she in him.