“Please, Ms. du Lac,” says a young woman, coming from behind the first speaker. It’s Christabel Crane. “I implore you to release your friends and let us parlay with you. I promise, we mean no harm. I hoped Mr. Goodwin had a chance to discuss the matter with you.”
Vivienne, Nerissa knows, is currently living her nightmare in the bold contrast of a Caravaggio painting. Not only is she revealed to this rag-tag group of mortals as a wretched witch—her hair white strewn about her head, her nails long like icicles, her breasts bared for all to see—but she has also torn her dress.
It’s about time, Nerissa supposes, that someone has figured them out. She is both relieved and annoyed, but then, she hasn’t been trying that hard. Barefooted women gallivanting around cavorting with goats are bound to attract attention at some point or another, after all. No matter how precious Vivienne is about such things, Nerissa is always the weaker in terms of presentation. A snake is a snake, after all.
With a deep breath, Vivienne drops her pale arms, and when she does so, both Worth and Nerissa fall to the ground. Worth uses the opportunity to shift back into his human form, though he is regrettably lacking clothing. Nerissa, however, decides to abstain from any glamor at the moment, in a kind of silent protest. Though she is the most talented of the group, she is glad to save her energy. That, and now free of her corset, she is hesitant to even whip up a semblance of the confounded contraption. She casts the remnant of her split garment to the side and hisses.
Nerissa isn’t yet convinced that biting off a few heads won’t be in the cards this evening. And it’s been so long since she’s had a good draught of the carotid.
“I made the attempt to speak to them in a civil manner,” says Worth, breathless, “but we were interrupted before I had a chance.”
“You took too long,” says an old woman with the air of a vulture. Vivienne would know the name, but Nerissa can’t be bothered with such details. The crone would be sour to eat judging by the yellow stains on her fingers and around her mouth. Not to say the elderly are generally less tasty. Quite the opposite. She’s always enjoyed a little mellow to her marrow.
“I took too long, madame?” asks Worth, looking quite offended, his body flushing red in response. “I’ll have you know that I took half the allotted time.”
“They hadn’t even brought out the canapes yet,” Vivienne says dreamily. She seems a bit dazed, and that does not sit well with the lamia.
“That was a dangerous prank,” Nerissa says, and her voice is rough in her throat. She sounds practically feral, and she’d forgotten how good it is to use her regular voice. “People could have died.” Should have died.
“They didn’t,” the first man says. “Most of the blood was already in the device before it went off. We were very careful.”
“And your plan was to, what? Unveil us to the whole of New York elite?” Nerissa asks.
Christabel looks mortified at the behavior of her fellow mortals, and she presses in front of the very talkative man, saying, “Mr. Rockefeller, are you telling me you detonated a blood bomb?”
“I was doubtful,” he says, looking pompous as ever, “that these creatures would perform as expected.”
“We are not circus clowns,” says Nerissa, glaring at Rockefeller so much he actually blanches.
“If I had known you had plans to detonate such a device, I never would have risked it. Such blood could have caused a frenzy, and none of us might be standing right now if it hadn’t been for these reformed creatures.” She turns to Vivienne and offers a wan smile. “Truly, your restraint is quite admirable.”
“Well, no one died,” says Mr. Rockefeller, puffing his chest and no doubt offended that this young woman is scolding him so, unwilling to give compliment to the monsters. “And it will be the talk of the town. Every scar will be a story!”
“I told you they were the real deal,” the old woman says, jutting her finger at the lamia. “But would anyone believe me? No, of course not.”
“No one actually thought it would work,” another says. “We’ve never had such beings in our presence like these.”
“But that was quite a show!” the old woman says says with a laugh, gaze perusing every inch of Nerissa’s body.
“I still can’t believe what I’m seeing. That tail—what are those, ah, made out of, if I may ask?” Rockefeller says, hesitant.
Nerissa seriously considers devouring the man whole, and enjoying the look on Vivienne’s face as she does it, when Christabel answers for her.
“You absolutely may not ask. As it is, I am beyond appalled at your behavior. First, our guests have been told that it was a pair of errant coffee urns that went ballistic, but I promise you that if such an event happens again, we will not be able to cover it up so easily. We are fortunate that the house is decorated in so much red velvet,” Christabel continues. “Secondly, this is the Villiers’ home, and our presence has ushered in thousands of dollars in damages.”
“All press is good press,” the old woman says.
Nerissa finds this a disgustingly American concept.
“For all the wrong reasons. I will have to undertake a letter writing campaign and work to pull every string available to ensure this does not happen again. If anyone crosses, you know the consequences,” Miss Crane says with the authority of a politician or preacher. “We have much, much larger issues at hand. Unexplained deaths. Mysterious disappearances. If we prattle on long enough, whatever stalks us now will have plenty of time to eviscerate us—and shame on us only.”
Well, now. Nerissa can certainly understand what Worth sees in this mortal. She is commanding, though small. Rockefeller frowns and turns away from her, and then Christabel regards the three unusual “beings” as she so aptly put it, with as bright a smile as she can manage. For a slight thing of no more than twenty, it’s impressive. She lights up the room, even Nerissa has to admit that.
“We are imploring you for help,” Christabel says sweetly, looking Nerissa straight in the eyes—no small feat. Many men have wet themselves upon seeing them, blood red and streaked with green as they are. “Mr. Goodwin was intended to ask you first, before any other methods were…” She takes a deep breath, steeling herself against the stupidity of her cohort. “I fear we may have made so grave a mistake in this misstep that there is no going back.”
Vivienne finds her voice, at last, but it is a far away, strange thing. She knows, on one layer of her emotional consciousness, that she is the best person in matters of discussion with human beings. Worth is too forgiving of them, and Nerissa too distrustful. But she is still too shocked and thrown off by the scent of blood to react as quickly as she once did.
“We have seen far worse,” she says at last, which is far from the truth. They have been surprised a few times in their long years together, but never once in public with such an audience. Truly, the level of stupidity exhibited by these specimens is far beyond the pale.
Crane. She respects that woman under all her layers of disgust. Something familiar about her. The way she talks, that manner. But why?
But the Circle of Iapetus? What nonsense. It’s been a long time since she’s stumbled her way into a mortal cult, and she never much liked them to begin with. Such a sad sartorial palette with dark robes and tacky headdresses.
“They’re just very excited to see you—as you are,” Christabel says, though there is no thrill in her voice. In fact, judging by the response, Vivienne has the distinct feeling that she is more or less unimpressed. “You will pardon their staring. Our order has studied your kind for a long time, and seeing you as you are is rather delightful.”
“Usually she likes it when they stare,” Worth says drily.
Vivienne ignores him. “You could have simply come for tea. In that case, the likelihood of human dismemberment would have been significantly diminished.”
“Yes, I realize that now, except these good people here wanted proof, and while I hoped for a more toned down reveal, courtesy of Mr. Goodwin,
that did not go as planned,” Christabel continues. Now she’s smiling, and it’s hideous and Vivienne hates it, especially because of the way that Worth is looking at her. Why does the woman have to be clever and pretty? The combination is too much to bear, really.
“Was this beast not enough for them?” asks Vivienne, gesturing to Worth.
To his credit, he does not rise to the bait.
Vivienne decides that she cannot spend another moment in such a state, and so she shivers slightly and re-arrays herself more acceptably. The dress, she can do little about. But a bit of mist and some frost around her middle make a good enough facsimile to cover the barest parts of her body. Unlike Nerissa, she is limited in her transformations, but she does the best with what she has.
This, of course, elicits some expressions of awe from the limited audience, which helps Vivienne regain her composure, shattered as it has been. Her fear does not manifest as one might expect; it is really more of a simmering rage, though colder than the deepest Siberian snow. It is good to bask in awe, and it helps soothe her. The attention more fully on her is akin to a lizard sitting in the sun. Direct application without shade is preferred. And Christabel is in danger of being the pesky tree in the way.
Since no one is saying anything, Vivienne tucks one of her loose tresses up into the twist atop her head. “Well, since you went through all this trouble and have not only outed us both but sincerely mortified us in the presence of our peers, I suppose this must be very important.”
For the first time, Christabel looks unsure. She draws herself up to her full, yet somewhat limited, height, and says, “Yes. The Circle of Iapetus was begun as a joint venture between my great-grandfather and his paramour, carried on by her afterward not only through her children, but also through their progeny.”
There is a great deal to consider in the woman’s words, but Vivienne begins to put it together.
“Now I know you who you remind me of,” Vivienne says, extending a long finger toward Christabel. She does not quite touch her cheek, but just close enough, letting the long nail linger just a moment past discomfiture. “You’re a Van Tassel.”
“And a Crane. Great-grandmother ensured that there was no mistaking where her firstborn was from.” Christabel sighs. “But that part of the story is so often left out. It’s easier to believe it was just a bully, after all, that won in the end, and not poor Ichabod. But they were all changed that day—my father argued, for the better. Through Katrina and her husband knew the identity of their firstborn’s father, they kept it secret for a generation until the family was sufficiently moved.”
“This is all very impressive,” Nerissa says, clearly feeling to the contrary. “But you’ve gone and destroyed any semblance of a cover we had. Our hope was simply to live our lives in peace, and now that is quite impossible. We will have leave.”
“No, no, please,” Mr. Rockefeller says. “It is of the utmost importance that you hear us out. Lives are at stake—more than have already been spent.”
Nerissa had never been in a situation that, once revealed, people actually wanted to continue to remain in close proximity to her. A young woman, in fact, is looking rather admiringly at Nerissa’s scales, an occurrence which has certainly not happened in all her long life. She was made, by whatever mad god or goddess or happenstance, to be the very opposite of what humans desired.
But, she supposes, there is one in every crowd.
“We are an ancient order, revived from the Romans,” Mr. Rockefeller says, clutching his chest. He pulls out a small amulet with a flame-wreathed hammer upon it. “The symbol of our order. A secret order. We have ever guarded the flame of mortality.”
The symbol is made of iron, which, of course, makes Nerissa’s teeth ache. Clever. They know enough just to be dangerous.
“A literal flame?” Nerissa asks, still unconvinced, and truth be told, growing a bit bored with the pageantry. How ancient could this order be?
“Well, no,” says Christabel. “Perhaps once there was—that brought by the son of Iapetus, Prometheus. You see, we are the intercessors between the realm of the supernatural and the realm of the mortal, the Fae and the Grey as you call it. My great-grandfather Ichabod was a lifelong scholar of witchcraft and the occult and was able to re-shape the Circle before his untimely death.”
“You will have to clarify that at some point,” Vivienne points out wryly. No doubt she has her own version of what happened in Sleepy Hollow. “But that is a diversion. This wouldn’t have anything to do with the presence I felt just before the explosion, would it? Something dark and… reaching?”
“Yes,” says Rockefeller. “It appears whenever we gather. Drawn by our very presence, it seems. A true sign of our favored state, I believe. The first time it showed up, it killed Lord Dunbreen, his body a mangled mess afterward. Thankfully Christabel recognized the mark, brave girl that she is. Her parents, you see, were also victims.”
“We are quite used to the pain of carrying the burden of the Flame,” says the old woman. “We all carry scars.” She holds out her hand, the blood still crusting across her papery skin.
“The creature didn’t hurt anyone tonight. That was the result of your ballistics and sincere lack of judgment,” says Nerissa. “It seems you may have confused monsters.”
Now the humans are thoroughly upset. They all begin talking at once, and Worth is trying to say something, but instead, they just all end up speaking over one another and going red in the face.
Vivienne catches Nerissa’s eye a moment and gives her a rare, but tired, smile. It has been a very long time since they saw one another face to face this way, and the circumstance is both embarrassing—that they were captured in such a way—that they almost begin laughing at the same moment.
But no, they need no words. For the moment, they will let everything play out as it should.
“You do not have to help,” says Christabel. “But it might be prudent.”
“You are going to tell us that you’ve some relic of a weapon known to destroy people of our ilk, and if we don’t help you, there will be a price,” Nerissa says, taking a step closer to Christabel. To the girl’s credit, she does not move, though every last one of the other humans do. Nerissa continues. “Or perhaps, you will think to blackmail us, to out us to the public. You can be certain, we have seen worse, and we will not be bowing to your requests.”
She is very proud of her little speech. It’s not often that the words align themselves so rightly in her mouth, but as Vivienne appears incapable of speaking for herself, and Worth appears lost as ever, she decides it’s up to her.
But that’s when she sees a smile on Christabel’s lips.
“You see,” the young woman says, “while there are a number of people of your abilities, though admittedly few in this general area, the decision to reach out to you and your companion was quite beyond my power.”
Nerissa knows right away that something is amiss, and that something is almost certainly Vivienne. They have not always lived together, and there are very large gaps in their friendship—whilst they were arguing or falling out of line or simply sick of one another—and a big gap coincides precisely with this insane business about Ichabod Crane, and the beginning of this Circle of Iapetus nonsense. Humans and their asinine cults and clubs and religion. It’s enough to make Nerissa jump at them and bite their heads off.
The inclination is so strong in fact that she licks her lips and takes a step forward. Or, rather, tries to, when one of the younger men puts his hand on what is presumably a hidden dagger or firearm—so lacking in creativity, these people.
She cannot summon her power.
Nerissa realizes that the Circle of Iapetus has, indeed, made a circle around the three esteemed creatures of advanced ability. And they are all holding their amulets…
And it seems to have an impact on them all.
Worth looks as if he’s going to vomit, and Vivienne looks absolutely deflated.
How did such a thing happen
so fast? Just enough iron. Just enough blood.
“Vivienne,” Nerissa says. “Tell me you don’t know anything about this.”
Vivienne is not the one to respond. It is, of course, Worth. “My dear, Vivienne knows everything about this. She’s the one who started it, after all. Don’t you recall, my dear? It was a glorious winter.”
The Tines That Break
There are many troubles with living a long life, especially when the majority of those around you do not. Vivienne has always found that people, those of the human variety, tend to blur together after a while, rendering her memory a bit iffy to say the least. It is one of the reasons she has always insisted on traveling as much as possible, even though it is difficult for her to do so—she, in particular, does not care for warm climates as they disagree with her frosty nature—because what little variation occurs among humans is best experienced by expanding one’s geography. There are only so many Johns and Janes and Marys one can keep in mind, after all.
And this fatal flaw, of course, is where she finds herself. Standing in the center of these laughable Circle of Iapetus converts, she is too entrenched in permafrost at first to allow for the details to sink in. Christabel Crane, for instance. Katrina Van Tassel was her great grandmother some ways back, and yes, Vivienne had been her friend. A very good friend.
Worth was there, as well.
But they were so distracted and oaths just didn’t seem… permanent.
“Katrina Van Tassel aided me in a time of need,” Vivienne says slowly, doing everything in her power to avoid Nerissa’s gaze. It’s not as if she doesn’t know the precise look she’s getting, anyway. Being friends and companions for the better part of a millennium means being able to communicate emotions like utter revulsion and betrayal without so much as a glance. “And I agreed, that should she need a favor in return, I would provide my aid.”
“You must understand, Lady Du Lac,” Christabel says, her voice taking on a reverent hush, “that finding you has been a long time coming. I am not the first Crane to seek you out, and as such, the atrocities we are now facing grow more serious every day.”
Frost & Filigree: A Shadow Council Archives Urban Fantasy Novella (Beasts of Tarrytown Book 1) Page 4
