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

by Natania Barron

  But the old woman hushes him, and they both fall silent.

  Vivienne doesn’t have to breathe if she doesn’t want to, so she stills herself completely. Had she the gifts of Nerissa, she could blend in as almost anyone or anything; were she the Glatisant, she would be all charm and desire. Instead, she must dig deep into the permafrost and think cold, silent thoughts, reach into the darkest of her places and think like stone and glaciers and…

  “Must be the wind,” Rockefeller says at last.

  “You’re sure you have this under control?” The old woman sounds surprisingly vulnerable, nervous almost.

  “Yes, we know what she was after. We’ve removed it from the equation. If she tries to get…”

  Vivienne sends little flakes after Rockefeller. It’s a practice she has not done for some time, as it is very powerful and highly risky. One flake, inhaled, is all it takes for her to understand the mind of a man. She sends her little minion his way, and through a kind of psychic water bond is capable of knowing his immediate thoughts. It doesn't work, however, among the keen-eyed or in large rooms—far too much space for error.

  The flakes look as if they’re coming from one of the large windows, and she adds a little flair to the effect by rattling the windows. As expected, Rockefeller himself goes to shut the window as Vivienne slinks away, and it is relatively easy to position the flakes after him.

  He coughs a few times. “Infernal drafts!”

  Then Vivienne sees more deeply. Understands more truly. Rockefeller is not a bad man at heart, but few who commit evil ever are. He believes that she and Worth and Nerissa are monsters to be dealt with; but that is not his final prize. He fancies himself capable of catching the djinni.

  The creature below is not… is… Vivienne can’t see it through his eyes. But he is not afraid of it.

  And then there is something else in his mind. Something familiar. Something he is passing to Christabel, making her frown.

  Vivienne’s own journal.

  It takes a great deal of concentration not to break her cold spell, not to push the boundaries of her bond to break the man. She could do it, and he might deserve it.

  But vengeance wastes time, and if she is to get out of this business without ruining her shoes, she’s going to have to warn Barqan and the rest. Their plans of preventing the djinni from utter devastation are more important now than ever.

  Nerissa has seen strands like this before, just never on such an enormous scale. Twice during their travels in Persia, she and Worth stumbled upon these curious creatures after neutralizing ifrits. She has always maintained that they are celestial residue, a kind of aftersoul, left behind when the body is no longer capable of withstanding the rigors of death.

  In some ways, they remind her of Worth’s connecting tendrils, his ability to sink his consciousness into other creatures. Except that aura is a kind of blue, a cold but welcoming wavelength.

  Here before her, the light is pink and yellow, undulating and twisting in what could only be described as agony. And it’s all toward a particular source.

  That Crane girl.

  “It’s always the pretty ones, isn’t it?” Barqan says drolly.

  He has already changed out of the appearance of a butler, and Nerissa realizes how long it’s been since she’s seen him in his azure and silver glory. His eyes, lips, teeth, and hands are all metallic in appearance, as if they were dipped in quicksilver. But just at the edges of the silver, a deep kind of topaz—almost translucent, but not quite—takes over. He looks a bit like an igneous rock, if it were six feet tall and handsome as the day is long. It is not the first time that Nerissa looks upon him and wonders what their relationship would have been like had she had an eye for the male form.

  “Vivienne tried to tell me something was off with the girl,” whispers Nerissa. “I chalked it up to jealousy, but now I see that I am mistaken.”

  “Vivienne has a habit of behaving a bit unpredictably in matters of the heart; yes, I felt the same way. But now, clearly, we are both in error.”

  “Worth isn’t doing anything.”

  “He’s not terribly good in a fight unless he’s got clear direction. I should have been with him, but Vivienne ordered me to be with you. And I’m afraid I cannot go against her orders, regardless of how ill-advised I find them.”

  Nerissa shakes off her glamor, every last vestige of humanity. It is so rare, this experience, that she shivers, wondering if this is what human beings feel when they are naked. The air of the place is charged with an electric tinge, and she feels it against all her scales, taking in the subtle reverberations around her.

  “These filaments,” she says to Barqan, “they are not easy to entrap.

  First we’ve got to distract them from Christabel.”

  “I don’t understand why you wouldn’t simply let them take her.”

  “Vivienne swore to protect her, and considering that the pestilent sylph the closest thing I have to family, I consider it my burden to bear, too.”

  Barqan does not sigh, as it is not the kind of expression he is fond of making, but the shrug of his shoulders makes it clear he finds such a promise rather beneath him.

  He asks, “So, your thoughts on distracting it?”

  Nerissa thinks for a moment. Traditional Aberrants and Exigents simply respond to their favorite food. But in this case, it appears its favorite dish is Christabel Crane, and as much as Nerissa would appreciate watching the fragile little bird be shredded to bits of confetti, she realizes from a strategic point, it may not be advisable.

  So, she takes a deep breath and measures the distance, considers the room, and reaches into her pocket.

  “We wouldn’t need much fire to start this,” she says, “at least, a little bit of a distraction. Then we can figure out what to do with… the rest of this.”

  “I could be useful.”

  “Barqan…”

  “Mistress.”

  Nerissa winces at the use of the term. “I told you not to call me that.”

  “I avoid when possible, but you know this is truth. Vivienne is not here, and may not arrive, and if so, your plan must adjust. I can help, in my full form. But the key to these shackles lies within you.”

  It’s strange, how a little lie can go so long. When the djinni was gifted to her, it was the lamia who impressed upon him, not the sylph; for the gift was for Nerissa from the sultan, not to Vivienne (who has always been very much enamored of the man). But Vivienne was so delighted with the idea of having her own personal djinni, that instead of ordering the djinni to her own will, Nerissa commanded him to follow Vivienne. Which is why, years later, when she ordered him free and it didn’t work, Nerissa chalked it up to a faulty spell, a different kind of djinni for whom the rules were different.

  But to free the djinni—who is unquestionably useful, even if a terrible colleague—meant telling Vivienne the truth, admitting her lie, and losing the very window into the world she so desperately wanted. The djinni reported back to the lamia whenever she needed.

  “I don’t think we’ll have to resort to such things,” Nerissa says, fiddling with the flintlock on her favorite piece of artillery. “Or at least, unless there is no choice. Now come, Barqan. Give me a bit of fire. Let’s arouse the beast. Then you protect Vivienne. At all costs.”

  There were exactly three occasions in Worth’s four hundred some-odd (it gets difficult after a while to count) years that he presented himself fully in the view of human beings. On most accounts, he is given the attributes of animals most feared: lions and lizards and snakes and griffins. However, this is simply the arrangement he most often presents. The truth is that a Questing Beast, our Glatisant, can present in whatever way he prefers, of any array of genders or design. We call him he because he has felt most comfortable embodying the characteristics of a male during most of his lifetime, but that does not mean he is restricted to such things. He well knows that the masculine outward appearance affords certain liberties and privileges less easil
y attained by those like sylphs and lamias who are, for all intents and purposes, more or less anchored in their true forms as females.

  But as he sees Christabel pulled inexorably forward and senses Nerissa’s transformation, he does not need to pull upon masculine energy. It is too combative at times, too alpha versus beta. And considering the bulk of this filamented beast, he needs to draw about himself something more protective, more maternal.

  He takes the hyena for his first choice as his hindquarters, well known in the world for her most aggressive and territorial presence—larger than the males and more sexually dominant—with quickness and reflexes he much understands.

  For the front paws, he desires a weapon of massive power, and so he takes from the most remarkable of North American creatures, one he saw many times with Yvan, the grizzly bear. He is meant to rend and destroy, to slice and separate, to stun and overwhelm, and there is no creature more elegant and destructive than the grizzly bear mother in such circumstances.

  The third choice, which will reside along his back and tail, goes to the dragon, a beast almost entirely hunted to extinction. For his purposes, it is a dragon of the Northern Tundra, its ridged scales and tail full of venom, and a most delightful secondary defense should he be cornered.

  Lastly, and this is always the most important, he must choose something for his head. While there are always four tongues involved, one’s head is usually a point of focus. He must present something both terrifying and useful. It has been a long time since he has incorporated such an amalgam, and there are many good selections among the animal kingdom. A rhinoceros would provide him good protection and a strong weapon; the elephant both tusks and a spare appendage; a scorpion would get points on simply the horror of seeing a small creature so enlarged.

  But no, there is but one choice for him. It is ancient and reduced to myth in some places, but this enormous eagle of mega fauna proportions is ancient—both scaled and fitted with a most ample beak. The wings are a secondary addition, as well, and combine most fetchingly with the dragon scales. The golden beak is really just a bit of flair, but ultimately, the result is most impressive.

  Once he has assembled his form, he rears up to his full height. In most circumstances, this would be considered most impressive, but due to the scale of the filamented beast before him, it is less than effective.

  Still, he lets out a cry, fire ensuing from his mouth thanks to the upper lung capacity of the dragon, a green, thin flame that corrodes the stone above them. It is a warning.

  And so it begins.

  Nerissa lets out her keening wail, a scream she has held in for almost five decades, and is both elated and filled with dread. It awakens the true beast within her, which lay dormant for too long. Or long enough. It is so difficult to tell when the battle glory descends.

  Guns are no longer useful, and they never would be against such a creature. But she must try.

  Her tails leave a sticky trail behind her, but she picks up impressive speed, teeth bared, as she twists and pulls darkness around her. This ability is at the center of her power, to bend light and shadow, and it dims the filament as she approaches.

  No sooner has she come within striking distance, however, than she is thrown back into a high collection of Pol Roger 1877, worth at least three hundred dollars a bottle. Mr. Rockefeller will be most displeased, but then again, he is the one who appears to continue to invite the thing into his presence. Having a soirée at his house seems ill advised, to say the least.

  She does a brief calculation of the total cost in her head and laughs shortly, just before the shards of glass enter her back and fill her with stinging whir. It is enough for her to lose her grasp a moment on all things real and shake the stars from her head.

  But this is one of the strange things about lamias. Like many predators, they find an inordinate amount of pleasure in pain, particularly that attained in battle (clearly one can derive that from her relationship with Vivienne). Now that her own blood is spilled—it is a metallic gold, for those most curious, since it must warm and cool with her lizard-like body—what humanity she might have claimed begins to slip further and further away.

  Now, she must destroy the creature at all cost. For all she knows, she may have been fighting this thing since the beginning of the world. It matters little.

  Even if it means she is bound to lose.

  Vivienne appears in a wave of frost, riding it ahead like some ice queen out of a song—which is not to discount the possibility that she has been exactly that—down the steps to the cellar and into the fray.

  She sees Worth, resplendent in his creature vestments, and she has never loved him more; she sees Nerissa, flailing against the filamented monster within—so large, and so impossibly overpowered—and she has never wished another’s safety so ardently.

  “Barqan!”

  The word comes from her without thought, and he appears, smoke and silver and glowing figure, hovering right before her.

  “Mistress Vivienne,” he says.

  “Guard me.”

  Hands out, her body now unadorned but for skin and a delicate filigree of frost dancing about her more unmentionables, she calls every inch of permafrost to herself. It starts slowly at first, a kind of groaning in the ground, a warning. If you have ever stood upon a frozen lake and provided just a little too much weight, you know the noise. A deep, cold, bone cracking. Except, with Vivienne, this goes on far longer than one might expect in a natural circumstance. It reverberates and echoes, sending ice crystals up into the bottles of wine and barrels, glazing the walls with frost.

  On this wave of ice, she moves forward. Pulling from the cold of the earth, drawing from the winter around her, she levitates, her hair streaming around her head like a vast corona.

  She does two things, noting that Nerissa’s attacks have done nothing but break more bottles of expensive wine—why she had to go from that angle and get the most valuable vintages is beyond her. There are too many questions about Christabel Crane to let her be devoured outright.

  The first attack is a simple ice shield. It is colder than naturally occurring ice and far less permeable. Up it juts between Christabel and the monster, creating a wave frozen in mid-crash, sharp spikes reaching up toward the curved ribs of the cellar ceiling.

  This works long enough for Vivienne to slip down and grab Christabel by the waist, or at least in theory gives her enough time to do so. But the moment she touches the girl, she feels a wave of sickness. Revulsion. It is the sensation of something that she despises more than anything is the world: pure, unadulterated innocence.

  Not the innocence of mind, but the innocence of soul. This girl is a virgin in every sense of the word. Practically an angel.

  Or perhaps even worse.

  Nerissa is glad to see Vivienne’s shield wall in action; it has been decades since she was in the presence of such powerful and showy magic. She is able, at least, to gather herself more properly and think again about causing at least a fire, if not an explosion. Enough fire would help keep the creature confused, at least; but too much, and they would all expire. Especially Vivienne, always so vulnerable to the hot weather. It is one of the reasons London remains her favorite city; she flourishes in damp, dark, foggy places. Like a mold, but far lovelier.

  Regular wine may not prove flammable enough, and Nerissa is relieved to find a bay of spirits to her left. Focusing her already draining energy on healing her wounds, she slithers along the side of the cellar, watching in horror as the beast flickers a sickly yellow color and begins tearing through chunks of Vivienne’s immense wall.

  From above, Worth cries out, pouring out a stream of acidic fire down upon the beast with a rain of green and glittering sparks. For a brief moment, Nerissa is positive that his attacks are helping, but then the unthinkable happens.

  One of the tendrils reaches up and grasps Worth with a silvery lasso and calls out his name. His true name.

  Nerissa does not need any longer to puzzle this out. />
  These energies. They are residues of dead creatures, either killed or maligned, but unable to cross their energies to another realm. And they have collected! Some great mass of tortured souls.

  Yvan. And countless others. Not Aberrants and Exigents as she had worried, but beasts…

  Conjured.

  How many of her people had been killed over the centuries here and beyond? The Circle of Iapetus claims they are the protectors of mortality, so perhaps their aim is to punish those who fed upon the living?

  And that would mean Christabel had been set up by them, that they suspected she is something more than she appeared. Because the only creature strong enough to call energy of that sort, the only thing pure enough to gain that kind of precise attention is...

  There is no time for thought. Worth is being pulled into the mass.

  “Barqan! Your mistress commands you to protect the unicorn!” The words sound small in her mouth, just saying the name repulsive enough as it is. But Barqan does not hesitate.

  The blue mass of the captured djinni swoops forward, elongating into a round ball of energy containing Christabel.

  And Nerissa sees through the azure filter of the djinni’s magic that she is indeed correct. While her form is still new—she’s a bit fuzzy on the details of unicorns, owing to her general distaste for them and their scarcity—Nerissa can see a distinct horn protruding from the girl’s forehead.

  The djinni obeys Nerissa, and it’s enough stop Vivienne in her tracks. Her hands fall to her side like leaden gauntlets, and she searches across, desperately, for a sign of the lamia. But she has slunk out of view, no doubt ashamed to fess up to whatever nonsense has befallen them.

  There is no time to hesitate, though. Worth is being dragged deeper into the filamented mass, the voices calling his names over and over again, his body twisting into a hundred different bodily variations, each smaller than the next.