by D B Nielsen
‘Sounds more like you’re the Black Widow,’ I teased, removing the glaze from the stovetop before it burnt. ‘Maybe you should ask him to buy you a leather catsuit.’
Fi’s hazel eyes lit up, filled with speculation. ‘Hey, that’s not a bad idea!’
‘I was just kidding!’ I groaned, shaking my head ruefully. Trust Fi to take me seriously!
‘No, wait, you may be onto something here,’ she exclaimed, her voice squeaky with suppressed excitement. ‘I could be Badass. That’d be totes awesome.’
‘In your dreams.’
‘When I want your opinion, Dr Jane Foster, I’ll ask for it,’ she retorted, swatting me lightly on the arm as she crossed behind me to bin the empty can before sauntering over to search the pile of mail for anything addressed to her.
‘Who?’ My face must have mirrored my confusion as I removed the hot cross buns from the oven and faced her.
‘O-M-G! Girl, you really are lame!’ I caught Fi smirking – at my expense as usual – struggling to compose her face.
‘Not so lame as not to notice the envelope you just pocketed.’ I raised an eloquent eyebrow. ‘What have you got there, Fi? Come on. Out with it.’
‘I swear, you could be a teacher. You must have eyes at the back of your head,’ she grumbled as she removed the square charcoal coloured envelope from under the waistband of her jeans and handed it to me. ‘It’s from the Ice Queen.’
‘From Isabella?’
I wiped my hands on the apron and took the envelope from my twin with suddenly numb fingers. As I turned it over, I made out the sender’s name on the flap, written in an embellished, antique hand in metallic gold pen: D.ssa Isabella Donnatelli. There was even a decorative flourish under her name in the form of angel’s wings.
A little pretentious, I thought waspishly.
Sliding a finger under the flap, I tore the envelope’s gold seal open. Immediately, a waft of Isabella’s distinctive floral perfume rose from the invitation inside.
Fi wrinkled her nose as she caught a hint of the dark, seductive bouquet. ‘I hate that fragrance. And I don’t care how expensive her designer perfume is either. It reeks.’
‘It suits her.’
Fi’s eyes rounded at my tone. ‘Ooh, catty. You are learning. I’m so proud of you.’
Ignoring her, I gave a dismissive shrug. I stood by my words. The allure of the perfume was evident in its promise of a cool sensuality and hidden danger – it suited the Ice Queen to a T.
Holding the corner of the envelope in between the tips of my fingers as if it had the power to contaminate, I slowly removed the square hardboard invitation, feeling not an ounce of guilt as the envelope was addressed collectively to the Woods family. The embossed gold lettering leapt out at me whilst Fi read over my shoulder:
Dottoressa Isabella Donnatelli
requests the pleasure of your company
to celebrate the Ostara Festival and Day of Joy, on
Sunday, the sixteenth of April
at the hour of Sunrise
Home House, Portman Square
Dress code: Black tie
‘The Ostara Festival and Day of Joy?’ Fi queried.
A little distractedly, I responded, ‘The pagan origin of Easter; hence, Ostara. Sumerian and Babylonian mythology hold that Inanna or Ishtar was hung naked on a stake, died and descended into the Underworld, and was subsequently resurrected. In the myths of the goddess, Ishtar descended into the land of the dead which was ruled by her sister–’
‘Yeah, yeah, I know all this already,’ Fi interrupted me, ‘She went there to rescue her lover, a right bastard named Tammuz and all acts of procreation ceased while she was away. The earth remained barren, blah, blah, blah.’
I looked at her curiously and mocked, ‘History, Fi? You are learning. I’m so proud of you.’
‘Oh, shut up!’ Fi snapped, but good-naturedly. ‘Dad told me about Ishtar ... Daughter of Ishtar.’
‘Oh. Right. That.’ I watched Fi’s expression, remembering Finn’s comments – not too easy to read right at that moment. Dropping the invitation onto the kitchen counter, I continued, ‘Well, just as in the myths of the Greek goddesses, Demeter and Persephone with the whole Underworld and return of spring plot, Ishtar ranted and raved at how she would break down the gates of the Underworld, releasing all the dead to compete with the living, unless she was allowed to enter.’
Fi gave a slight shiver like someone had walked over her grave but remained silent.
‘She won, of course. But the guards on duty, following standard operating procedures as they do,’ I tried to joke but it fell flat as Fi clearly wasn’t in a joking mood, ‘well, they refused to let her pass through the first gate unless she removed her crown.’
She shook her head. ‘Wait a minute, what happened to all the people she meets on the way whom she refuses to allow to die to replace her in the Underworld?’
I gave a snort at my sister’s impatience. ‘I’m getting to that part – it happens after this stuff. She has to go down to the Underworld first. So, at the next gate, she had to remove her earrings, then her necklace at the next, removing all her garments and finery at each successive gate until she stood humbled and naked after passing through the seventh – and last – gate. In one version of the myth, Ishtar was held captive and died but was brought back to life when her servant sprinkled her with the “water of life” – I’ve got no idea what that means, so don’t ask. But, in the more popular version of the myth, Ishtar re-emerged through the gates of the Underworld, bringing the arrival of spring. So annual celebrations of this “Day of Joy” were held around the time of the vernal equinox and eventually became the Christian celebration of Easter.’
Fi looked down at the invitation lying in front of us. ‘And the sunrise bit?’
Twirling my engagement ring in my habitual manner, I sighed. My sister was a lost cause. ‘Vernal equinox. Spring equinox. It usually happens in March. But, then again, Easter is late this year so I’m assuming Isabella is taking some liberties. So, yeah, the sunrise or beginning of the day.’
‘Like at Stonehenge? Or that place we visited when we were kids in Ireland – what was it called? Never mind. Not interested.’ Fi tapped the kitchen countertop with her long, purple painted fingernails. ‘A bit melodramatic, isn’t she? Pagan festivals, sunrise rituals, black tie – next she’ll be planning a blood sacrifice!’
Now who was being melodramatic! I thought. But I agreed with my sister – I didn’t like the idea that my family was constantly being drawn into the Ice Queen’s dramas.
Who was I kidding? I hated the idea that Isabella Donnatelli had her manicured claws into my fiancé. The less we had to do with her, the better. Besides – only feeling the slightest twinge of guilt at what I was planning – my parents would assume that the invitation was lost in the mail if and when they found out about it.
Gesturing towards the sickeningly sweet-smelling invitation lying so innocently on the counter, I said, ‘So, what are we going to do about it? Burn it?’
Fi gave a decisive nod. ‘Burn it.’
And so that’s what we did. And so that should have been the end of the matter.
But it wasn’t.
We were tending to the dying embers in the library, ensuring that the invitation was well and truly burnt and no incriminating evidence left behind, when the phone rang. I nearly jumped out of my skin as its insistent tone shattered the hushed atmosphere of the room – or perhaps it was because it had finally struck me that we were doing something that not only my parents wouldn’t approve of but, technically, was illegal; I believed they called it “tampering with the mail”. At any rate, I leapt for the extension on Dad’s desk and retrieved the cordless handset before the fifth shrill, ear-splitting ring.
‘Hello?’
There was a delay on the other end, and then St. John’s voice echoed down the line, ‘Sage?’
‘St. John! Hello?’
‘Sage?’ he repeated hollowly.
‘Hello? St. John? Are you still there?’ The connection wasn’t the best – it felt like he was calling from an elevator or on the Tube as the call kept dropping out.
‘Sage, I’ve no time to explain. I’m booked on a flight to Rome. I’m on my way to the boarding gate as we speak.’ I had never heard St. John sound so stressed and apologetic. What the hell was going on?
‘You’re what? Why?’ Surprised, I had no idea what to say, and even to my own ears my response sounded weak.
He was talking so fast, he missed my questions. ‘Look, if you need anything, call Gabriel or Anak – I’ve already texted you his number – as I’ll be with my father. And Sage, if there are any problems or–’
‘I get it. Don’t worry about me.’ I interrupted on a sigh, wondering which one of his fathers he was talking about, whilst I leant up against the desk and watched distractedly as my sister made frantic gestures with her hands, mouthing ‘What? What’s going on?’ from where she stood in front of the fireplace.
‘Right. I know. You’re an independent female who can take care of herself. I’ll have to get used to that.’ I could hear the slight smile in his voice. ‘But I mean it, Sage, my brothers are there for you, if either you or Fi need help.’
‘I know,’ I agreed quietly. ‘St. John, I ... seriously, don’t worry about me ... just ... you were right the other night ... we do need to talk. Look, never mind that for now, just take care. I’ll see you when you get back.’
‘Damn! They’re calling my name!’ I could hear in the background the faint echoes of a boarding call. ‘Look, I’ll see you at Isabella’s party. We can talk then. Remember – tu es l’amour de ma vie.’
‘What? Wait! Don’t hang up!’ I cried out at the mention of Isabella’s party. But it was too late; he had already ended the call. And I didn’t even get the chance to tell him that I loved him.
Cursing myself for all kinds of a fool, I dropped the handset back onto its carriage as Fi let out a torrent of words at high volume.
‘What happened? What’s going on? What did St. John say? Where is he and where’s he going?’
‘Rome. He’s going to Rome. He’ll be with his father.’ I was fighting back emotion, now that I’d got over my initial surprise, and felt equal parts anger, frustration, worry and outright fear.
‘Well, that’s good, isn’t it?’ Fi said on a bewildered note, trying to gauge my reaction. ‘I mean, it brings us one step closer to securing a seraph blade, right?’
‘Yeah,’ I breathed, looking blindly down at the pattern of avian and floral images on the carpet. ‘I guess. I don’t know. He wasn’t too specific.’
Her hazel eyes were fixed on me as she replied, ‘But that’s sort of to be expected. Who knows who might be listening into our calls? And I don’t just mean our bodyguards, or the Grigori or Fravashi or the rest of them. There’s Renauld and Sir whatshisname from New Scotland Yard too, remember?’
Which made me feel even more irrationally angry as I’d forgotten about their ongoing investigation in my desperation to speak to Ellen Jacobi. I opened my hands in a gesture of impatience, feeling the ground shift beneath me. Fi smiled in an apologetic way that suggested she was attempting to deflect the anger I was certain I was exuding.
‘To hell with Renauld! He’s going to Isabella Donnatelli’s party!’ I stated furiously, levering myself off the edge of the desk to cross to the fireplace where the remnants of the invitation, little more than burnt embers, still smoked in the grate. I poked viciously at the remains with the brass fire iron. Only the faintest floral scent lingered.
‘Who? Renauld?’ Fi looked puzzled by that.
‘No! Aren’t you listening? St. John!’ I felt so alone that tears pricked my eyes. ‘St. John’s going to her damn party!’
Fi took one look at my long, hanging dog face and grabbed at my arm to drag me back into the kitchen, under much protest. Manoeuvring me into a chair at the breakfast table – ‘Sit!’ – she switched on the kettle and waved the teapot at me enquiringly. I nodded forlornly.
A moment later, she slid a mug over to me and sat down opposite, watching as I took a fortifying sip.
‘You know what I think ... I think something’s going to happen there – something bad – at Isabella’s ridiculous sunrise celebration, I mean. I can feel it in my bones,’ my sister said quietly. ‘Can’t you?’
I nodded slowly. I could feel the lines of tension running through my body; from in between my eyebrows to around my eyes, down my spine and in my shoulders. They were like fault lines threatening to break me apart.
‘I feel awful that she was targeted by the Fravashi and all but ... You haven’t met her, Fi. She’s just ... bad news. She’s ... look, I know how this is going to sound ... like I’m totally jealous or paranoid or something,’ I said quickly, defensively, ‘but honestly, Fi, she’s not quite ... real. She’s too perfect. Too beautiful. But so cold. And competitive. And condescending. There’s something about her that I just ... hate.’
My sister looked at me dispassionately, and I had the sense that she was adding this information to whatever else she’d been collecting, filing it away in some part of her brain for future reference. She was quiet for a few seconds, sipping her tea.
‘I say, go with your instincts. Finn told me not to trust anyone – he was right. I see that now.’
Wrapping my hands around the mug’s warmth, I realised that I was done with fear and self-pity. The time for doubts was over. Because I trusted St. John. But I didn’t trust the Ice Queen at all. I swallowed at the thought of where my instincts were leading me, not willing to voice what we both knew.
‘What am I going to do, Fi?’
‘You know what you’re going to do.’ Her eyes met mine briefly then skimmed past me to look out the window in the direction of the ruin of Satis House, as if she didn’t dare look too deeply, knowing what I was intent upon. ‘You’re going to go to that party and fight for him, of course.’
Of course.
And if I was going to fight for my fiancé against the likes of Isabella Donnatelli and her arsenal of charms, I would need to use every trick in the book.
So, on the evening before the party, out of the depths of my wardrobe where I had buried it on my return from Paris, I drew forth a waterfall of sheer black silk with the designer tags still attached.
‘Wow! Wow! Wow! That’s some dress! It’s awesome!’ Fi admired as she entered my bedroom, an excitable Indy in tow, swinging a pair of Christian Louboutin crystal-encrusted high heels in her right hand. ‘If that doesn’t make him mad with lust, I don’t know what will.’
I rolled my eyes at her but the corners of my mouth twitched in response, demonstrating my secret pleasure.
‘Thanks.’ I sighed, turning away from the dress to gaze distractedly around the room as Indy nudged at the back of my hand with his damp nose. Absent-mindedly, I stroked his soft muzzle. ‘I guess it’s a little early to do my make-up.’
‘Much,’ my twin agreed, raising an eyebrow. ‘You wouldn’t want to look like you’ve been on a bender with raccoon eyes by the time you arrive. Chillax, girl. There’s plenty of time yet.’
Pursing my lips, I replied without enthusiasm, ‘I guess.’
Fi gave me a measured look and, dropping the shoes next to my gown, sat down cross-legged on the bed, Indy at her feet. The Louboutins were another pair of Mum’s – one that I’d never even seen her wear, but that wasn’t that unusual as she had a bit of a shoe fetish and probably had more pairs of shoes in her wardrobe than a Hollywood diva. Luckily, Mum’s feet were only half a size smaller than mine, which meant that I was spoilt for choice – in shoes, at least.
‘You sure you don’t want me going with you?’ Fi questioned again, clearly uncomfortable with the plan. ‘I’m free tonight ... and tomorrow morning ... Come to think of it, I’m free for the foreseeable future.’
I was relieved we were alone as this seemed a good time to bring up any misgivings.
‘I’ll b
e fine, Fi. Nothing’s going to happen to me with a phalanx of Anakim guards nearby,’ I said, reminding her that Gabriel and Anak and a small Nephilim army were preparing to accompany me to Home House.
‘Phalanx, hey? How big is it? Probably more than I’m getting at the moment,’ Fi said wickedly, flashing me one of her cheeky grins as I groaned at her lame sexual innuendo. Then suddenly turning serious, she said, ‘That didn’t stop the Fravashi at the British Museum.’
I threw up my hands as I tried to find the right words – not in defeat but as if I might somehow pluck meaning from the air – and stated, ‘I won’t let the Fravashi stop me from what I know needs to be done. My connection to the Seed is growing stronger every day. This time, if they attack, will be different. I’m better prepared for them now ... at least I understand the danger they pose.’
As I spoke, I felt like I had finally stepped over a threshold where I had been delaying for weeks; there was no turning back, only forging ahead.
‘Are you? Gabriel seems to think we’re not ready for them ... for any of them,’ said Fi, very softly, gently stroking Indy’s smooth ears. ‘God, I hope St. John has some news about that seraph blade.’
I desperately hoped the same thing. And it only occurred to me much later that my sister had stepped over a similar threshold as we were so much the same, committing ourselves to the plan and what needed to be done, connecting to the gift that was our birthright.
I didn’t know it then but I would come to appreciate this in the hours and days ahead.
THE DEADLIEST SHADE OF NIGHT
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Fi convinced me to have a rest before I left for Isabella’s Ostara Festival, taking Indy away with her to ensure he wouldn’t alert the rest of the house about my furtive expedition. But with the need to rise well before the dawn and sneak out of the Manor House without waking anyone – a task Fi was expertly skilled at but I lacked experience in – I spent a very restless night, waking every hour or so to take a look at the clock beside my bed and note the time. Finally, at three thirty in the morning, I got up, dressed, put on my makeup and pinned up my hair as Fi had taught me, and holding my clutch, silk and lace shrug, and with the pair of Louboutins dangling from the slightly trembling fingers of my left hand, I slipped down the backstairs and out into the cool night.
