I’d slipped out of Eli’s house in the night. I slid away from his embrace and fled. He said I was to be myself, and well, my self wasn’t great at the softer side of dating. My world was tilted by the intimacy we’d shared—and in my usual way, I ran from emotions.
Honestly, sometimes I felt sorry for anyone who tried to date me.
I liked Eli more than I’d cared for anyone, and I suspected most of our conflicts boiled down to my innate panic at feeling tender things in his direction. Some girls had pretend-weddings as children, fantasies of gowns as teens, and thought about the future as young women. Me? I thought about monsters. I dreamed of swords or trips. I fantasized about the sort of sex that made grown men blush.
The odds of finding anyone who found my messed-up brain and monster-tainted body appealing were so thin that I never really expected to deal with it. I’d always been the person that nice boys and girls took for a spin before settling down. I was the mid-life crisis car, the thrill-ride, and not the sort anyone wanted to marry. I chose that. I highlighted my traits that kept me firmly in the “makes a great mistress, not a wife” box.
So, I was not prepared to wake up the next evening to a gift-wrapped faery-wrought dagger and antique bottle of the same oil Eli had rubbed all over me. I sniffed the bottle and couldn’t help but smile.
The post also delivered a piece of parchment with elegantly written instructions for a “celebratory holiday gathering” hosted by the dead-chick-in-charge of the draugr. The dinner at Beatrice’s castle was later that week.
No rest for the dead, or half-dead, I supposed.
By the time the gala rolled around, I’d procured a total of three dresses, contacted my mother to tell her that I’d be bringing an extra guest the next week for our holiday dinner, and managed to not feel completely overwhelmed by my fiancé.
The latter took a lot of effort. Eli sent gifts each day: a brooch, a poison ring and pendant set, a scarf with a beautiful wire embroidery that was perfect to garrote someone. When he saw me—a brief moment here or there—he bent me into a dip and kissed me, or he pulled me into a hallway and pulled me tightly to his always aroused body.
Every embrace he whispered, “No intercourse?”
My resolve was not . . . weakening. I would not be married because my needs were spiking so intensely. I was stronger than that.
By the time the night of the gala was upon us, I was ready to torment him until he was as maddened with need as I had become. I chose not one of the reasonable holiday dresses I’d planned, but an ivy column gown. My throat was covered by a high collar, and my arms were bare. The back had a teardrop cut-out, the bottom of which was scandalously low. The left slit exposed a long thin dagger—Eli’s gift—strapped onto my thigh.
If I stood perfectly still, I was as covered as a matron. Only my arms were bared. If I walked or turned my back to him, bare flesh and weapons glinted at him. And if the light was bright, most of the dress was nearly translucent.
Eli met me at my home—and the light was, indeed, bright enough that his eyes dilated in desire. “You are radiant, Ms. Crowe.”
I twirled, and yes, I’d practiced to get that twirl just right. My leg with the dagger practically winked at him, and the hair pins that he’d gifted me that day were holding my tumble of blue hair in place. Tiny little sheathed throwing knives with jewels at the top held my masses of hair in an elegant up-do that had taken Sera and I an hour to create. The effect was, mostly, to expose my back, but it also let me wear his gifts.
“Winter at her finest looks less lovely than you,” Eli said, voice nearing reverence.
In fairness, my escort was gorgeous. Eli had elected to dress to his heritage. No glamour. No mortal attire. He was wearing leggings that made clear that his legs were all muscle, tunic, vest, and a circlet crown. The most unusual item was a codpiece that matched the crown. Although the codpiece was barely visible under the tunic, the glint of jewels made it challenging not to look.
“You test my resolve,” I admitted.
“I do try, Geneviève.” He looked me over. “Your loveliness and strength would shame the queens that came before you.”
There was no reply that seemed suitable, so I brushed my lips over his gently and prompted, “Shall we?”
Arriving at the castle again was different. Everything felt different, tonight. This would be our first official outing as an engaged couple. A couple. The mere thought made my stomach twist in anxiety.
“You have been busy,” I said as we parked.
Eli met my gaze. “I wanted to show you that I have no need to take up all of your time, peach pie.” He offered me his arm, and we approached the massive doors. “Being with me will not consume your freedom.”
I nodded.
“It’s not you,” I reminded him. “Any woman would be lucky to be chosen by you.”
He stilled briefly, not quite bringing us to a stumbling halt, but slowing us. “I would remind you that we have a bargain, Geneviève Crowe.”
I winced.
“You are not to be thinking of the future.” He began to walk, and I stayed in step—even when he added, “If I have not satisfied you with my touch or my gifts, you will tell me, so I might correct my errors.”
I blushed despite myself. “You have not failed to satisfy me.”
“You left without word. One might find that worrisome,” he said lightly.
I laughed. “It was that or fear that I’d fail in my own resolve. You are a very thorough lover. Already. Even with . . . not . . .”
The look he gave me was enough to make me well aware of my lack of knickers.
“You are remarkable as well, Geneviève.”
Then we reached the door and followed Eleanor to a ballroom, where we were swept into Beatrice’s soiree. Her attention was drawn to us as if she could sense our arrival. Perhaps, however, that was the ripple of whispers that carried through the ballroom.
I let Eli handle the speaking and mingling. I followed his lead as we danced. I meekly stayed at his side to enjoy hors d’oeuvres—and I slid in and out of the minds of the well-dressed corpses walking around the ballroom. Only about fifty people were present, so the search and scan wasn’t terrible. I was as uncomfortable as a lamb invited to the side door of a restaurant.
“You are a wolf,” Beatrice said, her voice a reminder that she could read me, too.
I didn’t flip her off, but I thought the visual at her and felt her answering laughter.
“Hunt our enemies for me, wolf.”
I hated to admit it, but I was mollified by her faith.
As I let my magic roll out, sliding in and over the cacophony of voices, I thought that this was not that dissimilar to reading the dead in the graveyard. I’d expected minds like the draugr I usually encountered. They were nothing but feral needs.
Unlike the disjointed minds of the newly walking, however, these were orderly minds. Pretentious. Bored. Judgmental. There were thoughts of hunger, but it was more often hunger for power. These were not the draugr who would be found on the streets of the city. They struck me as the sort who had chefs or delivery or whatever service posh dead folk used for their food.
“I would drink her dry.”
“Why do we need to allow his sort here?”
“Vintage fae juice. What a lovely pet he’d make.”
“Stupid bitch.”
“When Guarin was in charge, we weren’t so burdened by rules.”
The last one was the first that felt angry in ways that were alarming. I reached out with my magic until I found the speaker. He was tall, and from the look of him, he’d died before reaching full maturity. His face was soft, and he lacked the tell-tale texture of facial hair. He was trying to compensate for his physical appearance of youth with austere dress. His only concession to holiday frivolity was an ostentatious medallion-broach-thingy. A ruby as big as my thumb-nail was surrounded by emeralds.
“Thou shalt not suffer a witch.” He glanced at Beatrice, at me, and then he started toward me.
“Harold,” Beatrice said, flowing to my side as if she had intended to be there all along. She stood in front of me. Her assistant, servant, whatever-she-was Eleanor arrived with two more women.
The room felt charged, and the thoughts were weirdly gleeful.
“How charming!”
“Entertainment!”
“Is it vulgar to accidentally cut the faery for a sip of blood?”
I glared at that one, a rather regal looking woman who had been grandmotherly upon death, and growled. “Mine.”
“Witch.” Harold tried to push passed Beatrice. “We have no use for witches.”
Simultaneously, Beatrice said, “Back up.”
Harold drew a respectable-sized blade and tried for Beatrice’s throat. Her guards were there, but I was literally inches from her, so I pulled her backward to safety.
Harold’s knife sliced my arm from shoulder to near my elbow.
“Witches have no right—”
“Duck fucking weasel.” I kicked Harold and snatched his machete. “I’m getting sick of hearing that nonsense.”
It was too much of a coincidence to ignore. Harold was somehow tied to Weasel Nuts shooting at me. I pushed that thought at Beatrice, who transformed from elegant to feral in less time that it took to blink.
“Take her out of here,” Beatrice said.
Eli had my hand, but we were jerked apart as Eleanor moved me further away from Harold. Then in a little more than a heartbeat, Eli and I were both outside.
“You are a gift,” Eleanor said. “Her Majesty will dispatch with the vermin.”
Then she was gone, and I was swaying precariously over ground that was filled with bodies, outside a castle where there were ancient draugr I very much didn’t want to adopt.