Black Briar (15 page)

The cab peeled away from the curb with caution.
Marshall
didn’t start home right away. He let out a heavy, resigned sigh, his breath hanging in misty pockets, hovering in front of his handsome bow-shaped mouth. Playful winds toyed with the lapels of his trench coat and the heavy fabric danced around his well-shaped legs.

His skin was pale, and he was almost a tad too pretty. Standing as he was, with the streetlight domed over him, he looked more the angel than ever. A dark angel, standing in the snow with a heavy heart and a faint, bitter smile. As if he’d sensed her study, his attention drifted toward the shop door and she sank back into the cover of darkness, going completely still until he strolled out of view, his gait languid, easy. So at ease, it was almost arrogant.

Alone, standing with her nose pressed to the glass, it was a while before she accepted he was not coming back. Of course he wasn't. He'd probably already taken the narrow iron staircase to the loft. More than likely, his stunning fiancé had already stripped him of that pretentious storm gray suit and chased away the sadness and the chill with her dainty fingertips. Ruby red lips leaving kisses and sparking trails across the elegant curve of his collarbone. Warming him all the way to the bone. Over and over again…until the ceiling tiles of Elsa’s shop rattled and clapped, threatening to fall like cartoon anvils on the wretch trying to sort her way through twenty-five years of inventory below.

Loneliness settled across Elsa’s shoulders, the tepid warmth of a familiar, weary embrace. Elsa steeled herself and hauled it closer like a security blanket as she flipped the sign closed, and wandered back to the table.

Yes, it was true—one day, time would run out. She'd be old and withered—and she would be alone. But that night wasn't tonight. Tonight, she had cake and bills to keep her company, and that was enough.

It had to be.

* * * *

It was Excedrin or death.

Rows of violins painted musical shadows across the north wall as
Marshall
shucked out of his damp trench coat and tossed it and his keys onto one of the cardboard boxes littered throughout the hallway—the last remains of an ill-fated engagement. A creature of the night, the vacant darkness clinging to the ash gray walls was of little consequence as he laced through the sparse monochromatic furniture to the guest bathroom. Gwyneth was stomping around in the master bedroom, searching for some pair of shoes she couldn’t live without.

Ridiculous
.

First of all, it was Christmas—that in itself was enough to grate what little of his patience was left after dealing with the different brands of “shady prat” advertising, in particular, attracted. It was a holiday centered on overindulgence and guilt. Guilt for those who couldn't overindulge. Guilt for those who could and did. Bigotry, hypocrisy, and a spike in credit card rates all wrapped in a nice, large, tacky bow.

Cutting on the faucet, he splashed his face with cool water and tried to purge the irritating turn of events from his mind.

She'd promised she could be civil. She'd insisted they attend his agency's company Christmas party together to preserve his image and her reputation until an appropriately timed, formal announcement of canceled nuptials could be arranged.

True to form, at the party she'd been nothing but a sparkling vision of coven, perched on his arm in a slinky white dress. Nothing but grace and smiles. She'd told all the right jokes. Snared the right brand of attention. Drawing in men and monster alike every time her ruby red lips parted with a sultry laugh. Yes, it had all gone swimmingly…until the drive home.

He could still hear her. Demanding he answer her. Yelling. Crying. Trying to rattle the glass cage he wore like a second skin. All to the jolly little Christmas jingle the cabbie insisted on playing over and over again all the way across the damn bridge.

The front door slammed shut down the hall, the echoes smacking
Marshall
's throbbing skull.
Bitch
. His annoyance cooled almost as quickly as it came. It was over. Gwyneth getting one last lick in wasn't going to change the fact she'd slammed his door for the
last
time. It was fitting. She’d always hated this place.

He snatched the small bottle of aspirin off its usual spot on the edge of the sink and struggled with the child-proof cap. Surely, another reason to kick the next child he saw.

Dry swallowing two pills, he yanked a fluffy terrycloth towel off the rung next to the sink and dabbed his face dry. The fluffy terrycloth was soft against his brow, a mild balm to the bloody Christmas procession lapping around his skull.

The hallway was gilded with mirrors. Some of them old and ornamented. Others burnished and sharp. All of them different sizes and shapes, each one as unique—and as expensive—as the last. All of it Gwyneth’s doing. Arranged symmetrically in aesthetic lines, they wallpapered the narrow area into a twisted funhouse.

Thankfully, his mother's vampiric heritage spared him from having to see his reflection. Spare droplets of water dampened the collar of his crisp black button-down and he tossed the towel against the wall for Belle, the skeletal cleaning lady, to fetch later.

The sharp, sleek lines of his modern modular sofas and shiny stools cast angular profiles. The images vibrated as
Marshall
darted in and out of the moonlight spilling through the bayside windows facing the old, worn bridge and narrow channel. He collapsed onto his bed—the only thing Gwyneth hadn't appropriated after the break up. She knew better. He would’ve killed her over that. Easy.

Being horizontal unleashed a flood of exhaustion, and he tried to calculate how long he could sleep versus how much work was waiting for him in the mahogany leather briefcase he'd abandoned somewhere down the hall.

The cell phone tucked in his back pocket vibrated with an incoming call.

Not a chance in hell.
He buried his face in the downy goose feather pillow and yanked another one over his head. Whoever it was would have to wait. His nose twitched and he buried his face farther into the plush. Vanilla and some kind of sweet spice. Gwyneth.

He waited for a pang of guilt, of want, or even the tell-tale rumblings of his more insidious cravings. Nothing. It had been two weeks. And yet, he felt nothing. Not even the stir of the sexual hunger inherent to his father's incubus heritage.

Maybe his lack of nostalgic desire could be explained by pointing to one of the partner’s secretaries. Their earlier exchange in the coat closet had been the very fodder for his and Gwyneth’s ensuing vehicular argument. Or maybe he didn’t miss Gwyneth because he'd never loved her at all.

Who gives a whit…?

The cordless phone resting on his nightstand rang.

Marshall
arched a brow.
Persistent little imps.

The answering machine beeped in the hollow silence. Gwyneth’s throaty and sultry purr filtered through the darkness. “You've reached Gwyneth Cage and…come on, say your name… Fine, you big baby…You've reached Gwyneth Cage and Marshall Ansley. We're not in right now, but leave a name and a number and we promise to bite back!”

An illusion of synergy in their relationship—he hadn't even been there when she’d recorded the message. They'd never talked about it. Not even in those instances when they'd both been home and simply decided to let the machine pick it up. It just was. Much like most of their relationship.

“Marshall Pierce Greenwood Wingates Ansley,” his mother's dry British accent clipped his names to pieces, “I demand you pick up this phone at once. I know you're there… Very well, don't speak to me, I am
just
your mother…”

He rolled his eyes.
Oh, the drama…

“
Marshall
, it is important that I speak with you. It's about the business… Here, Henry, say something to your son. No, I will not desist, Henry. Henry. Henry, I am speaking to you. He is our son—oh, then what good are you?” She huffed, “Well,
Marshall
, I hope you’re happy. Between you and your sister, you've both managed to ruin Christmas at the Wingates’ this year.”

The line went dead.

Twisted shadows spun and swirled across the high ceiling.
Marshall
rolled over onto his back.
Theatrical old bat
.

About the business, she'd said.

There was nothing to talk about.

Just because Sir Henry Ansley, CEO of Cerberus Banking and Associates, used his mother for his demonic lust cravings did not make him his father. Especially since he’d gone to great lengths to ignore his son for the better part of his life. Ansley and his company could burn, and his mother could join them if she refused to see reason.

Marshall
loosened his satin white tie and sat.
Time to go to work.

He'd barely made headway into the latest mock-ups for Spider Shine when his cell phone vibrated across the large glass desk. He grabbed his coat and a pack of Benson and Hedges, and stepped out onto the small terrace outside of his home office window.

Snowflakes fell at a steady pace, and he cursed the cold, threading his arms into his jacket. He pinched the phone between his shoulder and his cheek. “Ansley.” White puffs of breath lingered like specters as he fumbled for a cigarette with numbing fingers.

“Ansley, this is Hill.”

He lit the cigarette and blew out his first stream. “Good evening and Merry Christmas, Ms. Hill.”

“Don't play coy with me, monster.”

Johanna Hill was a hulking woman in spirit and appearance. He wasn't sure how a woman—and a human one at that—had come to hold the reins of such a large monster-founded company, but he wasn't particularly interested in beating the gnarled bushes to find out. He did, however, have every intention of stealing the seat from under her ample ass. But all in due course and time. Some of the other partners at the Mirage Agency had already started to whisper about offering him a stake in the company. He would play her game until then.

“How can I be of service, Ms. Hill?”

“You're engaged right, Ansley? To a vamp, right?”

“Coven, actually. Well, not—”

“What do you know about Sinister Stitches?”

“Small boutique of clothing imported from the Veil. Operates downtown, near the docks. Leather, corsets, fishnets. Apparel for the wicked,” he smirked into his next drag, “if you're into that sort of thing.”

“And its owner?”

He couldn’t recall a mental image of the owner of the old Victorian-house-turned-boutique. Some kind of hybrid, with a tie back to unseelie. All the way to the Court, from what he'd heard. He'd never encountered her at the store the times he and Gwyneth had wandered in. Apparently, she was a recluse, preferring to leave the running of her business to her coven kin. Daughters, he'd heard. Not that he was going to impart any of that to Hill. On the contrary, knowledge was power.

“Nothing much. Why the interest? It's a ratty little hole in the wall.”