Antal

Antal perused his wardrobe like scavenging carrion.

He ran his claws over jackets with starry silver embroidery, iridescent vesper fabric constellations, sheer black gauze framing pine silhouettes. Daeyari fashions were made to gleam in twilight, to capture the cold brutality of midnight and the slice of a fresh dawn.

All of them, painfully out of place in Thomaskweld. Antal left his ostentatious pieces on their hangers and grabbed a simple, dark shirt of mortal style.

He still grumbled as he slipped his arms into the sleeves, worried he was overdressed. Or underdressed? So hard to gauge with human gatherings.

“Fionamara,” he called into the next room, “is this appropriate for . . .”

Antal froze in the doorway, words melting on his tongue.

Fionamara stood before the floor-length mirror she’d added to their room. Her hair was secured in an updo, dark roots contrasting rainbow tips spilling from the bun.

Her dress was fit to fracture an immortal — Antal, specifically — into pieces. A snug black bodice framed her chest. The skirt was black at the waist, swirling into sequined silver that glittered like a starscape. She shifted her hips back and forth, experimenting with how the fabric twirled around her knees.

When she turned, dark red lips curved a smirk. “Well? How does it look?”

“I . . .” Antal didn’t know where to look. Didn’t have a single word to do it justice.

“As intended, then,” she preened. “Stop drooling, daeyari, and come fasten the back for me. Sazny?”

The way she purred please in daeyari put a dozen other thoughts in his head, none of them involving clothes.

He fastened the ties at the back of her bodice, letting his claws ghost across her skin, relishing her subtle shiver. “You know. We don’t have to go out tonight. Plenty of other ways I can appreciate this dress.” He let his tail brush her bare calf.

Her snicker was merciless.

“My fierce, honorable Lord Daeyari. Are you trying to make excuses to get out of this?”

Antal grumbled again. “Of course not, Fionamara.”

“Good. Because I’m looking forward to it.” She turned and tugged at his shirt, fastening the buttons. “You look perfect, by the way.” She paused. Considered. Then undid the button she’d just secured, leaving the top three open. “There. Perfect.”

Fionamara tucked his shirt into his trousers. She let her fingers linger against his waist, leaned in to brush a kiss against his mouth, a taste of lipstick and embers.

This was sufficient to make Antal do absolutely anything she asked of him.

“Shall we?” she said, and took his hand.

* * *

They arrived at an offshoot of Thomaskweld’s main avenue, aurora overhead and copper street lamps warming the path.

Seven months after fending off Verne, and the city was finally feeling . . . calmer. Like a settling beast. Several crises had been averted, the damaged energy conduits stabilized, a new governor elected. A few more months, and they’d even have the capitol building fully repaired.

Antal scarcely believed it sometimes, that so much could go so well, with the right people at his side.

“Holy fuck, it’s cold!” Fionamara hopped from foot to foot, bare legs and arms shivering in the Winter air. “Stop flaunting your dumb frost tolerance, let’s get inside!”

She dragged him toward a stately building entrance. Tonight’s outing was her idea. Void and Veshri help him, Antal still wasn’t sure it was a good idea.

But when he watched the street lamps shining in her dark eyes, saw her smile so wide and eager despite the flush of cold on her cheeks, Antal couldn’t help but feel a little excited, too.

They entered a warm foyer. The floor was pale tile, the walls dark with copper accents in sunray patterns, lit by a chandelier of cylinder-cut crystal. The humans loitering about the space wore dresses to their knees and calves, shirts with trousers, similar enough to Antal’s attire.

He was less reassured by the hush that fell across the room, mortal eyes following him like wary hares spotting a wolf.

The hostess, at least, approached with a smile.

“Welcome! So glad you could join us tonight, Miss Kolbeck.” She dipped a bow. “And Lord Antal.”

Fionamara’s return curtsey was imperious, her silver skirt glittering. “Wonderful to see you, Opal. Thank you for inviting us.”

This was a polite way of saying they’d cleared the visit ahead of time, so as not to startle the establishment when the Lord Daeyari appeared in their foyer.

“We’re honored to have you,” the hostess returned brightly. “We notified the other guests that you’d be visiting, so there are no . . . surprises. Please, stay as long as you’d like. And if you need anything at all, let us know.”

Antal bowed his thanks.

A murmur of intrigue picked up around them. Fionamara, undaunted, looped her arm in his, heels clacking against tile as she led them across the foyer, into a carpeted hall. Antal followed her lead on silent feet.

“You’re doing so well,” she whispered. “Hardly terrifying at all.”

Antal huffed. “How could I hope to look terrifying, when I have you next to me?”

She looked equally startled and amused. “Was that a joke? Are you calm enough to joke right now?”

“I’m trying.”

Anything, for her. She’d proposed this with so much excitement, had twirled through their room while choosing her dress. Even now, she nearly bounced down the hall, while Antal’s tail fell to low flicks of anxiety. Through the door ahead, he heard the muffled percussion, the growing swell of a rhythm.

They stepped through, and music engulfed him.

The dance hall was dimly lit, tightly-packed despite the expansive space, the central floor alive with couples twirling and six-stepping in close quarters. Across the way, a live band rumbled the floorboards with bass and snare drum, lifted the rafters with notes of piano and horn and clarinet. A female vocalist joined with a bouncing ballad about falling in love.

Author’s note: Hello, lovely readers! On my second date with my boyfriend (nearly seven years ago!) he took me swing dancing. He was a pro on the dance floor. I’d never danced before. But I loved to learn. He and I practiced in our apartment, and we went out to the lindy hop social every week. We fell in love over music. Years later, Fi and Antal’s dancing is inspired by swing. And, if you’d like something extra for your read, I’m including my favorite songs that I listened to while writing this bonus chapter.

This Can’t Be Love, Naomi & Her Handsome Devils

Antal wasn’t sure what to feel — that instant lift in his chest from the music, or that inevitable pit in his stomach when eyes snapped onto him, the closest humans shifting to a safer distance.

The hostess had warned the guests, at least. No one fled for the exit at the sight of him. The music didn’t skip a beat, dancers too preoccupied to notice the newly-arrived carnivore. Around the periphery of the main floor, the crowd was dense, humans mingling as they rested or sought partners for the next song.

They parted easily as Fionamara led Antal through, expressions filled with everything from fear to intrigue, whispers adding a new bass to the song.

But the music. It had been so long since Antal had time to savor live music, the way each note of trombone thrummed in his chest. His tail settled into a different sway, following the rhythm of the bass.

Fionamara led them to a cushioned booth. They settled down with a view of the dance floor, her nestled against him in her dress of Void and star beams, fingers stumming his arm in time with the music.

“I used to dance here all the time,” she said, “when I first came to Thomaskweld, after I left home. Did you have anything like this on the Twilit Plane?”

“Of course,” he said. “That’s where I learned. Though, I was much younger then. Before I came to Thomaskweld. Before Razik.”

“Antal . . .” She softened, fingers sliding down to squeeze his. “That was . . . almost a century ago?”

Was it? That heart-aching gap felt like no time at all. And like an eternity, a world apart from where he was now.

The song drew to a close. The dance floor swirled as partners separated, mingled, new pairings ready for the next number. Fionamara lay her head on his shoulder.

“We don’t have to dance tonight,” she murmured. “If you’re not ready. It’s nice, just enjoying the music. Not having to worry about rebuilding a city for a couple hours.”

Antal wanted to dance again. He just didn’t want his presence to ruin the night for everyone else, the same reason he’d only attended the orchestra by hiding in the rafters.

But more than anything, he wanted to dance with her.

“That would defeat the purpose of visiting a dance hall,” he said, “wouldn’t it?”

The next song began — a bold opening of vocals, a roll of percussion into horns. The singer was young, the music a classic. Antal had heard renditions of it since he’d arrived here fifty years ago.

All of Me, Ella Fitzgerald

He offered a hand to Fionamara. She grasped it eagerly and let him lead her onto the dance floor.

Again, he felt the tension around him in subtle glances, dancers shifting to give him space. Antal ignored them. With a tug, he brought Fionamara to his chest with his arm at her lower back, assuming the lead. She settled her hand on his shoulder, ready to follow — though the defiant quirk on her mouth never lost its boldness.

Antal closed his eyes for a six-count, feeling the rhythm in his ether.

Then they moved. He rocked her forward, back. Testing, at first. Then smoother, as he settled into the song. This wasn’t a memorized dance, every move improvised, guided by the music.

The vocalist soared into a fresh chorus. Antal sent Fionamara out to arm’s length, twirling her on a strike of percussion. Again, just to see her dress shine as she spun. He pulled her back into him in a lull.

The lead and follow was a conversation. He asked, and she answered, their movements easy when they moved together, feet light across the polished hardwood. Fionamara was brilliant when she danced. Graceful. Responsive. Defiant, when she lingered longer than he’d intended in a spin, flaring her skirt to the rise of a trombone. Antal obliged, shifting them into the new rhythm, letting her shine.

When he pulled her back close to him, she was laughing.

Antal surprised himself, when he laughed with her, the swell of music and the dazzle of her smile enough to make his chest feel lighter than it had in ages.

Before he knew it, the song drew to an end. He was equally surprised to see the other dancers holding less rigid distance, their glances more curious. Of all the stories humans told of his kind, dancing was rarely involved. He couldn’t fault their bafflement.

The next song picked up a faster tempo, quick strings and clarinet calling for swift feet. Around them, the other dancers shuffled to new partners. But Antal was greedy. He met Fionamara’s eager gaze, then dove into the rhythm with her again.

Let’s Misbehave, Boilermaker Jazz Band

Antal moved until every stress melted away. Until there was only music, and the flash of Fionamara’s dress, and that clasp of her fingers in his as they spun.

By the endless Void, he loved this woman. He loved how she’d fought beside him, had clawed and built with him. He loved seeing her now, finally able to smile so carefree.

When the song ended, they came to rest at the edge of the dance floor. Fionamara wore a sheen of sweat across her forehead, a goading smirk as she leaned into him.

“Say it, Antlers.”

“This was . . . a good idea,” he admitted.

She let out a victorious cackle.

Then, a soft kiss to his cheek. “You’re a fine dancer, Lord Daeyari.”

“All thanks to a fine partner.”

“I’ll be delighted to dance plenty more with you tonight.” She smoothed her hands over his chest, the tip of her chin inquisitive. “Would it bother you, if I dance with other people, too?”

Antal glanced to the other dancers, shuffling partners each song. “Isn’t that the point?”

“Yes. But would it bother you?”

He huffed. “Do you take me for jealous, Fionamara?”

“We’ve made such good progress. It would be a shame, if you clawed anyone open for touching me wrong.”

“If anyone touches you wrong, I’d be more worried about you clawing them open.”

She hummed her agreement like a proud beast.

The next song started, slower on the piano.

Dark Town Strutter’s Ball, Alberta Hunter

“Go,” he urged. “Plenty of time for me to enjoy you again later.”

Fionamara squeezed his hand, then set off hunting through the crowd. When she tapped a man on the shoulder, he turned like he knew her—went ashen as he glanced between her and Antal. She dragged him into a dance regardless.

Antal grinned, to see her enjoying herself.

He returned to a seat on the booth. The crowd was overwhelming, but Antal found serenity in leaning back against the cushions, closing his eyes to appreciate the music as it picked up a faster tempo.

Nearby, someone cleared their throat.

Antal slitted an eye open to see three women. They kept a wary distance, but curtsied at his attention, sharing a nervous glance amongst themselves before the central one spoke.

“Pardon me, Lord Daeyari. I . . . we . . .”

When she trailed off, one of her companions nudged her with an elbow. A hissed conversation ensued, before the center woman cleared her throat again.

“We don’t mean to intrude. But do you . . . need a dance partner?”

Antal blinked at her. Then the empty cushions beside him, entertaining the far less baffling possibility that there was some other Lord Daeyari hiding behind him, who this mortal wished to speak to.

He rose carefully, no predatory movements, tail low at his ankles.

“You . . . wish to dance? With me?”

“Only if you’d like! It’s just, we didn’t know you dance, and you’re sitting alone . . .”

Antal didn’t understand. He was a predator. The fanged beast this city had been forced to cower under. Fionamara had learned to trust him, but these were strangers.

And still, they were willing to give him a chance.

Cautiously, Antal offered a hand. The woman’s eyes widened on his claws, but with a nudge of encouragement from her friends, she accepted.

He led his new partner onto the floor with significantly more tension — on both their parts. While Fionamara had glided at his side, this woman kept an awkward distance, her grip on his hand almost nonexistent. When he hooked an arm around her back, he feared she might have gone petrified, her face paled so fiercely.

But she didn’t jerk away.

Antal led her through some tentative steps. There, at least, they had a common language. She was a fine dancer, just a little slow on her reactions. His stiff lead could be to blame. He kept his movements conservative, mindful of her space, once again aware of all the curious eyes surrounding them.

At a rise in the music, Antal led her into a spin.

When he pulled her back, she was grinning.

This development seemed to startle them both equally. She flushed, but her turns came smoother with every six-step, her grip less timid against Antal’s claws.

At the end of the song, he released her, then dipped a bow.

“Thank you for the dance,” he offered.

She curtsied with a laugh. “Void alive, you’re a good dancer. I never knew daeyari could dance.”

At her return in one piece, her friends greeted her with whispers and giggles. One of them nudged forward, offering a hand to Antal.

“Could I have the next dance?”

“And me after!” the third complained.

Antal was too baffled to refuse.

Every partner was different. Every song was different, fast and slow tempos, soulful piano solos and boisterous wind choruses. As each new song started, Antal found another hand offered to him, both women and men, the onlookers growing bolder with each partner he led across the floor.

Antal found himself grinning again — the genuine thing, even risking a slip of fang.

He glimpsed Fionamara at every song, a jewel of rainbow hair and silver dress across the dance floor. When she caught his eye, caught sight of him spinning yet another brave partner, her grin was smug enough to lift the sunrise.

A new song began.

Antal had his hand extended to a new partner, when he recognized the opening notes: a rising horn, then a cascade into drums, every note filled with energy. The sound swelled heat in his chest, a memory of wary steps and bated breaths, that perfect mouth he hadn’t been able to take his eyes off of.

It was the song he’d played in Fionamara’s cottage, the first time they’d ever danced.

I Believe in Music, Meschiya Lake and the Little Big Horns

“Apologies.” He dipped a quick bow to his prospective partner. “Can I offer you the next dance? I’m afraid I’m taken for this one.”

Antal pushed through the crowd, dodging the mingle of bodies, pairs forming and finding their places on the dance floor. He spotted her paused within the chaos, head cocked the same way his had at the song, a soft smile lifting her lips. She turned.

He already had his hand in hers, pulling Fionamara into the dance as she laughed.

Every partner was different. But none of them fell into perfect step the way she did. None moved so effortlessly with his slightest gesture. None twirled with such radiance.

None leaned in like she did when he brought her close, her chest scandalously pressed to his — the brush of her lips on his jaw, melting him to his core.

“You’re an excellent dancer, Lord Daeyari,” she purred. “We should do this more often.”

“For as long as you’ll have me, Fionamara.”

Then they said no more, letting the music speak for them, the night still young, and countless songs still to dance ahead of them.

Thank you for reading!