Cocktails at Seven, Apocalypse at Eight: The Derby Cavendish Stories by Don Bassingthwaite

Author:Don Bassingthwaite
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction
Publisher: ChiZine
Published: 2016-09-25T17:04:28+00:00

2. Mardi Gras

The various beings that exist around the edges of the world generally don’t get along with each other. Behind the glamour that hides the otherworldly from the mundane are more cliques and simmering tensions than a high school prom. There are a few notable times and places where the otherworldly do mingle, though. A hot club night here. An obscure bookstore there. A bowling alley with a particularly auspicious alignment of feng shui. One of the most infamous gathering places in our city, however, is the annual Mardi Gras party hosted by the big and burly power triad of Richard, Stephen, and Michael Holden-hyphen-Williams-hyphen-Key—a.k.a. the Three Bears.

The Bears host the event as their official joint birthday party. They’ve been together for so many years that I suspect they’ve simply forgotten each other’s birthdays and are collectively too proud to admit it. In any event, the party has become the big do of a notoriously do-less season: Valentine’s Day is mostly for couples and Groundhog Day is such a terrible excuse for a celebration not even Hallmark can sell it. Many people, mundane and otherworldly, gay and straight, wait eagerly for one of the Bears’ signature purple envelopes—purple being one of the three colours of Mardi Gras, of course—to arrive each year.

For a more select and exclusively supernatural group, however, the Bears’ annual invitation arrives in a gold envelope. In the scheme of Mardi Gras, gold is said to represent power. For the Three Bears it certainly does. Simply put, the Three Bears know things and, like a three-headed otherworldly godfather, they’re ruthless in wielding those secrets. In addition to being a celebration, the party is their way of reminding their “clients” just where the power lies. Regrets are not an option for those receiving a gold envelope.

But the Bears’ velvet fist also means good behaviour at the party is guaranteed. For one night of the year, their luxurious condo is neutral ground, and denizens of the shadows who would otherwise never speak are briefly united—mostly in murmured contempt for their hosts but you have to start somewhere. That rare neutrality is the only reason I go. My invitation—Derby Cavendish and guest—arrives each year in a green envelope matching the third colour of Mardi Gras. I’d like to think that the green envelope shows a certain respect, but I suspect it’s more likely a sign that the Bears are keeping an eye on me, so when I go, I always go alone.

My green envelope for the year appeared in my mailbox on a cold, late-January day. I took it, along with the rest of my mail, into the apartment I rent on the top two floors of a lovely, creaky old Victorian. Tarik was waiting for me, stretched out on the chaise longue in front of the TV with a blanket, a bowl of popcorn, and a bottle of wine. We’d been seeing each other for about three weeks, and I’d discovered that wine and sex are both better with a satyr around.

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