Razors and Revenge
Faith Hunter
Shiloh stopped in the doorway. The Dark Queen, Jane Yellowrock, sat at a small round table, drinking tea. Eli and Koun were sitting with her, drinking coffee. Eli was the head of security and Jane’s adopted brother. Koun was an ancient vampire and the queen’s…executioner.
Shiloh went still as a statue, hands braced on the doorjamb.
When she woke after the werewolf attack—full of the crazies caused by werewolf prions—Shiloh had nearly killed one of her human blood servants for the blood in her veins.
When a vamp attacked a human, it brought a death sentence.
The three in the small receiving room watched her. Sipped. Silent.
Despite her bloodlust, Shiloh had survived the full moon without going furry, and had found some sanity, some self-control. Was that enough to be allowed to live?
She was still standing, as if glued to the floor. Was there royal protocol for someone about to be executed? Mad laughter tickled the back of her throat.
Panic made her heart beat, forced her to breathe, exhibiting a serious lack of vamp control. Her talons struggled to extend and pierce the wood of the doorframe, which was a dangerous breach of etiquette in the presence of royalty.
The queen raised her eyebrows slightly, her yellowish eyes evaluating.
Shiloh forced the panic down, trying to see everything and everyone at once. There were no weapons of execution in sight. No silver shackles. No stakes. The queen seemed relaxed, her black hair in a single braid down her back, jeans-clad legs crossed, boots. No makeup. Casual.
Jane sipped tea. It wasn’t a china cup, used at official functions, but a big lavender mug with a pic of a deeply purple Count von Count on it, the Muppet world’s only purple vampire character. No pomp or circumstance. Laid-back.
This wasn’t a formal meeting.
Heart rate slowing, she looked at Eli and Koun.
Eli’s expression was cold. Koun’s pale stare was as predatory as the werewolves who had killed Atticus and nearly killed her.
Koun had found her. Fed her. Saved her. Later, it was Koun who had pulled her off Rachel before she ripped out her best friend’s throat.
And Koun might be the only one who knew how nutso, how out of control, she was.
Shiloh fought a shiver. The razors of werewolf prions scored her veins, shredded her nerve endings. The crazies hovered just beneath her skin.
Time was compressing and elongating in her mind. She had stood in the doorway too long. With three steps, Shiloh fell to the queen’s Lucchese-booted feet.
No one else moved.
Jane sighed, smelling of mountain lion, tea, and irritation.
The Dark Queen of the vampires was a Cherokee skinwalker, not a fanghead.
She also tended to operate with a total lack of royal decorum whenever she wanted.
No one ever knew what to expect. That pissed off a lot of vampires. All that was why Shiloh liked her.
“Get up, kid,” the queen said, her words as unceremonious as her mug. “Sit. Drink tea or coffee. Let’s talk.”
Shiloh rose, slid into a chair, hope constraining her panic.
She had dressed with special care, her dark red hair up in a French twist, makeup on her vamp-pale cheeks, fancy slacks, silk shirt. Pumps. Even lipstick. Gah. If they took her head, it would totally ruin her outfit. The crazy laughter tittered.
Fighting to control her reactions, she clenched her talons into her palms. Pain helped, but her talons drew blood. Damn it. Koun shifted in his chair, one hand near his blade as her blood-scent filled the room.
Memories surfaced at the lilac, rock dust, and old ash scent of her own blood.
Atticus ripped to pieces by werewolves. Images, smells, sounds.
Blood, fangs, terror. Running. The darkness of a cave.
My healing amulets out of power. Her own inner magic had never been trained or predictable, and her brain had been so messed up with werewolf prions, she hadn’t been able to access it.
The stench of Atticus’ body had grown each time she woke. With the stench had come pain. Razors cutting my nerves, ripping through veins. Hunger. Desperate hunger.
At the queen’s tea table, Koun leaned toward her, his vamp scent a mingling of funeral flowers, cold Celtic nights, battle, and safety.
Her eyes flew to his. The memories of the attack, of the madness of the nights in the cave subsided, replaced by the memory of Koun entering the rock cavern, the taste of his blood.
Soothing words in a language so foreign it was like the burr of a cat’s purr and the clash of battle drums.
Koun smiled, the barest twitch of his beautiful lips.
She drew in his scent again. The memory of safety helped, and she shoved down on the crazies. It was easier when she didn’t expect to be decapitated.
The laughter threatened again, but she swallowed it down. Perhaps five seconds had passed. She had to do something, so she sat back in her chair.
Her talons withdrew into their sheaths, and Koun relaxed.
Still in the wry tone of her greeting, the queen said, “You earned your bounty.”
It took several more seconds before that hit home. The bounty for the werewolf she and Atticus had gone to collect. That bounty paid bills and rent for a year, even in high-priced Asheville. She said, “You found the wolf head?”
Dryly, Jane said, “Three of them. All still in werewolf form.”
Blood. Fangs ripping into me. Fighting for my life. Shortsword cutting. Handgun firing. The stink of silver burning were-flesh, the tang of wet dog, nitrocellulose, blood.
The razor sensation cut deep. She wanted to curse, but one did not curse in front of the queen.
Shiloh pulled on the memory of Koun’s blood, rich, thick, salty, intense. When he found her, he must have let her nearly drain him dry.
The queen said, “Your rescue party found the wolf heads tied in a tree about thirty feet off the ground.”
Three werewolf heads. Dayum. Shiloh poured coffee and gulped it down.
The coffee’s bitter bite and caffeine hit her like a sledgehammer, easing the pain.
That was new. Her mug was decorated with a pic of a fawn, like Bambi, with the words “Fuck guns” underneath.
Which was hilarious in the vampire queen’s heavily armed, cuss-free household.
“Shiloh!”
Shiloh’s eyes flew to the queen. Razors itched along her nerves; insanity danced in her mind.
No one knew they were inside her. When she survived the full moon without going werewolf-ish, Koun had unknowingly given her the control she needed, sparring with her in the gym.
The zing of adrenaline, the desperation of fight, of trying to stay undead, stopped the razors in her bloodstream, the crazies in her brain.
Working with him, she discovered the werewolf attack had left her faster and stronger.
Sword strikes—with wooden practice swords—were precise and deadly.
After the first session, she had been able to hide what she had become, but she needed to fight often, the pain scratching just below her skin. In the vampire world, being different brought danger. Exposing secrets could be deadly.
“You killed three rogue werewolves,” Jane said, “including the one you were originally tracking.” She looked proud. And vicious. “Three.” Jane’s pride disappeared and her voice gentled. “I’m sorry about Atticus. He was a loyal scion. He told the best stories about his pappy and shine.”
Shiloh’s gaze fell and cemented to the table. Flashes of Atticus fighting, dying, tore through her. The razors sliced, but she had control. For now.
The queen kept talking. “The werewolf saliva was in your system for too long. There was no one to heal you. Koun did his best when he found you, but the werewolves who bit you, who killed Atticus, were psychotic, infected from before the Change. No one knows why the Change didn’t take away the curse from this small pack, but whatever kept the unchanged were-prions active is why you’re having trouble adjusting. ”
Shiloh laughed, a single rough note. Adjusting. Right.
The Change was the night vamps got back their souls and the were-curse was altered. Prior to then, were-bitches often turned their packs psychotic. So. This is what it feels like to be psycho. She ripped her eyes from the table to the queen’s.
Jane’s gaze rested heavily on her. Shiloh drained her mug and poured more coffee. Caffeine to lull the razors scratching, scratching, scratching for violence.
The queen continued. “Koun smelled a sick, insane bitch-queen but had no time to track her. Getting you to safety was paramount. Tell me what happened.”
Razors cut. To ease it, Shiloh gulped the scalding coffee.
Eli’s face did something curious, but she didn’t know what it meant until he said, “For a fanghead, my espresso is like drinking racing fuel.”
“Feels good,” Shiloh said. “There was a naked woman in the woods when the wolves attacked. White-blond, scraggly hair, muscles harshly defined. She reeked of”—Shiloh shook her head—“of sickness, putrefying flesh, mangy dog. Violent brown eyes.”
Six wolves, all wounded with silver-lead rounds, had surrounded them.
She and Atticus had made no kill shots. Even injured, werewolves were fast. The woman whistled and pointed at Shiloh.
All six male wolves turned to her, leaving Atticus alone.
Shiloh’s magazines were empty. She tossed a hedge amulet, but it sputtered and died.
Undependable as usual, but this time maybe fatal.
She took a two-handed grip on the vamp-killer.
A brown wolf leaped on her, shoving her to the ground. Bit into her thigh, piercing her armor.
Atticus charged to help.
Five wolves swiveled on hind paws and savaged him.
From the ground, Shiloh stabbed into the wolf’s chest, then to the side, across its heart. Leaped to her feet. It took perhaps three seconds.
Atticus had already been true-dead.
“Shiloh!” the queen said sharply. “What happened?”