Don’t Judge a Vampire by her Fangs Chapter 2
Raven and I shifted at the same time, as if some unspoken instinct moved us.
“On three,” she murmured, palms flat against Rene’s chest, ready to help roll him.
We coordinated the way soldiers did in the aftermath of a blast. No wasted motion. No time for fear.
“One.” My hand slid under his shoulder, fingers brushing the edge of his collar. The fabric was damp with sweat, clinging to skin that felt too cold for a vampire of his age.
“Two.” Raven eased her grip around his ribs, her witch power humming beneath her skin like distant storm clouds.
“Three.”
We lifted together, slow and careful. Constantine stepped in, taking most of Rene’s weight with the ease of a warrior who had carried wounded off battlefields for centuries.
He slid one arm beneath Rene’s back, the other beneath his knees, shifting the king against his chest in a controlled, brutal parody of a bridal carry.
Rene’s head lolled against Con’s shoulder. His hair brushed the black fabric of the warlord’s shirt, streaking it with damp strands of gold and mahogany. His eyes remained closed, lashes resting against marble-pale cheeks.
“Upstairs,” Raven said. Her voice was steady, but the shine in her eyes betrayed her. “I cannot hold him like this with the clan so close.”
I pushed to my feet, every muscle protesting the kneeling and sudden rise. The marble chilled my knees through my leather pants, and now cold crawled up my spine for a different reason.
“Clear a path,” Edward called. His tone cut through the murmurs. “Now.”
The gathered vampires parted, instinctively obeying. They had centuries of hierarchy drilled into their bones. When their king fell, they moved for those who stood closest to him.
Constantine shifted Rene’s weight, testing his grip. The sword remained in his right hand, point down against the floor, his fingers wrapped loosely around the hilt. Even carrying the unconscious king, he did not let the weapon go.
I moved to his left, Raven to his right. Together we formed a triangle around Rene’s limp form.
“Keep them back,” Raven whispered. “If anyone tries to touch him, I will fry them myself.”
“Get him to the suite,” I said. “I will handle the idiots.”
We turned toward the staircase. Con took the first step, careful and deliberate, the sword scraping along marble as he climbed.
That was when a voice sliced through the quiet.
“Since when do you give orders, Constantine?”
It came from the left, near one of the ornate columns where shadows gathered like gossip. The tone was male, and laced with the kind of arrogance that usually ended in someone’s permanent decapitation.
We all stopped.
The clan froze with us, as if someone had pressed pause on the entire room.
I turned my head slowly.
A vampire stepped out from the edge of the crowd.
He wore Siris’ colors, subtle but unmistakable.
Deep storm-gray suit, silver cufflinks engraved with a stylized wolf’s head, a symbol Siris favored.
His dark hair was slicked back, and his eyes gleamed with the hungry light of someone who had waited far too long for a crack in the throne.
I did not know his name, which told me everything I needed to. Siris kept his more expendable pieces far from my notice.
He inclined his head. Not to Con. To Rene’s inert form. It was a mockery of respect, the kind offered at a funeral.
“We all heard the rumors,” he said, projecting his words so they reached the farthest corners of the foyer. “We saw him fall. The king is unable to stand, yet you, warrior, presume to speak for him.”
I felt Constantine still beside me.
His grip did not tighten. His breathing did not change. His aura, usually wound tight around him like a contained storm, did not flare outward.
It drew inward.
Which was always worse.
“You want to rephrase that,” I said quietly, fixing my gaze on Siris’ man.
He ignored me, which was his second mistake.
“My lords,” he continued, now addressing the gathered vampires rather than us, “for centuries we have followed protocol. In times when a king could not rule, the elders convened. A council was formed. Decisions were made collectively. Not at the point of a sword.”
“Funny,” I said, “I seem to recall a lot of those ‘collective decisions’ involving open warfare and a frankly impressive body count.”
A few nervous chuckles slipped out, then died quickly as the ambitious idiot kept speaking.
“Tonight we witnessed a foreign power breach our home,” he went on. “Now our king lies unconscious in the arms of his warrior while death dealers circle like hounds. I ask this court, is that leadership, or is that a liability?”
Raven took a step toward him before I caught her arm.
“Careful,” I murmured. “He wants you rattled. He wants a reaction he can twist.”
She swallowed her fury and stepped back, knuckles white around her own restraint.
The vampire’s gaze flicked toward me. “With respect, Cassara, your loyalty is well known. As is your relationship with the king. But loyalty does not equal competence.”
I smiled. “You should probably stop talking.”
Edward’s lips thinned. His eyes moved between Siris’ man and Constantine, measuring the trajectory of the explosion about to detonate in our foyer.
Siris himself stood slightly behind his supporter. Tall, silver hair immaculately pulled back, features carved into a mask of dignified concern. His pale eyes glittered with anger he thought he hid. He said nothing, which was exactly what made this worse.
The fool was not speaking without permission. Not in front of this many witnesses.
“Perhaps,” the vampire continued, emboldened by his own voice, “it is time we acknowledge what has been clear for some nights now. The king’s strength wanes.
His judgment is compromised by personal attachments and reckless bargains.
We should not allow a death dealer and a warrior to claim authority by default, simply because they stand nearest to his fallen body. ”
The word fallen hung in the air like smoke over a battlefield.
I felt Con shift beside me.
He did not hand Rene to anyone. He did not adjust his grip. He did not ask Raven or me to step aside.
He spoke.
“Step back,” Constantine said, his voice low enough that the vampire had to lean forward a fraction to hear.
“What was that?” Siris’ man asked, lifting his chin. He wanted the entire room to witness this.
Con raised his head. His pale-gold gaze found the other man and held it. For an instant, the foyer shrank around that single line of sight, like the whole world narrowed to two points of light.
“I said,” Con repeated, a little louder, “step back. I am taking the king upstairs. The clan has been warned. You had your chance to keep your head attached to your shoulders.”
A ripple moved through the crowd. They remembered his earlier promise. Anyone who wished to test his resolve had been invited to step forward.
Apparently this idiot thought the invitation had passed.
He laughed.
It was not loud, but the sound carried. “Do you hear this?” he called, spreading his arms slightly as if presenting Con to the court.
“A general without a title. A stray death dealer with a sword and no crown. He thinks he can dictate terms because the king is too weak to stand. I, for one, do not acknowledge his authority.”
He stretched out his hand, palm up, toward the surrounding vampires. “Do you?”
It was a bold move. Suicidally bold.
For a heartbeat, the court hung on that extended hand.
Some of the younger vampires shifted their weight, eyes flicking between their elders and Constantine. Those loyal to Edward stayed immobile, faces carefully blank. They knew better than to expose their alignment too early.
The ones aligned with Siris did not look blank. They looked hungry. Restless. They did not move toward their speaker, but their expressions sharpened. Their pupils thinned. Power stirred around them in grasping tendrils.
Siris himself slid a fraction closer, still silent, gaze fixed on Constantine. That pale gaze was calculating, watchful, and tight with focus.
I saw it then.
He wanted to see what Con would do. How far he would go. How much blood he was willing to spill to hold this fragile line together.
Con eased his weight, testing his balance on the stair. Then he did something that turned my stomach to ice.
He handed Rene to me.
It happened in a single, smooth motion. He shifted the unconscious king toward my arms, trusting me to take his weight without faltering.
“Got him,” I grunted, adjusting quickly. Rene’s head fell against my shoulder, his hair damp against my neck. His power flickered like a dying ember against my senses.
Raven darted to my other side, helping support Rene’s lower body, her fingers tightening around his legs.
“Keep him steady,” Con said, never taking his eyes off Siris’ man.
My muscles screamed as I took more of Rene’s weight. He was tall, dense with centuries of vampiric strength, even weakened. The world narrowed to the strain in my arms and the cold brush of his power against my skin.
Con turned away from us.
He took two steps down the stairs, sword still in his right hand, his boots landing on the marble with a steady, unhurried rhythm.
The space between him and Siris’ man seemed to constrict. Vampires involuntarily drew back, creating a clear strip of polished floor between predator and prey.
“You do not acknowledge my authority,” Constantine said, voice calm. “Interesting.”
“Authority is granted,” the other vampire replied. “Not seized. You have no title. No council recognition. You are a weapon the king uses when he wants something dead. That does not make you a ruler.”
“You are correct,” Con said. “I am not a ruler.”
He took another step forward.
“I am an executioner.”
The words slid through the crowd like ice water.
The vampire scoffed, but there was a flicker of uncertainty now. He shifted his stance, as if remembering for the first time that he faced the creature who had once broken armies on three continents.