Don’t Judge a Vampire by her Fangs Chapter 2 #2
“We are not in a war hall,” he said. “You cannot simply cut down any voice that speaks a truth you do not like. This is a court. There are rules.”
“Yes,” Con said. “There are.”
He raised the sword.
I knew that movement. Every part of me recognized it. It was not the flamboyant flourish of a duelist or the extended windup of a showman.
It was efficient. Ugly. Honest.
“Constantine,” Edward called, concern threading his tone. “Think carefully. Killing a clansman in front of the full court will have consequences.”
Con did not look away from his target. “So does treason.”
The vampire straightened, trying to salvage a shred of dignity. “Treason? For suggesting a council be formed? For questioning the competence of a king who cannot stand?”
“Treason,” Con said, “for trying to fracture the court while its king lies helpless at your feet. For sowing dissent when enemies press from outside our walls. For thinking your ambition outweighs the survival of the clan.”
He took one more step, closing the remaining distance.
The other vampire bared his teeth. “You do not get to decide that.”
“I already did,” Con replied.
He moved.
The sword flashed in an arc of silver light.
It happened faster than most eyes could follow. One moment the vampire stood with his mouth open, eyes wide, words forming. The next, the steel kissed his neck in a single, precise stroke.
There was a soft, horrible sound, like wet parchment tearing.
His head separated from his body so cleanly it almost looked unreal. For a suspended heartbeat it hung in the air, lips still parted, eyes widened in shock.
Then gravity remembered its job.
The head dropped, bounced once against the marble, then rolled, leaving a red smear in its wake. It came to rest near the base of the nearest column, tilted at an angle that made his expression look strangely confused.
His body remained upright for the briefest moment, as if his spine had not yet received the news. Then it toppled forward with a heavy thud, blood fountaining from the ragged stump of his neck in a thick, arterial rush.
Gasps ripped through the foyer. Someone screamed. Another voice choked off a panicked laugh.
The scent hit next.
Hot, metallic, rich with age and power, it flooded the air in a wave. Fangs dropped around the room. Throats worked. Eyes darkened.
Raven drew in a breath and clamped down on her own reaction. I swallowed, tasting ashes and hunger and rage.
Con did not flinch.
He stood over the corpse, sword dripping a slow, steady line of blood onto the marble. His face was expressionless, his eyes clear.
“The clan was warned,” he said.
His tone was quiet, but every vampire in that room heard him.
No one dared speak.
Behind him, movement flickered at the edges of my vision.
My death dealers rose.
They had been positioned along the walls, shadows melted into richer shadow, watching every twitch in the room. Now they stepped forward as one, boots striking the floor in deliberate rhythm.
Black leather. Dark armor. Faces marked by old scars and older wars.
They came to stand behind Constantine, forming a dark line at his back. An honor guard for the executioner. An answer to the spectacle of blood on marble.
One by one, they placed fists over their hearts and bowed their heads in my direction.
Not deep, not supplicant. A warrior’s acknowledgment.
We stand with you.
We stand with him.
The message rippled through the room. Death dealers did not make public declarations. They preferred to let their work speak for them, usually in the language of broken bones.
To see them step forward now, aligning themselves publicly with Constantine and, by extension, me, was not a small thing.
Vampires took note.
Those who followed Edward glanced toward him. He met my gaze, then Con’s, then let his eyes slide toward Siris.
Edward nodded once. Not to us. To the room.
“I stand with Constantine,” he said, taking a few measured steps forward until he stood beside Constantine, hands open and empty to show he carried no drawn weapon.
“A challenge to his authority in this moment is a challenge to the king’s will.
You heard Rene give him the right to act on his behalf.
You saw it in previous nights, in the trust placed upon him.
Constantine carries out the king’s justice. That has not changed.”
His supporters relaxed fractionally. A handful of them even inclined their heads in agreement. Some looked grim, but not displeased. Vampires respected strength; they always had.
Siris did not look pleased.
He had gone utterly still. The only sign of emotion was the way his jaw tightened, a small tic that betrayed the fury boiling beneath his composed exterior.
His gaze flicked from the headless corpse to the line of death dealers, then to Edward arming Con with legitimacy.
When his eyes finally found me, they were as sharp as shattered glass.
“Is this what the court has become?” Siris asked softly. His voice was not loud, but it carried. “A stage for public executions when someone speaks an unpopular truth?”
“Speak all the truth you like,” I said. “Just do not weaponize it while we are fighting for survival.”
Raven shifted beside me under Rene’s weight. “You let your man stir fear he knew nothing about. You stood behind him and watched. If you wanted a conversation about succession, you could have had it in council chambers, not here. Not now.”
Siris’ eyes cooled. “A man spoke out of turn,” he said. “You killed him.”
Con lifted his sword and wiped the blade along the dead man’s jacket efficiently. The blood smeared across the fabric in a dark streak.
“He did not die for speaking,” Constantine said. “He died for trying to fracture the clan when unity is the only thing keeping us from being picked off one by one. If you want to test how far I am willing to go to protect the king, Siris, you do not have to use proxies.”
The challenge hung in the air.
For a breath, I thought Siris might accept it. His fingers flexed at his sides, the dim glow of power sparking in his pupils.
The court held its breath.
Then he smiled.
It was a cold, precise thing, like a blade laid gently against a throat.
“Another night, perhaps,” he said. “When our enemies are not already scratching at the door. For now, I will not add to the chaos.”
Coward.
Strategist, a calmer part of me corrected. He was not afraid; he was patient. There was a difference, and it made him far more dangerous.
He inclined his head, just enough to call it polite. “Take him upstairs,” Siris said. “Patch him up. If he wakes, I will gladly present my concerns directly.”
“And if he does not?” someone whispered behind him.
Siris did not look back, but his eyes sharpened. “If he does not, we will convene. Properly. With structure. Not like this.”