Chapter 9 Inkletter #2
Ven’s gaze flicked to the rear of the party, landing on a fox shifter. Ah. Chiyo the Vixen. She often functioned as a sensory guide for the witches.
With her lamellar armor and her fingers poised above the silk-wrapped grip of her sword, Chiyo exuded danger, yet she had incongruous freckles scattered over the bridge of her keen nose.
Ven had never seen her in her kitsune—fox-human hybrid—form, but vulpine flashes shimmered just beneath the surface.
Ven turned back to Rosewyn. Though only thirty or so, Rosewyn was a player in the Skein. The dark-haired witch had been named after the first Red Riding Hood and for her roselike skin. She’d earned her byname of Banehand because she liked to torture enemies.
She was equally valorous and vicious, two characteristics Valkyries admired. We coulda been best friends, bitch. “We have permission to cross, Rose,” Ven said.
“Revoked for the Accession. Accept this decree from our new leader. Or accept punishment.”
Eyrun murmured, “First, I’ve got something for you to see,” then she let her most primal self unspool, form flickering, growing. Her maiden grandmother had been one of the Nachtmerrie, immortals who could turn into nightmares. Eyrun had inherited her talent for transformation.
Rosewyn would soon come face-to-face with whatever terrified her most. This is going to be good.
Ven blinked as her sister’s appearance changed.
Muscles erupted like a sudden storm, fangs spilled into the light, ice-blue eyes burned.
Leather seams screamed as she grew; her engraved breastplate bucked and popped.
Eyrun rose taller and taller—eight feet, ten—an unnerving silhouette of fang and claw.
Ven said, “You fear a turned Lykae?”
Rosewyn’s bravado faltered. “The hell I do.”
Ven smiled, feeling as feral as Eyrun now was. “Nachtmerrie don’t lie. You’re scared of Lykae, of their beasts. I’m embarrassed—I’m frankly embarrassed for you,” she said, though Eyrun’s new look gave even Ven pause. And she was a Valkyrie, the personification of courage!
While Chiyo’s gaze was studiously blank, the rest of the witches shifted uneasily, magic at the ready.
Rosewyn’s hands glowed brighter. “She’s the nightmare Valkyrie.”
Ven said, “Her in the flesh. She and I once faced an opponent who was afraid of his own erections. Her transformation into his fear did a number on us all. Lessons were learned. We all grew as people. Some even grew erect.” She hiked her thumb at Eyrun, whose new Lykae eyes flared blue.
Okay, playtime is over. Though this was exactly their sort of theater, they had shit to do—
Eyrun leapt for Rosewyn, shaking off a flurry of defensive beams to reach her target.
Frenzied bite. Blood spurted from the witch’s torso as Eyrun’s fangs found flesh.
Rosewyn’s arm was gone from the shoulder, the severed limb crunching like kindling in Eyrun’s maw.
Crunch. Crunch. The limp palm flickered magic with each bite.
“Ahhh!” Rosewyn screamed. She used her remaining hand to hurl a cannonball of a beam at Eyrun. Ven sprang in front of her sister, batting it to the heavens with her sword. The metal vibrated from the hit, and auroras shimmered overhead.
The other witches unleashed a torrent of hexbeams and ungodsly fury. “Save Rose!” they screamed.
Ven batted shots back; each rebound scalded her sword until it hissed steam in the fog. “Give me a challenge!” she taunted from a cloud of mist. “Somebody?”
Spitting out the arm, Eyrun hurdled Ven and attacked Rosewyn again. The witch dropped back onto her ass as she fired. Direct hit to Eyrun. The odor of singed skin filled the clearing.
Eyrun’s body absorbed it—adrenaline and something older?—then she pounced onto the back-crawling witch. Rosewyn’s leg went with a wet, obscene sound. Blood painted the grass.
Crunch, crunch.
Terror and fury melded in the young witch’s eyes, and she realized she was about to die. After one misstep, her nights would be done forever.
Chiyo—as if deciding between honor and survival—slid forward to brandish her narrow sword. “Call off your sister,” she told Ven, voice flat and controlled. The fox’s glowing eyes were dangerous in a different register.
Something inside Ven moved her to speak instead of swing. “You really want to take on me: a Valkyrie who wields a longsword?” Though Eyrun seemed happy with her leg chew toy, Ven was less so with her clean blade. “Shifter, this is where you and your hexhacks run.”
Discretion, valor…Chiyo must have agreed. With a cool nod, she signaled the others to retreat. Two carried Rosewyn, their glowing hands ready to repel another attack. A junior witch brought their horses, and the Riders mounted up and galloped away.
Slowly Eyrun shrank back, muscles receding, fangs sliding home.
Her transformations always took her a while to fully shrug off.
She spat out Rosewyn’s limb, then wiped her tongue.
“Ugh.” Voice still raspy, she said, “And now I know how it feels to be a moonatic. Wicked.” Blood had already dried black across her chest and side; her hair clung to her temples in damp ropes.
Ven let her sword cool before she sheathed it. “I thought you were about to kill her.”
“I totally was.”
They laughed.
Then Eyrun tilted her head, hints of Lykae mischief in her grin. “You spared Chiyo? When I know you’re aching to break that sword of hers? I can’t decide if you want to fuck her or fight her.”
“Maybe both—at the same time.” Staring in Chiyo’s direction, Ven said, “I could saddle her on my face and let her spur me until I buck her. Typical Saturday night.”
More laughter.
Sobering, Ven said, “Chiyo probably has a mate. A fox shifter male who makes her swish her tail and bark beneath the stars.”
“Could be.” Eyrun spat again. “I don’t envy Rosewyn’s regeneration. At her tender age, she’ll need weeks to regrow those limbs.” Speaking of which…Eyrun grabbed the severed leg, a trophy of her victory.
“They wouldn’t have attacked unless they had something they didn’t want us to see,” Ven said. “So now we have to see it.” She offered her jacket to cover Eyrun’s nudity.
Eyrun shrugged no, and they started running, following the witches’ trail to a field.
Ven scanned the tracks and found trampled ground, hoofprints, and manure. “Aren’t those Wiccae bold?” Her voice was low and incredulous. “They’re rustling cattle from the Lykae.”
“Stealing meat from wolves.” Eyrun whistled, and a residual snarl rumbled. “How do they think this is going to end for them?”
“Should we tell the pack?” Ven tapped her chin, playful and plotting. “Or steal the stolen cattle?”
Eyrun slung Rosewyn’s trophy leg over her shoulders and folded her arms around it. “We don’t need food. What about for fun? Just to tell the witches we know your secret. We have your secret.”
Ven’s grin was a promise. “I choose havoc. But where would we put the cows?”
“Let’s drive them to Umber. Create an interspecies incident. Happy Accession!” Eyrun crowed with a howl.
They exchanged conspiratorial smiles and ran, the night around them alive with possibility—and with something else, deeper and waiting, that made the air tighten at the edges.