The tea was bitter. Eyes rolling, Al set it down. “Ceri? A new pot of tea for Newt and me to celebrate with!” he called merrily.
But there was no answer, and he looked up into silence, realizing that both she and Newt were gone. His breath of protest caught…and then he let it out, his mood crashing. Newt hadn’t even given him a moment to say goodbye.
“Just as well,” he lied. Flustered, he pushed back into his cushions with his bitter tea.It was worth it,he thought.
But as the silence grew and the scent of lilacs faded, he wondered if this time…the cost had been toomuch.
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 afanghead. 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.
