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 killedthreerogue 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 theChange. No one knows why theChangedidn’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.
TheChangewas the night vamps got back their souls and the were-curse was altered. Prior to then, were-bitches often turnedtheir 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 ahedgeamulet, 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.
