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“Hunt our enemies for me, wolf.”
I hated to admit it, but I was mollified by her faith.
As I let my magic roll out, sliding in and over the cacophony of voices, I thought that this was not that dissimilar to reading the dead in the graveyard. I’d expected minds like thedraugrI usually encountered. They were nothing but feral needs.
Unlike the disjointed minds of the newly walking, however, these were orderly minds. Pretentious. Bored. Judgmental. There were thoughts of hunger, but it was more often hunger for power. These were not thedraugrwho would be found on the streets of the city. They struck me as the sort who had chefs or delivery or whatever service posh dead folk used for their food.
“I would drink her dry.”
“Why do we need to allow his sort here?”
“Vintage fae juice. What a lovely pet he’d make.”
“Stupid bitch.”
“When Guarin was in charge, we weren’t so burdened by rules.”
The last one was the first that felt angry in ways that were alarming. I reached out with my magic until I found the speaker. He was tall, and from the look of him, he’d died before reaching full maturity. His face was soft, and he lacked the tell-tale texture of facial hair. He was trying to compensate for his physical appearance of youth with austere dress. His only concession to holiday frivolity was an ostentatious medallion-broach-thingy. A ruby as big as my thumb-nail was surrounded by emeralds.
“Thou shalt not suffer a witch.”He glanced at Beatrice, at me, and then he started toward me.
“Harold,” Beatrice said,flowingto my side as if she had intended to be there all along. She stood in front of me. Her assistant, servant, whatever-she-was Eleanor arrived with two more women.
The room felt charged, and the thoughts were weirdly gleeful.
“How charming!”
“Entertainment!”
“Is it vulgar to accidentally cut the faery for a sip of blood?”
I glared at that one, a rather regal looking woman who had been grandmotherly upon death, and growled. “Mine.”
“Witch.” Harold tried to push passed Beatrice. “We have no use for witches.”
Simultaneously, Beatrice said, “Back up.”
Harold drew a respectable-sized blade and tried for Beatrice’s throat. Her guards were there, but I was literally inches from her, so I pulled her backward to safety.
Harold’s knife sliced my arm from shoulder to near my elbow.
“Witches have no right—"
“Duck fucking weasel.” I kicked Harold and snatched his machete. “I’m getting sick of hearing that nonsense.”
It was too much of a coincidence to ignore. Harold was somehow tied to Weasel Nuts shooting at me. I pushed that thought at Beatrice, who transformed from elegant to feral in less time that it took to blink.
“Take her out of here,” Beatrice said.
Eli had my hand, but we were jerked apart as Eleanor moved me further away from Harold. Then in a little more than a heartbeat, Eli and I were both outside.
“You are a gift,” Eleanor said. “Her Majesty will dispatch with the vermin.”
Then she was gone, and I was swaying precariously over ground that was filled with bodies, outside a castle where there were ancientdraugrI very much didn’t want to adopt.
Chapter Seven
If I wasn’t mistaken,there was a poinsettia petal in my cleavage. It was hard to tell because I was losing blood faster than the average tourist losing their dinner after midnight. It could have been blood, but I thought it was a petal.
