Love Bites (Crescent City Werewolves: The Short Stories)

Queen of Necropolis

"Is it true that your kind never gets nervous?" said the girl.

Cimorene gave her a glance despite being more interested in stretching. The girl was new, that much was obvious from the shining pommels of her weapons and that silly scowl on her face.

The question, however, was an old one, and Cimorene had long grown bored hearing it. "Not over dying, no. If you do, then you shouldn't be here."

Now the girl flushed. "I'm not scared. And I don't need some crusty old bones wrapped in a shroud to give me the guts to fight."

Cimorene said nothing. She had never been the mentoring type, and suspected that if the girl already wavered at this stage, then she would never rise above duels that settled petty grudges between lower-ranked pack members. Then again, perhaps the Lady of the Dead would turn Her eternal smile to the girl and grant Her favor. One never knew.

In the silence that followed, Cimorene straightened up and began shadowfencing. She had already dressed in her fighting leathers, including the backless top long notorious in her fights. Even though she never looked over while striking at the air, she still sensed the girl's gaze on the skulls tattooed on her back. She had been told they shimmered like moonlight. Her declaration of faith to the Lady.

The barren room they waited in suddenly vibrated from ceiling to floor as muffled howls rose, three thousand voices strong. The wolf packs of Crescent City, gathered to watch bones break and blood spill in their names.

The girl flinched and turned pale. Cimorene straightened out of her stance. They both recognized the significance of that cheer: the fight had just ended.

When the girl didn't move, Cimorene raised an eyebrow. "You'd better get to the entrance. It doesn't take them long to clean up the ring."

The girl nodded stiffly. "Good luck, if you believe in that sort of thing."

"I don't." Then Cimorene returned to her practice, trying to work out the stiffness in her left shoulder. And her knee still protested the more taxing footwork...

She didn't look up when the girl left, or when a new round of howls sounded, this time in greeting to the next combatants. Footsteps, though—those caught her attention. There was no mistaking that stride. Somehow, even his walk dripped with authority. He stopped somewhere behind her, and for the first time that night, her heart lurched.

Still, she kept her expression nonchalant while turning to face Thane Frost, alpha-king of the Frosthound Pack. "You've interrupted me. That means I can blame you if I lose tonight."

He gave her a glare that would have turned any of his subjects into whimpering pups, but she only smiled and moved in to give him the traditional greeting. "Not that I would, my king."

Perhaps she added a sultry note to her voice, the one that always turned his eyes dark with lust. And perhaps she nipped at that strong jaw rather than merely nuzzled against it.

When she drew back, his eyes had indeed gone dark, but he also looked ready to kill her, himself. "You're not going out there. I'm retiring you from the ring."

It was a shock, and it wasn't a shock at all. Cimorene gave herself a breath to stay calm. "A king may do whatever he wishes, even if it's to make a fool of himself. But Larthas insulted your name; if you don't send me out to avenge it, what kind of reputation will you have? Will you ignore threats, next? Perhaps greet a rival pack's invasion rather than repel it?"

A muscle in his jaw twitched, but that was all. Ah, he had grown so serious of late. Ever since streaks of grey had appeared in his dark hair. When she reached out to run fingers through the one by his temple, he caught her hand, stroking the scar along her palm where a dagger had once stabbed through.