Skinwalker by Faith Hunter

chose not to react. “You want to tell me why you went feral on me?”
    Katie placed a long-fingered hand on her throat. “When I woke I knew something was wrong, but I couldn’t place it. And then Leo contacted me.” From my research, I knew Leo was Leonard Pellissier, the head of the vamp council in New Orleans. “He told me that Ming never woke. Her human servant entered her lair. . . .” Katie stopped to breathe, but vamps didn’t need much air except to talk. That alone would have told me she was upset, even without seeing Troll near death. “She was missing. There was much blood in her crypt. Hers, by the scent.” She looked at me. “Leo is on the way here.”
    On the heels of her statement, the doorbell rang. I figured with Troll a little under the weather, it fell to me to open the door and provide security. I gave Katie the saline and showed her how to squeeze the bag. With her occupied, I went through Troll’s pockets looking for weapons. I found a specially designed, steel, twelve-inch-long, single-bladed, silver-edged vamp-killer. With a rogue on the loose it made sense for Katie’s bodyguard to carry one. I had a few myself.
    Troll had it strapped to his thigh with an opening in his pocket that allowed him to slide a hand in and withdraw the knife. Without getting too friendly, I unstrapped the sheath and strapped it on my own leg. His .45 I carried, safety off, finger on the trigger, from the office into the foyer. On the way, I opened the closet door where I had previously deposited my weapons and retrieved the stake I had left in the corner. It was always smart to have a stake handy when meeting a vamp on unfamiliar territory. I tucked the stake in my waistband and hoped I didn’t hurt myself with it. It was wicked sharp.
    There was no peephole in the door—no weak spot for someone to shoot through—but I spotted a modified high-boy; its hinged top opened to reveal a series of monitor screens, part of the house’s security system. There were a half dozen camera screens—most of them showing unoccupied bedrooms—and one was a small screen displaying the front stoop. Early night had fallen and the door lights had come on, revealing two men, a well-groomed guy wearing a dark suit, and a larger, broad-shouldered bruiser. Leo Pellissier and his right-hand man, blood-servant, and muscle. I held the gun out of sight, pulled the small silver cross from around my neck, took a deep breath, centered my footing, and opened the door. The muscle, seeing an unfamiliar face and the suddenly glowing cross, drew a knife and attacked.
    I sidestepped fast and stuck out a foot. He tripped. Oldest trick in the book.
    I was on him before he hit the floor. Riding him down. Troll’s .45 rammed against his spine at the base of his skull. We hit. Bounced. My heart pounded. Beast growled.
    Faster than thought, the vamp’s weight fell on me. His hands encircled my throat. Tangled in my braids. He hissed. Fangs extended with a soft snap. They brushed the side of my neck, a predator’s killing bite.
    I rammed back my head. Connected, skull to something softer. Heard an oof of expelled breath. The pressure on my throat lessened. I slapped the cross on the back of the vamp’s hand.
    He howled. Fell away. I rolled, pulling the guard with me, until we lay on the floor, the gun at his neck, his body on top of, and protecting, mine. The reek of human sweat and vamp pheromones bathed the air. This one smelled of anise and old paper, maybe papyrus, and ink made of leaves and berries.
    â€œI’ll shoot your blood-servant if you move again,” I said, my voice pitched low and cold. Leo paused, that inhuman, vampy shift from combat to utter stillness that was so startling. “If you listen, I’ll let him live,” I bargained. The stillness went deeper. I felt the servant gather himself and I clawed my hand around his throat, fingernails