The Year of the Dead Rose

by Rachel Parsons

Chapter 9, Chapter 11 appear in this issue.

Chapter 10

Her mother had definitely been poisoned. Rhiannon had pooh-poohed that when it had been first suggested, but now, thinking of the matriarch’s symptoms, there really was no doubt. She did not know by whom, but she suspected the offworlders. Modron had been vocal in her hatred of them. Her father was being poisoned, or so the court thought. But she envied her parents, as that seemed sanguine compared to being eaten.

“You are not afraid,” growled the voice which Rhiannon could understand as clearly as if the beast had spoken words.

“I am terrified, but I reckon it will do me more harm than good to show it.”

“Why? You show everything else you have.”

“Not by choice.” Rhiannon was beginning to like this strange, silent way of talking.

“Hmmm.” The wolf started sniffing Rhiannon all over. She squirmed at some of the targets of those insistent nostrils. “I should eat you,” the wolf announced.

“Why?” Rhiannon asked.

“Because I am hungry. I haven’t eaten for days. My pack is gone and I need food.”

“You would violate the ancient treaties?”

The wolf’s snout twitched at that. “What do you know of the ancient treaties?”

“I know no ordinary wolf can talk on the wind. You have to be a shifter. And there is a truce between shifters and men.”

“The ancient treaties were broken by the offworlders. ‘One man violates, all men violate.’ Remember? Besides, you are not a man, but a woman.”

“Still doesn’t mean I should be eaten. If you eat me, you will be hunted down.”

“Nothing can kill a shifter. We can die of starvation, be hacked into pieces, but nothing can kill us without turning us into the undead.”

This was a bluff. If the creature were decapitated and disemboweled, according to the ancient rituals, it could die. But it was counting that the woman beneath it did not know this.

“Except a death sword,” Rhiannon pointedly called the shifter’s bluff.

“None exists.”

“I have one.”

“You lie.”

“Do I smell like I’m lying?” Rhiannon grimaced as she said this. Being naked all the time, she fancied that she stank all the time, being deprived of odor-absorbing garments. Everyone assured her that she did not, but the only one she could trust to tell her the truth, given her station, was Rosalyn, who always spoke the truth to her and would let her know in certainty if she stank or not. She had often locked her out of their shared apartment until Rhiannon had bathed and perfumed herself.

The shifter’s nostril came alive. “No, you have the stink of the truth. But I am hungry. I will risk a death sword to feed.”

“I will feed you venison, give you water, and a warm roof over your head.”

“For what boon?”

“The usual one.”

“You wish to be my lupa?”

“I wish not to be eaten.”

The werewolf made a sound that, had it not resembled a whispered shriek from Nifleheim, might have resembled a chuckle. “You are honest. I could trust you. Feed me and shelter me and you will have my loyalty. I will kill your enemies and feast on their flesh.”

The shifter climbed off of Rhiannon. Rhiannon got to her feet. “Come with me.”

“Why the hurry?”

“Why do you think? I’m naked and it’s bitter cold out here. I’m freezing my twat off.”

The shifter responded by splaying her legs out and rolling in the snow. She got on her back and kicked her heels up.

Folding her arms under her bosoms, Rhiannon bleated, “If you are quite ready?”

“Go ahead. I will track your scent and join you in your chambers. Make sure the venison is bloody.”

“I’ve been your lupa for all of ten minutes and you are already spoiled.”

The lycanthrope made a clicking noise at that.

Rhiannon ran back to the secret entrance, crawled to the corridor that housed her rooms, and went in, making straight for the fire. It had been invigorating, but by the goddesses it was cold out there. She was crouching down, huddling by her pewter pots, rubbing one of them against her stomach and legs when her chamber door burst open, causing her to start and drop one of the pots on her big toe.

Strutting in, her tail in the air, was the shifter.

“You scared me,” Rhiannon complained. She was lifting her leg the better to massage her injured toe. She looked like she was about to do a snap front kick. The nail was going to turn brackish, she was convinced. And toe paint was considered a covering.

“Where is my venison?” demanded the lycanthrope.

“Oh, sorry.” Rhiannon put down her foot with the injured toe and padded over to the cord with hardly a limp at all. She rang the bell as the shifter sniffed through the room, rubbing against the furniture.

One of Rhiannon’s ladies-in-waiting came in and stopped, horrified. “Is that a werewolf?” She tugged at her kirtle in anxiety.

“Aye. And a hungry one. Unless you wish to be her meal, bring her some venison.”

The girl curtsied. “Aye, mistress.” Shaking her head, she left lickety-split.

“I like your style.” The shifter stretched, hoisting her butt in the air. “I am Zusanna.”

“And I, Rhiannon.”

“The naked princess.”

Rhiannon laughed. “What gave it away?”

Zusanna howled. And then went to the window, grabbed its clasp in her mouth, pulled it open and jumped out. Rhiannon rushed to the balcony, and saw Zusanna leaving tracks in the snow. “Are you coming?” whistled the shifter on the wind.

Rhiannon went to fetch a lasso that was curled in her wardrobe, next to an abandoned tiara and a feminine war belt, tied it to one of the balcony studs, and then rappelled after her new companion.

As Rhiannon reached the ground, the werewolf pranced back and forth, rolled her shoulders, arched her back, and then raced off. Rhiannon, feet burning from exposure to the snow, her breath billowing, and her bosoms swinging, raced after her, wondering what could take Zusanna away from her first good meal in days.

What she found at the end of the race horrified her.

Proceed to chapter 11...