Master of Darkness (19 page)

The spell surged against his claws in a sudden crackling electric blaze, sending agony sheeting up his fingers. Smoke curled upward, carrying the smell of singed fur and burning flesh.

Swearing, Warlock forgot smug satisfaction in favor of reestablishing his control before Morgana sensed what he was doing.

Long, sweating minutes passed before the spell subsided in the grip of his will. Blowing out a breath in relief, Warlock went to work increasing the size of the opening, prying it open inch by inch until he had a wavering oval four feet high. The lethal golden energy of the shield hissed and crackled in sullen threat, smelling of ozone and burning dust.

“Go,” he snapped to the nearest werewolf. “And if you value your hide, don’t touch the edges. I have control of the shield now, but it would cook you like a lightning bolt if you aren’t careful.”

“I thought the Direkind were immune to magic,” Tom Addison said, a piece of impertinence Warlock would see he paid for. As one of his Beasts, Addison should damned well know better than to question orders in front of the troops.

The would-be scout paused, looking back at Warlock in frowning question.

“Do you think you’re immune to a hundred thousand volts of electricity?” Warlock growled. “Then by all means, touch that fucking shield and see.” Immunity to magic didn’t mean immunity to natural forces
generated
by magic. Fortunately, tossing around that kind of power was beyond most witches.

“What are you waiting for?” Warlock snarled, jerking his head toward the opening. “Go, damn you.”

The Dire Wolf flung himself through the opening, rightly fearing his leader more than the spell. The spell would only kill him.

With the example set, the rest of the Dire Wolves ducked cautiously through the opening. None of them suffered anything worse than singed fur, judging by the reek and occasional high-pitched yips of pain.

The Beasts hung back with Warlock, awaiting orders. Only Addison looked uneasy, having finally realized his mistake. He fingered one of his prized daggers nervously, not quite daring to meet Warlock’s gaze.

Deliberately, the wizard turned his attention to Jack Ferraro, currently in the form of a deceptively wiry form of a blond-furred werewolf. Ferraro watched his face with a fanatic’s unwavering attention, but Warlock didn’t believe the act for an instant. “I want you to take care of my daughter. Make sure the traitorous little bitch suffers.”

“But you promised I could . . .” Addison began, before hastily swallowing the rest of his protest. The little bastard might love to use his knives on women, but he had no desire for similar attention from Warlock.

“I’ll take care of it,” Ferraro announced, one corner of his lip twitching in pleasure at being one up on Addison. Turning, he slipped through the opening, agile as a ghost, transforming into his full Beast form the moment he was clear. The ground shook as the huge centaur broke into a gallop, hooves biting into the hill’s rocky flanks.

Warlock turned his attention to Andrew Vance, who promptly came to attention like the former marine he was. A disgraced Marine, true, with an unfortunate tendency to murder civilians, but loyal enough for Warlock’s purposes.

“You will be my guard in the city square.” Warlock flicked a glance at Addison. “You. Provide a diversion for the squad I’ve designated to capture Arthur. Kill anyone who opposes you, with the exception of Morgana Le Fay or Guinevere. Those two bitches, I want. And don’t fuck up again tonight if you don’t want to feel your own knives. I’m better with them than you are.” Addison dipped him a carefully respectful nod and followed Vance through the opening.

Warlock eased through after them, before sending another wave of power through the shield to prevent the witches from conjuring gates to safety.

That reminded him. He gathered a spare bit of power and sent a psychic cry ringing over the streets of Avalon:

“And now, Miranda, my dear traitorous bitch of a spawn, get ready to die!”

* * *

Miranda’s shout of
rage and fear catapulted Justice out of a sodden sleep. His eyes snapped open as she jerked from his arms and threw herself off the bed. She was changing before her feet hit the floor.

“Miranda, what the hell?” Remembering she’d almost attacked him the last time this happened, he rolled off the opposite side of the mattress and eyed her warily.

“It’s Warlock! He said he’s coming to kill me.” Her clawed hands swept in an intricate gesture, sending magic swirling around her werewolf body in a glittering fog. “The bastard’s
here
, Bill. In Avalon.” Her grim gaze met his, glowing with power—and tainted by fear.
That damned spell.

The swirl of magic vanished, leaving her armored in magical plate, the athame sheathed at her hip next to a five-foot great sword sized for a Dire Wolf’s hand. The silhouetted head of the Pendragon covered her breastplate, enameled in red and gold. “You’d better grab the axe and Shift,” she told him.

“How the hell did he get past the city shields?”

“All that death magic apparently came in handy.” Her lip curled, revealing fangs. “One thing is for damned sure: my father’s primary objective is killing Arthur. And since the bastard’s attacking at seven in the morning, Arthur won’t be conscious to defend himself. Neither will any of the other vampires, including the Knights of the Round Table.”

Justice swore at the sickening implications. “Leaving no one to save them except a city full of women whose main weapon is magic—to which the Direkind are immune. Merlin was too damned smart for his own good.” He called the energy of the Mageverse and Shifted.

The magic responded with a ferocity he’d never felt before, a blazing roil of force that engulfed his body and brain in fire, trying to reshape him into the form it chose.

And it wanted to be the Wolf.

Oh, yeah, that’s just what we need—the Big Bad Psycho. He’d really turn this mess into a goat fuck.
Justice clamped down hard, exerting his will, forcing the magic to take the Dire Wolf form he wanted instead. Muscle and bone twisted, lengthened, taking on heavier contours as fur grew over flesh in a racing, itching tide.

When the fiery ache of transformation subsided, Justice glanced around for Miranda, only to find her looking up at him, wolf brows lifted. Her head was much lower than he’d expected, as if she’d shrunk. Or he’d grown a lot more than he’d expected.

She swept a glance the length of his body. “My, Grandma. What big . . .
everything
you’ve got. Guess the Hunter Prince spell wanted to upgrade more than just the wolf.”

“Damned axe,” Justice growled, shooting a glance at the full-length mirror opposite the bed.

She was right. He was easily nine feet tall, with the added muscle to go with the height. At a guess, he’d weigh a thousand pounds. About the size of a full-grown grizzly.

A grizzly who needed armor if he didn’t want some giant whatever to eat his hairy ass. Justice concentrated, dragging another flood of magic from the axe. Seconds later, he was dressed in a suit of enchanted plate emblazoned with Arthur’s Pendragon’s dragon head. A glance at the mirror made him grunt in approval as he hefted Merlin’s Blade. He looked like a tank with fur.

The floor creaked in protest beneath his feet as he turned to look down at Miranda. “Let’s go save the Once and Future King,” he said, and blinked at the sound of his own voice. It rumbled a full octave deeper than normal.

Miranda nodded shortly and gestured, conjuring a gate to Casa Pendragon. It was only a mile or so away, but every second was critical; they didn’t have time to hoof it.

The moment the portal wavered into full existence, a female voice screamed, “Put my husband down, you furry bastards!”

“Damn it to hell,” Justice growled, and jumped through the portal with his axe raised and Miranda at his heels.

NINETEEN

Crap, it’s worse
than I expected
,
Miranda thought, as she and Justice hit the cobblestones on the other side of her gate.

She’d expected to see Guinevere fighting a running battle with a trio of armored Direkind. She
hadn’t
known one of them would be carrying Arthur slung over a shoulder like a bag of dog food.

The former king wore a pair of blue jeans, and not a damn thing else. His brawny back was already turning red in the morning sun. Thank God Magekind vampires only got radiation burns from sunlight, rather than, say, bursting into flames, as Hollywood insisted.

To make matters worse—no easy task—a seventy-foot cobra currently exchanged fireballs with Morgana and five desperate, sword-swinging witches.

Of course Dad would bring the snake that ate Daliya’s husband,
Miranda thought in disgust.
What else have I been having nightmares about for the past week?

“We go for the snake,” Justice rumbled at her, his Dire Wolf voice about an octave deeper than James Earl Jones doing Darth Vader. “Free up Morgana and her witches, so they can help Gwen get Arthur away from those damned werewolves.” He flicked a look at her from glowing golden eyes. “That sound right to you?”

The two of us? Alone against that snake? Hell no.
Miranda swallowed and coiled into a crouch, her athame in one hand, the great sword in the other. “Yeah.”

Dropping her voice to a level hopefully inaudible to giant snakes, she added, “I’ll distract him, see if he’s using the same spell Super Chicken used. If I can get the counter spell to work, you can cut his ass in two.”

Justice flashed his teeth at her in a wolfish grin. “Do snakes
have
an ass?”

“You’re the Hunter Prince. Hunt it.” Miranda took a deep breath.
If I don’t do this now, I won’t do it at all.
“For Arthur and Avalon!” she howled as she leaped at the Beast’s swaying head, just in case seven feet of flying werewolf wasn’t enough to attract its attention.

At the top of her arc, she swung the great sword in a diagonal stroke with every ounce of Direkind muscle behind it.

Just as she’d expected, the thing’s spell shield flared blue as a neon sign the instant before it reflected the full force of the swing right back at her. Somersaulting like a poker chip, Miranda sailed ten yards to land in a three-point crouch—on a palm and both feet, neat as an anime character.

Yep, that was definitely the shield spell Super Chicken had used—which was in turn the same one Warlock had been using since she was a kid.
Thank God he’s a creature of habit. And that he underestimates me.

Miranda looked up to find the witches—including Morgana—staring at her as if she’d lost her mind. Even the snake looked taken aback.

“Go!” she screamed. “Help Gwen, or Arthur’s dead! We’ve got the snake.”
Yeah, right. Want some swampland to go with that?

As one, the witches looked from the snake to the werewolves—and decided they’d rather fight werewolves. Because, hey, they weren’t stupid.

The werewolves finally started running. They apparently
were
stupid, since they should have been long gone, despite Gwen’s efforts to stop them. Must have found something appealing about the idea of watching a giant snake eat witches. Dad would have turned every last one of them into fur coats if he’d known they’d fucked around like that on a job.

Which was when, out of the corner of one eye, she saw a huge, dark shape flying toward her.

“Miranda!” Justice roared, and she jerked around to realize the shape was the snake’s open mouth. Thirty-five feet of giant reptile shooting through the air right at her head, propelled by the other thirty-five.

Miranda flung herself sideways in a convulsive surge of frantic strength. The Beast flashed past so close, she felt the hot wind of its passage like an eighteen-wheeler on the highway. Except instead of diesel, the thing reeked of reptile—and death magic.

“Wake the fuck up!” Justice bellowed, sounding well and truly pissed as he charged the monster, his axe spitting sparks in his big hands.

Damned near got myself eaten.
Miranda hit the ground and almost fell on her face when her trembling knees buckled. She forced them to straighten.
Get. Your. Head. In the
GAME
!

Justice was taking his temper and fear out on the snake, slamming the axe into its spell shield over and over, sparks showering around him like the Fourth of July. The snake retreated, hissing furiously as it coiled away from his assault, its body language all but screaming,
I’m being attacked by a giant crazy werewolf!

Which would have been groovy, except Miranda knew all his magic and muscle wasn’t really
doing
anything, not with the snake’s spell shield protecting it from Justice’s attack.

And yeah, that was definitely the same spell from the Super Chicken fight. All she had to do was craft the same counter spell, and she could spear Snakey like a fish. Apparently Super Chicken hadn’t realized
how
she’d hit him through that spell, or Warlock would surely have created a new one she wouldn’t know how to break.

Finally, a little luck. God knew they were due. She lifted her hands and started chanting . . .

Which was when a new spell snapped into place around her like a bear trap closing. Spinning as her heart shot into her throat, she found yet another Beast smirking, this one the massive armored centaur with the battle-axe. Its blue gem sparked from the center of its forehead, probably recording the entire thing for Warlock’s later enjoyment.

How the hell can anything with hooves move that quietly over cobblestones . . . ? Oh. Muffling spell, twit.

“Hi, baby,” he purred. “Daddy says hello.” With that, the centaur reared to smash those dinner-plate hooves down at her head. The blue gem in the center of his head blazed, radiating malice—and her father’s death magic.

Miranda sprang away, avoiding the hooves only to smash face-first into a new shield he’d put up around them both. Light exploded in her skull as the field picked her up and threw her into a helpless tumble.

The centaur laughed, a rolling, evil chuckle of delight.

Bastard
, she thought, desperately scrambling to her feet as she heard his pursuing hooves clattering against the cobblestones.
You bastard.

She ducked an axe blow and swung her own sword in a chop toward the centaur’s torso.

Warlock’s fear spell clawing at her, she’d forgotten about the Beasts’ shielding spells. The thing’s magic shot the force of her own blow right back at her, slamming her into the cage field again. She hit the ground on her knees, half-blind and tasting blood.

Dead
, Miranda thought, as the athame chimed desperately at her.
I’m dead. Good thing Justice and I didn’t manage to Spirit Link . . .

Justice.

As if from a great distance, she heard that deep voice of his roaring something through the cage spell. She looked up to watch helplessly as he raced toward her and the centaur, Merlin’s Blade lifted.

He’d either forgotten about the snake, or he didn’t give a shit. Either way, the thing reared and hit him, snapping loops of gleaming three-foot-thick black coils around his armored body, immobilizing him.

Trapping his axe arm.

“Stupid slut,” the centaur said, with that evil laugh. “Looks like you just got your lover killed.”

Miranda turned and stared at him for one savage, vibrating second. She had never in all her life felt such blind fury.

The athame chimed again, an insistent, belling note. Afterward, she would never be sure whether the knife somehow told her what to do, or whether she’d realized it on her own. Either way, Miranda tightened her grip on the athame and began to pour power into it.

The flow of magic lit the length of her arm with snaking forks of magic and flashing sparks. The knife glowed brighter, then brighter yet, raining sparks to the cobblestones.

“And what do you imagine you’re going to do with that?” the centaur sneered. “Scare me to death with a fireworks display?” He laughed and lifted his axe. “Well, mine’s bigger, bitch.”

She backed away, her eyes locked on his mocking face, still spilling her power into the athame. He reared over her, pawing the air above her head before slamming his hooves down at her face. Miranda leaped back, narrowly avoiding the strike, then danced aside again as he plunged at her, whipping the axe left, then right, then left again, cutting vicious figure eights in the air. Fear bit into her, blunting her magic as Warlock’s vampire spell diverted her power.

Miranda ducked, feinted at him with the sword, spun. And kept pouring magic down her arm and into the blade. The athame began actively drawing on her power, speeding up the magical flow until the light grew so blinding that even the centaur threw an arm up to shield his face.
What the hell am I doing?
she thought, but she kept right on doing it anyway.

Until she hit some kind of critical mass. Miranda’s legs gave under her, and she fell to her knees. Her enchanted armor vanished. So did the great sword.

And they weren’t the only things.
Everything
sustained by her magic vanished, including her enchanted armor, leaving her naked except for her fur and the athame in her hand.

“Ha!” the centaur shouted with a grin of delight. “Miscalculated, didn’t you? You fucking drained yourself! You’ve got nothing left—no magic at all!”

Miranda looked up at him, her eyes burning as she stared into Warlock’s gem. She hoped the bastard heard her. “No. None whatsoever.” She watched him draw the axe back over one shoulder, preparing to swing it at her like a batter going for a home run. By now, Warlock’s spell should have her in a state of howling terror—but it didn’t. “And you know what, Budweiser? For the first time in decades, I feel no fear at all.”

“Then you’re as stupid as Warlock always said you . . .” He broke off, his eyes widening. “The spell! What happened to Warlock’s fear spell?”

Miranda grinned like a shark. “It broke.”

Then she reached into her athame and called her magic back.

The knife responded with a single chiming note, high and pure as the sound of angels singing. The power slammed out of the knife and up her arm, staggering her like a blast from a fire hose. She had to lock a scream behind her teeth; it felt like the raging influx was searing every nerve she had.

Yet the power kept coming.
What the hell? This is more than I put into it! What’s it . . .

She could feel herself Shifting with no conscious control at all. Just as Merlin’s Blade had changed Justice, the athame itself was changing her, making her a conduit for still more magic, expanding her limits even further now that she’d shattered the Warlock’s crippling spell. Her skull ached as though it were being blown up like a balloon, and she could have sworn her skin was swelling over her burning bones.

Until, at last, it stopped.

God almighty
,
that
hurt, Miranda thought, moving toward the centaur in a crouching slink.
But it was worth it.
Under her breath, she began chanting the spell to break through Budweiser’s shield.

“I don’t know what you just did, you little whore,” Budweiser growled, though the hand holding his axe shook. Apparently the light show accompanying her transformation had been pretty damned impressive. “But it’s not going to save you.”

He surged at her like a race horse exploding from the starting gate, raising his axe over his head in both armored hands.

Miranda leaped straight up in an effortless bound, flying right over Budweiser’s desperate swing. She hit the ground directly behind him, then bounced backward an additional yard when he bucked and tried to kick her with his rear hooves. Gathering herself, she started to lunge for his back, only to realize the athame was getting a hell of a lot heavier. Miranda automatically grabbed her knife hand with her left, meaning to steady the little blade . . .

Only it wasn’t a little blade anymore. The athame was
growing
.

A blink later, it was a six-foot-long two-handed sword that glowed like a flipping light saber.
What the hell?
She
hadn’t done that.

The athame blew a warning note, sounding more French horn than flute. Hooves rang on pavement as the centaur whirled on her, his muzzle drawn into a vicious display of teeth. “I don’t care what magic you jerked out of your ass, you’re still dead, you little slut.”

Miranda snarled back, “I’m not a slut, Budweiser.”

They swung their weapons simultaneously. Miranda had intended to block his axe blow and drive her sword into his chest. Instead, the athame hit the axe’s long handle and cleaved it cleanly in two.

The now-haftless axe cartwheeled at her face. Miranda ducked, and it sailed harmlessly over her head to hit the cobblestones with a metallic ringing clatter.

Budweiser began to curse in a vile stream of filth. He was in the middle of calling her a slut yet again when she bounded straight up and swung the two-handed athame with all the considerable strength in her werewolf body.

The sword cleaved through the assassin’s armored neck, slicing through the steel like a stick of butter. His head hit the ground near the lost axe as Miranda landed in a knife-fighter’s crouch. She watched with a blend of nausea, horror, and grim satisfaction as the centaur’s decapitated head rolled to a stop with a sodden, uneven
thump thump thump
.

Budweiser’s body collapsed with a rending shriek of tortured metal as three thousand pounds of armored monster hit the cobblestone street.

She didn’t stop to gloat. Budweiser’s death had shattered his containment spell, so she started chanting as she launched herself toward the snake still wrapped around a desperately struggling Justice. Thank God for sadistic bastards; it was apparently taking its time about killing him.
Probably hoping to make Justice watch Budweiser kill me before it ate him. Well, tough luck, Cobra Commander.