Master of Darkness (6 page)

She’d survived. She’d become a Dire Wolf instead of a screaming torch.

* * *

Feeling every bit
as desperate and terrified as she’d been then, Miranda stared down at Justice. Her magic couldn’t affect him directly, but what if she could drag him into Shifting by transforming herself?

It might not work—but considering that the alternative was to sit and watch him die, she was damned well going to give it her best shot.

Miranda reached into the Mageverse, calling the magic, dragging it deep like a drowning woman sucking in air. And breathed it out again over Justice’s still, bloody body. His jaws gaped as he sprawled in the spreading pool of blood, his tongue lolling between his teeth in a way that reminded her uncomfortably of a dog that had been hit by a car.

Don’t you dare die, William Justice. God, please don’t leave me alone like this.

Miranda let her eyes lose focus as she stared at him—and saw
it
. The core of his magic burned deep inside his brain like a pilot light in a furnace.

There. Yes, that!

Desperate hope flooding her, she drew in still more energy and blew it out again. Her bones began to ache, a fiery itch spreading across her skin. A silent warning that she’d better use the power she called if she didn’t want it to turn on her.

Deep within Justice, energy sparked, a flicker of his power responding to hers. So she pulled on the Mageverse with all her strength, breathing it over him like a hot wind.

Dangerous
.
Fuck, this is dangerous. If I stoke the magic too high, it could escape my control and fry me like bacon. And Justice could end up caught in the fire.

But if she didn’t take the risk, he was dead. That was simply not an option. If not for Justice’s courageous rescue when she’d frozen, she’d be the one dying now. She’d rather burn herself than abandon him.

So Miranda went right on dragging energy out of the Mageverse, building her magic into a seductive blaze, until Justice’s power began to flicker and burn in response.

Don’t die, dammit. Don’t you dare die.

* * *

Well, Justice thought,
I fucked that up.

Actually, it wasn’t exactly a thought, more a faint awareness as he floated in a darkness that got darker with every ticking second. On some dim level, he knew he was dying.

Memories flashed through his mind like stuttering images illuminated by a strobe lamp. The Beast lunging at Miranda, preparing to bite her in two. Justice, leaping over the monster’s head to knock her off her feet and send her rolling to safety.

Hot breath stinking of rotting meat rolled over his head. Justice looked up—and saw the Beast’s toothy maw looming over him.

He’d tried to dive clear, but the monster snatched him right off his feet and bit down. Even with his armor, his ribs crunched like bread sticks in an explosion of white-hot agony.

Screaming, Justice had grabbed the thing’s jaws in both hands and tried to lever them the fuck off him. And then . . .

Nothing.

Oh, Christ, did it eat me? Am I a decapitated head like that poor vampire bastard?
There really should have been a lot more terror behind that thought. Instead, all he felt was numb.

Shift. I’ve got to Shift.

If there was any hope at all, that was it.

He tried to reach into the Mageverse and draw on its energy so he could transform and heal. Its life-giving magic refused to respond. He could only float in the cold, numbing dark, scrabbling with his fading strength for the power he needed.

Dying.

“Justice?” The voice was faint, scarcely a whisper. He heard it only because there was no other sound at all in the black chill.

Except it was no longer quite as black as it had been. Something glowed blue in the distance, moving toward him. The voice came again, stronger now. “Justice? Justice, where are you?”

Miranda.

He reached for her. “I’m here! Miranda, I’m here . . .”

She shot out of the dark like a comet, a blue blaze of light so brilliant, she made his eyes ache. For a moment he thought Miranda was going to barrel right into him—but then she slammed to a stop a foot away, as if running head-on into an invisible barrier.

He stared at her in hungry amazement.

She was gloriously naked. Her body shone against the nothingness like an erotic fairy sketched in lines of blue werewolf magic. Her breasts and hips curved, lush and sensual, nipples drawn into tight, shining cobalt points. Her hair curled around her shoulders in strands of sapphire light. “Justice, you’ve got to change!” Her voice reverberated in his mind as though his brain were a tuning fork, ringing with her mental touch. “You’re dying.”

“I know that, dammit. I can’t reach my magic.”

“You can.” She flattened one hand on the barrier that separated them. “You have to—you’re fading in front of me. And I can’t heal you because you’re immune to my magic!”

Yet she’d still managed to touch his consciousness. How the hell . . .

“Change!” As he watched, she began to blaze, brighter and brighter, magic flaring around her with furious intensity. “Reach for the magic, Justice. Come back to me, dammit.”

He strained, clawing for the power, but it refused to respond.

“Come on, Justice!”

“I’m trying, dammit!”

“Try harder!” She had grown so bright, it was like staring into the sun.

Fear stirred—not for himself, but for her. “Miranda, you’re pulling too much magic. You’re going to burn.” He’d seen it happen to a Dire Wolf who’d shifted one too many times during a fight. The man had blazed hot like that, only to vanish into blowing ash.
“Stop!”

“
No!
” she shouted back, even as he recoiled from the sheer blazing heat of her power. “We’re both going to make it, or neither of us will!”

“Dammit, Miranda!” Frustrated fury sparked in his brain. He hadn’t sacrificed himself to that fucking monster for Miranda to commit suicide by magic.

He flung his will out into the darkness. At first there was no response, only the same chill nothingness he’d felt all along. But he was fucked if he’d take that for an answer. Not if it meant Miranda would cook herself. “Come on!” he howled into the darkness. “Damn you, let me
shift
!”

And the Mageverse answered his bellow of will, pouring into his cold, dying body, blazing through his cells with the familiar pain of transformation . . .

“Yes!” Miranda cried, joy and tears in her reverberating mental voice. “That’s it! Come back to me!”

* * *

Justice opened his
eyes. Miranda bent over him, human again, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt instead of blood-smeared armor. Fading magical sparks still lit her eyes, a remnant of the transformation. “Justice!” she breathed. “Oh, God, Bill, you did it! You shifted!”

It was the first time she’d ever called him by his first name.

Before he could yell the question boiling in his furious brain—
What the hell did you think you were doing?
—her mouth covered his, fierce and hot and sweet.

He froze, astonished as a fifteen-year-old getting his first kiss from his first crush.
God, her lips are soft.

His arms swept up to wrap around her and drag her close. He wore nothing but the jeans he’d had on when the morning began, and he moaned against her mouth. She felt just as good as he’d always thought she would. She was tall and slender, and her breasts, full and lush, pressed against his bare chest.

He could get drunk on the taste of Miranda. Licking tenderly at her lips, Justice tugged the plump lower one between his teeth, and slid his tongue deep for a slow, swirling sample. It made him imagine the flavor of more erogenous places, and he remembered the way she’d looked, naked and ablaze with magic. “You taste like an April thunderstorm,” he murmured against her mouth. “Ozone and raindrops.”

She drew away, her gaze suddenly somber. “And you taste like blood.”

Miranda slid off him and rose to her feet, then reached down to help him up with effortless Direkind strength. He staggered, utterly drained.

Glancing down, he took stock of his body. The lethal punctures had vanished. The only sign of his near-fatal injury was the pool of blood that surrounded their feet.
God, I need a bath . . .

“It worked.” Miranda smiled wearily up at him. “I got you to Shift.”

Which reminded him. “And you damned near killed yourself in the process. What the fuck did you think you were doing?”

She gave him a long, steady look. “Saving your life, Bill.” Turning on one booted heel, she stalked off. “Let’s go find the others.”

SIX

Ungrateful bastard. Miranda
strode toward the DCN building, pointedly ignoring her bodyguard.
Damned near killed myself bringing him back from the dead, and all he can do is bitch
.

And kiss.

That
had
been one hell of a kiss. His mouth had moved on hers with such skill, she’d found herself wondering what else he could do with it.

Not that she intended to find out. Despite her momentary joy at saving his ass, Bill Justice was still an Alpha Werewolf. A fact she’d do well to remember.

Though he had saved her from being eaten by Warlock in the guise of that damned monster of his . . .

Yeah, and I saved him back
, Miranda told herself staunchly.
We’re even.

Not even close
,
her conscience retorted.
He almost ended up
eaten
.

Shut up, dammit.

When they reached the DCN Center, they found Tristan leaning against a light pole, his armored arms wrapped around Belle.

Conal and his sisters stood nearby over the body of that poor woman Super Chicken had murdered. They were talking to an older lady Miranda didn’t recognize.

Despite the two-inch heels on her boots, the newcomer appeared less than five feet tall. Middle-aged, perhaps twenty pounds overweight, she wore blue jeans and a tight sweater that called attention to her impressive bust line. Her straight, fine hair fell past her hips, dyed a shade of neon green so vivid, it clashed with Aislyn’s violet bob.

Adding to the rainbow effect, Conal’s huge red bird perched on his shoulder, its flaming tail spilling down his back. Aislyn cuddled the fat white cat with the Southern accent as Branwyn absently stroked Fin’s head. All six of them—Sidhe and familiar alike—watched the strange woman with obvious awe.

Who the hell
is
that?

The two Magekind agents turned as Miranda and Justice joined them.

“There you are. You had me worried, Fuzzball.” Tristan slapped Justice lightly on the shoulder. “But Belle swore Miranda would get you to Shift. And as usual, she was right.”

“I don’t suppose you killed Super Chicken,” Miranda asked.

“No. Ended up chasing the furry bastard halfway across Atlanta, though.” Tristan grimaced in disgust. “He gave us the slip.”

“We were about to gate back to help you when I sensed you Shift.” Belle gave Miranda a wicked little grin. “Somehow I got the feeling you wouldn’t appreciate being interrupted.”

Feeling her cheeks go hot in a redhead’s blush, Miranda gestured toward the stranger with Conal and his sisters. “What’s going on? Who’s the human?” She pitched her voice too low for the newcomer to hear; the woman didn’t give off even a whiff of power.

Until she turned and
looked
at them. The raw magic in her gaze seemed to burn right into Miranda’s brain.

Whatever else she is,
that
is definitely not human. She’s even more powerful than Warlock.

Panic blasted Miranda as the strange woman’s gaze reduced her to the frozen immobility of a rabbit cowering in a hawk’s shadow. She could barely breathe as every instinct howled in incoherent animal panic.

But as she fought to keep the terror from her face, a wave of magic rolled through her consciousness, warm and compassionate as a mother’s touch. The fear melted away like ice in the heat of August.

Miranda jolted back to full awareness with small, warm hands cupping her face. Blinking, she focused on the woman who was suddenly inches away, holding her in a kind, maternal gaze.

Nobody would call her pretty. There was too much strength in the strong-boned features, too many years in the crow’s-feet around those iridescent eyes. Yet somehow she had a wild kind of beauty, like sunrise over the face of the desert.

Miranda swallowed. Her throat felt raw, as if from unvoiced screams. “Why the hell did I think you were human?”

“Because I chose to seem so.” Her voice was surprisingly deep, with a curious accent Miranda didn’t recognize, faintly Gaelic, with a trace of French slur. The woman shrugged, the gesture carelessly eloquent. “Glamor is a skill I’ve had need of, on this world of mortals.”

Miranda knew she didn’t mean glamor in the sense of modern celebrity, but in the original meaning of the word: a spell to make one thing look like another.

Conal dipped his head in a gesture very close to a bow. “Maeve, this is Miranda Drake, the woman we told you about.”

“Yes, I know.” She shot him a glance laced with some impatience, before turning back to Miranda. “I am Maeve. Some call me the Mother of Fairies.”

And I just acted like a total fool
, Miranda thought, feeling her cheeks heat with scalding shame.
She’ll never help us now
. “It’s . . . ah . . . good to meet you.”

“Ah, child, play no such games with me.” Maeve’s surprisingly callused hands fell away from Miranda’s face and gave her shoulder a comforting pat. “Though I suppose it’s no surprise you feel the need. That fool father of yours did his best to break you, didn’t he?”

“And evidently he succeeded,” Miranda muttered, frustrated at her own cluelessness. She promptly cursed herself for revealing weakness to this fairy . . . queen? blacksmith? goddess? She wasn’t just Sidhe; Miranda had met purebloods, and they had not one tenth Maeve’s power.

“No. No, he didn’t break you, my dear.” Inhuman eyes probed hers delicately. “The most he managed was a bend here and there. Apparently he has forgotten that the beat of the hammer in the flame’s heart only strengthens a good blade. As to his other dubious gifts, we’ll attend to them in time.”

Miranda eyed her cautiously. “What gifts?”

“Patience, child.” She’d turned her attention to Justice, who hovered protectively at Miranda’s shoulder. “Now, as to you, my wolf . . .” Maeve’s gaze took on that ferocious intensity again as she stared deeply into his ebony eyes.

Justice shifted under her stare, and muscle rolled in his broad shoulders as if he struggled with some aggressive instinct. Being the habitual protector he was, he was probably acutely aware that this lethal being stood a foot and a half shorter than he did. She was also female and at least old enough to be his mother. Most likely she was a great deal older than that. All of which added up to someone he could not take a swing at, though from the look on his face, he didn’t care for her aggressive gaze.

Miranda suddenly remembered Daliya’s prophecy:
She waits in her forge for the hero wolf to come for Merlin’s Blade. Then will the Hunter Prince be free—then will he rule in bloody vengeance or bend his knee to his spirit’s feral king
.

But what the fuck did all that
mean
?

“Ahhh,” Maeve breathed. “You’re no weak one, are you? But how will it end? That depends on just how strong you really are.” She turned away. “Come to my forge at midnight on the morrow,” she added to Miranda, as Conal fell in behind her, like a courtier attending a queen. “The moon will be high and full then. A good time for such doings.”

“But I have no idea where your forge is,” Miranda protested.

“I just told you, child.” With a wave of a ringed hand, the Sidhe goddess crouched beside the woman’s mangled corpse. “And now, you poor child, let’s see what you have to say.” With that, she touched a blunt finger to the pool of cold blood.

Maeve’s eyes drifted closed, as she swayed over the corpse. “She was Vela Greer, a waitress at Mr. Pizza there round the corner.”

Miranda straightened and shot a look at Justice. Maeve spoke with a voice that was suddenly completely different from the low Celtic music of a moment earlier. Her voice was higher now, her accent a slow Southern drawl. A chill skated down Miranda’s spine at the uncomfortable conviction she was hearing the voice of a dead woman.

“She’d just finished her shift and wanted to get home to her babies,” Maeve continued. “Mama was watchin’ them, and she didn’t like to impose too long.” Her lip curled, and her voice took on a deadly hiss. “That’s when Warlock’s Beast came outta the dark like somethin’ out of a horror movie. Vela’s last thought was of her two babies, Carlos and Nala. Only three and four, brown-eyed darlin’s. Vela’ll never see them grow up, and they won’t have a mama anymore. ’Cause of that
bastard
.”

The Sidhe stood, all but leaping to her feet as she broke the magical connection she’d formed with the blood. She turned away, blinking tears from her iridescent eyes.

The goddess cries
, Miranda thought, discovering some comfort in the idea.
You’re more human than I’d thought.

Conal frowned. “What will become of her children?”

Maeve shrugged and turned to pace a circle around the splattered puddle of drying blood, head down, concentrating on whatever message she drew from it. Her voice was back to normal now. “Their fathers have moved on to other women. And in any case, neither of them is suitable for the task. It will have to be Vela’s mother, Charlene.” Her eyes slid out of focus for a moment. “She worries why her daughter is late, when she’d have normally been home an hour past.” Maeve shook herself and looked up at Conal. “Providing for the girls will be no easy task. Charlene will have to work, of course; children need food and clothing, and what government aid she’ll receive wouldn’t keep a cat in cat food.”

“She’ll have whatever they need.” Conal stared down at the body, his strong jaw taking on a determined jut. “She’s about to discover a wealthy relative has named her in a generous will.”

Maeve arched one green eyebrow. Miranda was starting to wonder if the color was natural after all. “How fortunate for her.”

“If you want to call it that.” His fists opened and closed in an unconscious gesture that shouted of rage. “Vela Greer shouldn’t have ended her life like this. This was not her war. Her children shouldn’t suffer because she happened to walk by my building when a monster came hunting me and mine.”

“And your security guards?” The question held an elaborately casual note, as if Maeve tested him. “The Beast killed two of them as well, did he not?”

He raked a hand through his dark hair in an unconscious gesture, pulling it free of its neat tail to straggle around his face in disordered curls. “They were both good men. I’m not looking forward to breaking the news to Amilo’s partner and Daren’s wife. Sheila and Daren’s son Gabe is only seven.” Conal sighed. “At least he still has his mother, and the insurance policy I maintain for my people is generous enough to take care of their needs.”

Belle frowned. “But what cover story are you going to use? ‘They were eaten by a dinosaur’ is not the kind of thing you put in a police report.”

“Perhaps a drive-by,” Maeve suggested, the modern jargon sounding odd spoken in that curiously ancient accent. “The police will investigate, of course, but there’ll be nothing to find.” She flicked her fingers. Vela’s body was engulfed in a cloud of swirling green fireflies. When they vanished, the body was whole again, a plump, pretty woman whose expression was oddly serene. She wore jeans and a red knit shirt with the restaurant’s flying pizza logo on one breast. The huge blood splatter that had surrounded her had vanished. Her only apparent injury was a gunshot wound in the temple.

Belle blinked. “That’s impressive. I’ve cleaned up bodies with magic, but conjuring the upper half of someone you’ve never even seen . . .”

“Her blood told me how she should appear.” The Sidhe contemplated her work with a certain grim satisfaction. “And this will haunt her children less than the truth. They will be left with a bitter mystery, but there is no help for that.”

“Warlock has a lot to account for.” Conal glanced at Tristan. “I’ll give you whatever help I can. Somebody needs to stop that bastard before he makes any more orphans.”

* * *

Andrew Vance made
a very good spy. He’d Shifted to human formed and doubled back, wrapped in a shielding field so thick, not even the Sidhe goddess sensed he stood fifteen feet away. He’d even taken the extra precaution of standing behind a Dumpster, since the spell wouldn’t stop the Slut’s lover from seeing him.

This was a very big risk. If the wind shifted and the werewolves scented him, he was a dead man. Given that blazing power signature, the goddess could burn him to a cinder with one flick of her fingers. He wouldn’t have a prayer of defending himself; she was far beyond his power class.

Christ, what an utter goat fuck this little adventure had been. The General had ordered him to kill his whoring daughter and her lover before they could fulfill this prophecy of theirs. Which he’d at first thought so ludicrous, Vance had wondered why Warlock was worried.

Then the goddess arrived, and suddenly the whole thing seemed a lot more believable—and dangerous.

To make matters worse, Vance had failed. Failed despite the spell Warlock had laid on the Slut, designed to make her freeze in terror the moment she heard her father’s voice. That crucial instant should have been all the opening Vance needed to punish her treachery in the most agonizing way possible. Just as she deserved.

He’d so looked forward to her screams as he ate her alive, one bloody bite at a time. Feasting on her meat and magic. He’d even killed the three humans to determine the best technique to use when grabbing a victim.

He’d loved every minute of those kills. The sense of power he’d felt when he’d fallen on that stupid female had been particularly exhilarating.

He couldn’t wait to do the same thing to the Slut.

At first, everything had gone precisely as planned. Miranda had frozen just as Warlock had predicted. But before Vance could finish her, her fucking ex-cop lover had leaped to the bitch’s rescue. You’d think he had a cape and a big red S, the way he’d heroically knocked her out of the way.

So Vance had taken a big, juicy bite of hero instead, enjoying the crunch of bone and the taste of the bastard’s magic.

That should have been that for the cop, but the Slut was a lot more resilient than Vance had expected. Her spell had cut right through his shield, and her spear thrust had damned near killed him. If he hadn’t jerked aside a crucial inch, she’d have driven it right through his heart. Vance would have been dead before his massive corpse hit the ground.