Master of Shadows (15 page)

A smile teased up the corner of his tempting mouth. “Can’t have that, can we?” She took his offered arm and they started toward the Great Hall.

 

A few feet
behind them, Arthur, Guinevere, and Morgana strolled along together. He was still brooding about the girl they’d just committed to the light when Morgana said, “Look at those two. ‘Just sex’ my pert little ass.”

“Who?” Arthur asked. The two witches always seemed to pick up on whatever was going on with his men long before he did.

“Tristan and Belle,” Gwen replied, nodding toward the couple walking along arm in arm, blond heads together. “She said they’re ‘just’ having sex. Does that look like ‘just sex’ to you?”

Now that they’d brought it to his attention, he could see the tenderness in Tristan’s hold on Belle’s hand and the flirtatious way she looked up at him with a sassy little tilt to her head.

“Oh, shit,” Arthur growled. “She’s going to chew him up and spit him out.”

“Who, Tristan?” Gwen stared at him. “I don’t think so.”

“It’s more likely that ice-cold fucker will stomp her heart into pāté the way he does every other female he beds,” Morgana growled.

“Oh, come on,” Arthur protested. “This is Belle Coeur. Do you have any idea of how many male hearts she’s ground into meatloaf?”

“That’s different,” Gwen said. “Those are the recruits. They’re supposed to fall a little in love with her. She never lets it get too serious.”

“Exactly. Tristan’s too vulnerable for that shit.”

“Tristan? Vulnerable?” Morgana hooted. “He’s got his heart locked behind six feet of glacial ice. She’ll never touch him. Meanwhile, she’ll fall for him and he’ll chew right through her. It’ll be the
Titanic
all over again.”

“Morgana, you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. That wife of his left a hole in Tristan’s soul that’s never healed. If Belle’s not careful, she’ll crack him wide.” Arthur glowered, staring as his friend’s back. “And I don’t want to have to put my best knight back together with spit and Super Glue.”

“Yes, well, I think it’s more likely that Belle will be the one hurt,” Morgana said grimly. “And I’m not going to just stand back and watch.”

Arthur was too busy making his own plans to be suitably alarmed at her tone.

 

Cherise’s memorial feast
was held in Avalon’s Great Keep, a five-story granite castle surrounded by topiary knights and ladies. Inside the hall, banners from ancient battles hung from the vaulted ceiling, their colors as bright as the day they were captured thanks to the spells that preserved them. The stone walls were decorated with thousands of swords, pikes, and maces of all sorts, arranged in intricate geometric patterns that shone with a muted metallic gleam.

In contrast to all that cheerful barbarism, the Majae had decorated the hall with flowers and candles anywhere they found a flat surface to put them on. Several easels held Cherise’s formal portrait, framed in heavy gold and wreathed in white roses. She looked heartbreakingly young, her smile bright with optimism. It made Belle’s chest ache to look at her.

Gone now. Gone like so many others.

A string quartet played in one alcove of the Great Hall, magically amplified to fill the room. That was saying something, considering the sheer size of the space and the murmur of conversation from all the people that filled it.

The Magekind always went all out for memorial feasts.

Tables swathed in linen creaked under the weight of countless steaming dishes on sterling silver serving platters. Artful flower arrangements surrounded candles that cast a mellow glow over the food. The Majae strolled up and down along the tables as they chose whatever delicacies they planned to enjoy. A particularly large group swarmed around the dishes Belle had prepared. Smiling slightly, she wandered closer to the table, the better to enjoy the murmurs of praise and muffled sensual groans.

“Oh, God,” Caroline moaned as she forked up a bite of pheasant and rolled her eyes in mock ecstasy. Her husband, Galahad, watched her indulgently. “I hate you. I really do. Every man in Avalon is in love with you, and you cook like a goddess. It’s not fair. Aren’t you ashamed, you greedy bitch?”

“Ummm.” Belle pretended to consider the question. “Nope. Nope, really not ashamed at all.” Then she smiled. “But it’s sweet of you to suggest I might be.”

“Excuse me,” Caroline sighed, “I need to be alone with my pheasant.” She wandered off, carrying her loaded plate across the shining checkerboard marble floor.

“I think I’m jealous.” Galahad grinned at Belle. “I’d better go make sure she doesn’t eat herself into a coma.”

Though the group around the food tables was mostly female, the bar served both sexes. Satisfied at the reception her dishes had received, Belle headed in that direction, hoping to find Tristan and escape back home. She was in the mood for a bubble bath in her huge sunken tub.

With company.

“Belle?” Arthur spoke from her shoulder.

She turned around, but her smile faded as she noted the line bisecting the royal brow and the muscle flexing in his jaw.
Oh, God, what did I do to piss him off?
Aloud, she managed a more politic “Yes, my liege?”

“I would like you to take a little more care with my knight,” he said in that low, careful tone that told her he was both furious and worried. Like everyone else that spent any time at all in Arthur’s immediate presence, Belle had learned to read the finely calibrated signs of his temper.

“Your knight?” She stared at him warily. “You mean Tristan?”

“Yes, Tristan.” There was an edge to the words now. “I know it will come as a surprise to you, but he is more vulnerable than he seems. Isolde’s betrayal wounded him deeply.”

“That was fifteen hundred years ago.” Her temper started to get the better of her. Arthur might be the Liege of the Magi, but that didn’t give him a right to butt into her love life. “Tristan doesn’t know you’re talking to me about this, does he?”

“No, and I would take it as a great favor if you did not tell him.”

Oh, boy. When Arthur got all formal and precise like that, he was dead serious. You didn’t fuck with him in such a mood. You could find yourself missing favored body parts. Figuratively, if not literally.

“And with some wounds, it doesn’t matter how long ago they were inflicted,” Arthur continued. “Ask any amputee.”

Okaaaaay.
“So what, exactly, do you want me to do? Or not do?”

“Don’t make him fall in love with you.”

Belle opened her mouth, and he cut her off with an impatient gesture. “You know very well what I’m talking about. You make all of them fall in love with you—every one of your boys.”

“They’re
boys
. He’s
Tristan
.”

“Exactly,” Arthur snapped. “He’s also my good right arm, as well as my dearest friend. Do not play your usual games with him, Belle Coeur. I won’t appreciate it.”

He turned and stalked off, his cape flaring wide at his heels.

“Well,
merde
,” Belle said.

The slug of
Irish whiskey burned all the way down Tristan’s throat. He sighed in pleasure.
Man cannot live on blood alone
.
That’s why God made booze.

“Why, hello there, Tristan.”

Tristan turned at the seductive purr, brows lifting as he took in its source.

Sabryn Sans Merci wore a black velvet gown that seemed to have been shrink-wrapped over generous curves. Some skillful spell lifted her truly outstanding breasts and pressed them together like two scoops of vanilla ice cream in a very decadent sundae. The soft red shimmer of her hair was piled high on her head, a few curls cascading artfully down around her long neck. It was an arrangement designed to drive any vampire into a frenzy of lust.

Her eyes glittered, catlike and dark green above full lips slicked with something bronze and shimmering. She was flamboyantly beautiful, every line of her face in perfect relation to every other, as though God had mathematically plotted her features. Like Belle, she was a High Court seducer. Unlike Belle, she had a tendency to leave wreckage in her wake.

She spoke in a throaty cat’s purr. “Morgana tells me you’re looking for a partner.”

“Morgana tells you wrong.” Tristan turned his back, having neither time nor patience for whatever game Sabryn was playing. He took another sip of his whiskey and started off through the crowd to look for Belle. Sabryn’s high heels clicked after him, determination in every tap.

Two months ago, he’d have happily flirted with Sabryn in hopes of getting her into bed. She was reputed to be very good there, with an intriguing edge of kink. Belle, for all her impressive erotic skills, had no apparent interest in kink whatsoever.

Tristan was a bit surprised to find himself not in the least intrigued by Sabryn’s wicked green eyes and whatever outré thought processes went on behind them. If he’d really wanted kink, it would have been more fun to coax Belle into joining him.

“Would you stop and talk to me?” Sabryn demanded, catching up at last to grab his arm and glower into his eyes. “What sort of game are you playing?”

“Do you find it so difficult to believe I’m not interested?” Tristan said lightly. “Better check your ego, darling. It’s getting unwieldy.”

“Are you trying to snow Belle into believing you’re faithful? She’s much brighter than that.”

“I have no interest in snowing Belle into believing anything.” Tristan eyed the witch like the dangerous beast she was. “What are you up to, Sabryn? When I told you I needed a partner six weeks ago, you wouldn’t give me the time of day.”

“I like Belle.” Sabryn frowned at him, a militant light in her eyes. “She doesn’t deserve to get hurt.”

“I like Belle, too. Why the hell do you think I’m going to hurt her? Besides, isn’t that a little hypocritical coming from you?”

“I think you’re going to hurt her because I’ve got eyes.” She shifted close, almost within kissing distance, though from the glint in her gaze and the flash of her teeth, kissing was not what was on her mind. “And I’ve seen what you’ve done to other friends of mine. I don’t like it. Neither does Morgana.”

Ahhh. He’d wondered who’d put her up to this. Figured it would be the Ice Bitch.

Sabryn took a deep breath, and he watched raw seduction slip over her beautiful face like a mask. “You and I can have a very good time together, Tristan. And neither of us will get hurt, because neither of us has a heart to break. Think about it.”

She turned with a roll of that remarkable ass and walked away. Tristan frowned, watching her stroll off. Was she right? Was Belle in danger of falling for him?

And why did the thought warm him?

Couldn’t be. He was a cold-blooded bastard—not only a killer, but sarcastic, nasty and just plain rude. Why the hell would Belle Coeur, who was none of those things, fall in love with him?

The most you could say for him was that he did Arthur Pendragon’s dirty work so Arthur didn’t have to. And Arthur, for some unknown reason, seemed to view him as a friend.

It was far more likely Tristan would fall for Belle. And that would just be embarrassing.

Maybe he should take Sabryn up on her offer. She’d make a fantastic Maja partner. She had power to burn, she feared absolutely nothing, and as she’d said, she had no heart to break. Which meant she lacked that delicious warmth that so attracted him to Belle.

Everyone would be safe. Including him.

Belle strolled along
the long stone balcony that ran around the Great Hall. Golden light, low and soft enough for vampire night vision, flooded down from ironwork lamps festooned with fanciful metal shapes. Hooking an arm around one cool post, she leaned against the low stone wall, stared out over the garden, and brooded.

Topiary knights jousted from leafy horseback or flirted with elegant green ladies. White roses and night-blooming jasmine perfumed the air. She could hear the laughter and music floating from the building. Moonlight poured down like bright fairy wine, shimmering over every leaf, petal, and branch.

It was all so romantic she could just spit.

God knew where Tristan was. She should go look for him, dance a little, improve her acid mood. Instead Belle kept thinking about Arthur and his threats.

But really, what the fuck was he going to do? Fire her? That ship had sailed when Belle drank from Merlin’s Grail. Being Magekind wasn’t a job you could be fired from.

True, Arthur was perfectly capable of maintaining discipline by kicking knightly ass—he’d done it more than once. But she was a lady, and he would never touch a lady. He might make her feel like an utter flaming bitch, but he wouldn’t touch her.

Actually, Belle might prefer getting her butt kicked to suffering the royal temper. Not that she’d ever personally endured an Arthurian tongue-lashing, but she’d heard Morgana’s accounts. Admittedly, every one of those dressings-down had been richly deserved. Morgana could be high-handed, duplicitous, and ruthless in the pursuit of whatever she considered just goals.