Master of Shadows (7 page)

But the Round Table dominated the room. The surface of the gleaming slab of oak was carved with images of Arthur and his original knights gathered around Merlin, the boy sorcerer, and his beautiful mate, Nimue. Twenty-four seats surrounded the table, enough for the twelve knights and their chosen ladies.

Davon sat slumped in one of the massive oak chairs, looking like the survivor of a plane crash. Stunned, disoriented, utterly overwhelmed.

Belle felt little better as she sat beside Tristan, who occupied the chair that bore his name.

Arthur paced around the room like a lion in a cage. For all his heroic reputation, he was not a big man, though his body was brawny and capable. He wore his dark hair curling around his shoulders, and a neat beard framed his angry mouth. His black eyes snapped as he glowered at Davon. “You say
I
sent you to kill that boy?”

“Yes, sir.” The doctor spoke in a monotone. It was painfully obvious he didn’t care if Arthur killed him on the spot in a fit of royal rage. Maybe Davon even hoped he would. “You told us Jimmy Sheridan had murdered a four-year-old girl and that the werewolves knew as much but weren’t doing anything about it. So we had to stop the kid from killing again.”

“It wasn’t me
.
”
Arthur’s hand flexed on Excalibur’s hilt. He wore the magical blade hanging from a scabbard belted around his narrow blue-jeaned hips. Its jeweled magnificence clashed with the blue T-shirt that stretched across his powerful chest, emblazoned with a Superman logo.

Arthur was an unrepentant geek.

“I know that—now,” Davon said, not looking up from the hands he’d knotted together between his knees. “But it seemed so real to us then. Cherise believed it, too.”

“But it makes no sense!” Arthur snapped. “None of it. I wouldn’t have gotten involved in a criminal matter, particularly not one that was werewolf business.”

“Cherise and Davon didn’t know that,” Tristan pointed out quietly. “They had no idea how the Round Table works, and they certainly didn’t know you.”

“Which was no doubt why Warlock chose them,” Guinevere said as she sat next to her husband’s seat at the table, as blond and delicate as he was dark and burly. Her level gaze was cool with intelligence. She’d always been the balance for Arthur’s fiery temper.

“We were the perfect patsies,” Davon said bitterly. “And now an innocent boy is dead, Cherise is dead, and I’m a murderer.”

“Davon . . .” Belle began, her heart breaking for him.

Before she could say anything else, a young woman walked into the council room, a cat riding her shoulders. She was delicately pretty in a short blue-jean skirt and a pink tank top, her dark hair tumbling in thick curls around her shoulders.

The cat balanced on her shoulder was a gleaming blue-black, with silver striping his forelegs and haunches. His eyes burned an intense blue. “Is this the one?” His voice was deep, resonant, startling coming from such a small body.

Davon looked up, surprised, as the cat leaped down from the woman’s shoulder to land lightly in his lap. Rearing, the little beast planted his forepaws in the center of Davon’s chest.

Blue eyes met brown in a fierce stare. “Do you want us to discover proof of what was done to you?”

Davon blinked at him in astonishment. “You’re not a cat.”

“Well, not
just
a cat,” Smoke said, in a massive understatement.

The doctor sighed, tired defeat in his voice. “Whatever you can do would be appreciated. Knowing I killed that boy . . .”

Smoke pressed a delicate forepaw against Davon’s cheek to draw his defeated gaze. “I believe we can help you. I know Warlock better than anyone. If he used magic on you, I should be able to detect it.” He’d been held a psychic prisoner in Warlock’s mind for more than a week.

Davon stared back at him, a flicker of hope ghosting through his eyes. “Do it. Please.”

The cat extended his neck until he was nose to nose with the vampire. His eyes blazed a bright, shimmering blue.

The girl who’d come in with him stepped up behind the doctor and put her hands on his temples.

As Eva Roman touched Davon, a pair of ghostly antlers spread to either side of her head—the outward manifestation of her union with the soul of an elemental named Zephyr. A creature of pure magic, he’d inhabited the body of a white stag until Warlock had murdered him and drained his magic. The elemental’s ghost had sought out Eva as the vehicle of his revenge, giving her his knowledge of magic in exchange for her help.

Magic flared in the room as the two went to work. Belle felt it rush over her skin like the brush of electric feathers, tingling and delicate. Her gaze met Tristan’s, and she was suddenly, intensely aware of him, of his powerful body and sensual power. Sometimes the nimbus of somebody else’s magic hit Belle like that, bringing her to an intense erotic awareness. Her nipples tingled, drew into hard points.

Tristan smiled slowly, as if he sensed her arousal, and she thought she glimpsed a flash of fang.

Belle swallowed hard, realizing he was as turned on as she was.

This is a very bad idea
. The voice of rationality spoke from the back of Belle’s mind. You didn’t get involved with your partner. Too many things could go wrong, as Davon had just discovered.

True, it was rare to lose a partner to death, but the Magekind were just as vulnerable to stupid anger and pointless jealousy as mortals were.

And yet, Tristan’s green eyes stared into hers with hypnotic sensuality. Belle forced herself to look away.
I don’t even like him half the time
.

Yes, he was courageous and intelligent, and Merlin knew he was gorgeous, with those broad shoulders and that lean swordsman’s build. But he could also be a raging jackass. Worst of all, half the time he acted as though he considered her the Whore of Avalon.

Belle could forgive anything but that.

The magic died. She looked around just as Smoke hopped out of Davon’s lap and into the chair next to him. Power starburst around him like a mini Fourth of July. When the light faded, a tall, muscular man sprawled where the cat had been. Blue-black hair fell sleek and shining around his shoulders, marked with slashing horizontal silver stripes that echoed the cat’s fur. His ears formed elegant Sidhe points, and his eyes were the same intense blue as they’d been in cat form.

Eva sank down beside the big man, and he reached out, capturing her hand in an absent gesture. Belle watched their fingers curl together and felt her own heart ache. She’d had so many lovers, yet she’d never known that kind of tenderness. She was beginning to believe she never would.

“His mind has definitely been interfered with.” Smoke flicked a lock of hair behind one pointed ear. “The false memories are detailed—a little too detailed, more so than his other memories from the same period. But there’s no doubt he believed those memories. He killed the boy because he thought it was his duty, but it caused him great pain. He suffers now because of it.”

“Can you prove Warlock created the false memories?” Arthur asked.

“Now, that’s a bit tricky,” Smoke admitted. “The wizard did a very good job of covering his tracks. If we could get the Direkind to believe he exists, we could probably convince them that he did this, but the evidence he left in Davon’s mind wouldn’t be enough.”

“They’re going to demand that we hand Davon over,” Tristan said grimly. “They’ll want to try him before their Council of Clans.”

“I’ll have to plead guilty,” Davon said, his voice heavy with defeat. “I murdered that kid, no matter what my reasons were. The werewolves want justice, and I have a responsibility to give it to them.”

“Forget that,” Arthur said roughly. “You did what you thought was your duty. I won’t allow the Direkind to execute you because their lunatic wizard is trying to start a war. You’re as much a victim as Cherise and Jimmy Sheridan.”

“But what if they do declare war?” Davon stared at him, dark eyes tormented. “I don’t want anyone else to die because of me.”

“Look, kid, I’m not giving you up to the Direkind, period. You believed you were following my orders.” Arthur demanded loyalty, but he also gave it right back.

“We need to warn the other young Magekind about this.” Morgana leaned back in her seat, frowning as she tapped a long nail on the table’s gleaming surface. “We don’t want any more of them falling into this trap.”

“I’m not sure we can prevent it.” Smoke steepled his fingers and touched them to his lips. “Warlock’s spells are damned powerful, now that he’s absorbed Zephyr’s abilities.”

“The first thing we need to do is stop sending agents from Avalon.” Arthur’s black eyes narrowed. “He’s not snatching the kids through the city wards, is he?”

“He didn’t get past
my
wards,” Morgana told him flatly. “I would have known.” The city’s most powerful witches had worked for days to cast the magical shield that surrounded Avalon, and Morgana maintained an intense magical awareness of it.

Gwen tapped a pen on the table, frowning thoughtfully. “We need to reinforce the wards anyway, just to be safe.”

Morgana grunted assent. “I’ll summon the others and we’ll start work tomorrow night.” Sunlight interfered with magic, so major sorcery could not be worked during the day.

“In the meantime, we shouldn’t assume the older Magekind will be immune to Warlock’s spells.” Smoke absently traced a glowing pattern in the air like a man doodling on a sheet of paper.

Morgana straightened. “Do you think he’d be able to overwhelm even the most powerful Majae?”

“We have to assume he can,” Belle told her. “Cherise wasn’t a weak witch, and he definitely warped her thinking. She said the Direkind ‘deserved to suffer.’ That’s not the kind of thing she’d think on her own.”

Tristan drew a dagger from his boot and absently tested its edge with his thumb. “He’s probably going to make another attempt to frame us for crimes against the Direkind.”

“That’s going to be a problem, because the Direkind seem to automatically disbelieve anything we say,” Belle added. “And since Merlin created them to destroy us if we ever went rogue . . .”

“. . . We’re fucked,” Tristan finished grimly.

“I sincerely hope not,” Arthur said dryly. “Either way, we’ve got to figure out how to keep any more of our people from falling prey to Warlock.” He toyed absently with Excalibur’s hilt, frowning as he considered the problem. “While still doing our jobs. We can’t protect humanity from behind Avalon’s wards, tempting as it might be to pull our heads in for a while.”

“Double the size of the teams,” Tristan suggested. “Warlock might be able to bespell two people, but four would be harder to handle.”

Morgana nodded. “If nothing else, one of the Maja should be able to gate back and warn us.”

Arthur considered the idea. “That works. It may give us manpower issues and fuck up existing missions, but it can’t be helped. We cannot afford to give that bastard an opening to use any more of our people like this. I’d rather avoid a war with the Direkind.”

“Especially if we’d lose,” Tristan muttered.

Warlock clicked through
the puddle of blood, watching the surviving bikers writhe in pain. He’d relieved the Demon Brotherhood of an impressive collection of weapons—everything from box cutters to an Uzi, stashed everywhere from boot-tops to shoulder holsters. He’d even found a garrote in Dice’s jacket pocket. He’d put the weapons on the bar, then methodically kicked the ass of anyone who seemed to even think about going after the pile.

Between the magical pyrotechnics and all eight fanged and furry feet of Warlock, the bikers had been too damned intimidated and exhausted to try anything. Though Dice had given it serious thought, according to the magical link Warlock had formed with the biker’s mind.

Now that the point had been made, it was time to go. A flick of the wizard’s clawed hands opened a dimensional gate wide enough for the entire crowd. A second gesture swept them all up and blew them through the opening like autumn leaves in a windstorm.

Humming softly, Warlock sauntered after them into the cavern that was his mountain sanctuary.

The network of caves he called home inhabited the heart of one of the Appalachian mountains, deep in western North Carolina. He’d transported his victims into the cavern that served as his workshop.

He’d used his magic to dig niches in the stone walls marching from the cavern floor to its ceiling. They were filled with countless books, the magical tomes he’d both written and collected over fifteen centuries. There were jars, too, filled with the herbs and potions he used in his spells. A long worktable occupied the one wall empty of niches, its wooden surface scarred in places from Warlock’s claws and blades. A few burns and stains showed where potions had spilled or spells had backfired.

The center of the room was dominated by an immense inlaid silver spell circle. He’d chalked the ancient sigils of his latest spell creation around the circle that morning, while he’d done the preliminary work.

Now he immobilized fourteen of the bikers on the floor, arranging them carefully inside the circle like the spokes of a wheel, their heads at its hub, heels just inside the silver ring.

He hung Dice in midair over his companions’ heads, supported by a glowing framework of magic in the exact center of the circle.

“What . . .” The man gasped, blinking down at him, half blind with pain. “What are you doing to us?” Warlock had been forced to get quite firm with him, breaking several ribs and giving him a nasty little concussion. But under the circumstances, he’d have been disappointed if Dice hadn’t fought.

“Solving a problem that has been bothering me for some time.”

“What kind of . . . problem?” Not that Dice cared. Warlock knew he was just trying to distract himself so he wouldn’t give his captor the satisfaction of screaming in agony.