Master of Shadows (8 page)

He really was perfect.

“I had originally intended to recruit you and your men as my new Bastards, since the last team was killed by my enemies. But it occurred to me that you’d fail just as they did, especially going up against the Knights of the Round Table. I needed a new plan.” He gestured at the spell circle around them. “And this is it. Werewolf magic, combined with the elemental’s sorcery to create a new kind of warrior.”

“Knights of the . . . ?” Dice peered at him, bleary with pain and the bite’s magic. “What the flying fuck are you talking about?”

“Patience, my son. Soon the pain will be gone, and you will see what a gift I’m about to give you.”

“I ain’t your son.” Anger gave his voice strength. “What ‘gift’?”

“Power.” Warlock threw his clawed hands wide, sending magic dancing in the air around him. “More power than you can imagine. Enough to kill my enemies and help me fulfill my destiny.”

Dice curled his lip in a sneer, though he looked a little white around the eyes. “I ain’t gonna help you do shit.”

There was admirable defiance, and then there was insubordination. “Now, that was not an acceptable remark.” Warlock flicked his claws, and Dice screamed as pain ripped him like buzz saw teeth.

The wizard jerked the pain higher with another claw flick, then higher still. Finally Dice’s will bent to his. It took a gratifyingly long time.

“Sorry!” the biker wheezed at last. “’M sorry.”

Warlock smiled. “That’s better. Mind your tongue and show proper obedience, and we’ll get along fine.”

Then he got to work.

When Tristan strode
out of the High Council building, he spotted Belle heading home, her shoulders rounded and her steps weary. Something about her pose sent a painful little twinge through his chest.

She was worrying about Davon, and he couldn’t blame her. The young doctor was obviously on the edge of doing something stupid.

Tristan set off after her. He knew he should go home, but the thought of his empty house held no appeal. Not compared to exchanging quips with his partner, who was damned good at it. He lengthened his stride until they were walking side by side.

“There’s going to be trouble with the Direkind.” Belle frowned at the toes of her boots without looking up at him.

“Well, Davon did kill that kid,” Tristan said, purely to get a rise out of her. He hated to see her looking so defeated.

He was rewarded with an angry flash of her blue-gray eyes. “He thought he was doing his duty. Anyway, they already got their pound of flesh. Cherise is dead.”

“But they’re going to want Davon.”

“They’re not getting him. If they want justice, they need to execute Warlock. There’s the bastard who deserves to die.”

“If we could prove he exists.”

Belle tilted her head back and studied the stars. “The key is that werewolf girl, Warlock’s daughter, Miranda. If we could get her in front of that council of theirs, have her do some magic and testify to her father’s existence, they’d be more likely to listen.”

Tristan’s eyes narrowed as he considered the suggestion. “That might work—if we could find her. Finding her is the problem.”

Belle sighed. “And right now, we’ve got more than enough problems to go around.”

Belle’s house was
two charming stories of gray stone and arched stained-glass windows. Stone was a popular building material in the Mageverse, since it held up to the centuries better than anything else. The stained glass protected any vampire guests against the sun, and was damned pretty to boot.

A blooming riot of flowers surrounded the cottage: red roses climbing trellises, pink and white azalea bushes, pansies in multihued beds, cherry trees and magnolias. Their scents filled the air, so rich to Tristan’s vampire senses he could almost taste them on his tongue.

He followed her through the arched wooden door and through the foyer beyond, boots clicking on the red-ceramic tiled floor. As they stepped into the kitchen, his gaze lingered on Belle’s delicate back and the sweet curve of her ass. Suddenly he was intensely aware of her, the grace of her walk, the rich female scent of her hair wafting in her wake.

“Want a drink?” She strode to the fridge, a top-of-the-line stainless-steel appliance which stood among the black granite countertops. Belle was serious about her cooking. “Because I’ve got to tell you, I need one after today.”

“Sure. Got any ideas how we can find Miranda?”

She was silent a moment as she got a beer out of the refrigerator, then pulled a second bottle from a cabinet. As she poured a stream of deep red liquid into a crystal goblet, magic sparkled and glowed around the stream. The complex spell preserved the blood and kept it from clotting.

Majae needed to donate blood as desperately as Magi needed to drink it. There could be unpleasant health effects for both otherwise. Vampires would starve without the magic in a witch’s blood, while Majae could suffer strokes from a failure to donate regularly. Most single witches like Belle bottled their blood and handed it out to whoever needed it.

“Here you go. Enjoy.” She passed him the glass, corked the bottle, and put it away again.

“Thank you. It’s been a little too long.” He sipped, forcing himself to go slowly. The taste of her hit his tongue in a fizzing explosion of magical heat. Her eyes met his, and hunger rolled through his body like a lightning strike.

Belle caught her breath. Hastily turning her back, she headed into the den beyond. He had the distinct feeling she was running from him.

So, being a predator, he chased her in a slow, deliberate stalk, the glass of her blood cradled in his fingers.

 

Warlock paced around
the circle, dressed for war in gleaming enchanted armor, the great double-headed magical axe he called Kingslayer in one big hand.

He could feel the Curse building in the bikers’ bodies, its magic blazing from cell to cell, preparing for their transformation. He could see it swirling, cold and blue, as they shook and groaned in its searing teeth, filling the air with the smell of pain, sweat and ozone.

He’d been working on the spell for the past week. First there’d been the potion he’d brewed and drunk two days ago, a gut-burning concoction that had left him writhing in pain all yesterday.

But even as it had tortured him, the potion had altered both his saliva and the magic of Merlin’s Curse.

Normally, anyone he bit would become a Direwolf, both immune to magic and unable to cast spells. And useless for his purposes.

The potion he’d brewed with Zephyr’s stolen abilities was strong enough to change that, if only for a few precious hours. He’d never have been able to restructure Merlin’s magic without the elemental’s vast power and even greater knowledge.

Now he needed to work the second half of the spell, the really delicate part. One mistake would blow Warlock, the bikers, and half the Appalachian mountain range straight to hell.

He began to chant, his voice weaving a new spell as Merlin’s Curse built in the bikers, altering their brains, their bodies, their very DNA.

The men’s moans and whimpers became screams as the power built faster and faster until their bodies began to glow.

Warlock barely heard their cries, his total attention on his chant. Each word built a lattice of power around Dice that would guide the energies of the bikers’ change.

As always when involved in a Great Work, the werewolf’s mind fell into a crystalline clarity where nothing existed except his purpose. There was no room for fear, anticipation, or even the driving whip of ambition that flogged him the rest of the time. There was only the magic.

One by one, the bikers’ bodies vanished in the blinding glow of the spell.

Dice, who’d been utterly silent, began to scream. His voice cut off abruptly as his own transformation raced up his body, the glow sweeping from his feet toward his head in the space of a heartbeat.

Recognizing his moment, Warlock roared the last words of the chant, seizing the magic from the transforming bikers to send it spinning up the conduits of the spell lattice.

Right into Dice.

The human’s glow became a blazing conflagration, so bright Warlock could see nothing but white.

At last the wizard fell silent, his throat aching savagely from the chant, a migraine pounding between his ears from the raw effort of casting the spell. Exhaustion weighed his body as the light vanished, leaving the cavern in darkness.

Utterly drained, Warlock dropped to his knees. The thud of his big body hitting the stone sounded loud in the sudden stillness. It would be hours before he’d be able to work magic again.

He blinked until his stunned eyes began to recover. Dark though the cavern was, his acute night vision picked out the outline of something massive that had appeared in the center of the cavern.

The huge, hunched thing that had once been Wayne “Dice” Warner lay limp in the center of the spell circle.

The other bikers were gone.

 

It wasn’t the
first time Belle had served her blood to a vampire guest. She’d done it at the party that very evening. But she’d never felt so intensely aware of the sensual intimacy of the act.

Maybe it was the way Tristan looked at her as he drank, as if he wished he were taking it from her throat as they lay naked in each other’s arms.

Well, he was a guy, after all. Tristan might be an immortal Knight of the Round Table, but he was still most definitely male.

She sank down on the sectional couch and sipped her beer. She could have used something with a little more kick, but getting buzzed with Tristan giving her that erotic stare struck her as a very bad idea.

As he proved when he sat down next to her on the sectional. She thought about pointing out just how many other seats were available on the two L-shaped couches, but decided not to bother. He wouldn’t move—and she really didn’t want him to.

“So, Miranda.” Tristan took another slow, sensual sip, closing his eyes as if savoring the taste. The faint smile on his face sent another little erotic buzz zapping through her body. “How are we going to find her? Justice said she’d disappeared.”

Belle frowned, distracted from the heat swirling around them. “Do you think Warlock got her?”

He shrugged in a lift of those deliciously broad shoulders. “It’s possible. Justice said her parents were murdered and her house burned. Could be Warlock’s work. But then again, she could have gotten away and gone into hiding. We need to talk to Justice and see what we can find out.”

“Tomorrow night,” Belle said. “It’s getting a little late. The sun’s almost up.” Tristan would enter the Daysleep as it rose, whether he liked it or not.

“Yeah.” He took another slow sip as if he had all the time in the world.

“Shouldn’t you be heading home?”

“Trying to get rid of me?”

“Considering you’ll be passing out in about twenty minutes, you need to find your own bed.”

“Guess I do.” Deliberately, he drained the glass of its last drop and rose.

Relieved, Belle escorted him to the door. “I’ll talk to Justice in the afternoon, see what I can find out about Miranda. Maybe I’ll be able to cast a tracking spell.”

Tristan met her gaze, his own suddenly all business. “Don’t go after her until I can join you. You don’t want to run into Warlock by yourself.”

“Not really, no.” When he just stared at her, she sighed. “I’ll wait for you, Tristan.”

“See that you do.” With that, he strode off into the predawn gleam.

 

Tristan’s house was
a sprawling one-story building in the Arts and Crafts style, all beige stone and dark wood. Square wooden columns with stone bases supported the roof of a wide porch that wrapped around the front of the house.

The decor was just as aggressively masculine. The furniture was downright massive, tending toward big leather and wood pieces set off by wrought iron light fixtures and dark hardwood floors. Gwen had designed the house for him back in the nineteenth century after she’d convinced him that his Tudor-era monstrosity was on the verge of falling down around his ears.