Master of Shadows

by Angela Knight

  Davon’s gut insisted it was the Direkind who should have decided the young werewolf’s fate. Not Arthur. And sure as hell not him.

  The furious slap of high-heeled booted feet rang on the cobblestones behind him. Somebody was going to break her neck if she wasn’t . . .

  “Davon!” The woman’s voice rang out, high and breathless with strain.

  He looked around, frowning. “Cherise?”

  Her lovely eyes were too wide, and her skin was far too pale. He reached out and took her hand as she ran to meet him. Her fingers felt fragile and icy. “Belle just called.” Cherise panted. “She and Tristan are at that kid’s house. They need us.”

  Davon’s eyes widened, and a chill rolled over him. His hands tightened on hers. “Did we make a mistake? Oh, God, did we kill the wrong kid?”

  She pulled free of him to glower. “No, dammit, it was the right kid. I checked with Arthur three times. He confirmed it. In fact, he was starting to get pissed at all my calls.”

  “Better we piss him off than kill an innocent.” Davon frowned. It didn’t speak well of Arthur that he’d gotten angry. “In my business—in medicine—we always doubleand triple-checked that we had the right patient and we gave the right drug. I have no intention of killing anybody by mistake.”

  “We didn’t make a mistake, okay? Now, come on!” Cherise gestured, conjuring a glowing point that grew into a dimensional gate.

  Heart pounding, feeling sick, Davon followed her through the portal. And prayed she was right.

  Belle’s heart sank the moment she saw Davon step into the hallway from Cherise’s dimensional gate. The young doctor’s eyes looked haunted. And she had a horrible feeling she knew who was doing the haunting. “Merlin’s Cup, Davon, what the hell did you do?”

  Davon’s chocolate skin went ashen and bloodless. “Oh, God, we did kill the wrong boy.” Staggering to the stairs, he collapsed on the bottom step and covered his face with his hands.

  “We checked with Arthur three times!” Cherise protested. Angry confusion rang in her voice, tinged with panic. “He confirmed we had the right house and the right kid! James Sheridan was the target.”

  “You saying Arthur told you to kill this kid?” Tristan stared in appalled disbelief. “What the fuck gave you that idea?”

  “Arthur called us to his office,” Davon said, his voice dull. He’d dropped his limp hands between his knees as he slumped on the steps. “He told us what Sheridan had done—how he murdered that child . . .”

  “Wait—what?” Justice interrupted. “What child?”

  Davon looked up at him. “Shaquilla Miller. Arthur said the boy raped and murdered Shaquilla Miller.”

  Justice straightened, glowering at him. “Jimmy had nothing to do with killing Shaquilla Miller.”

  “Who’s Shaquilla Miller?” Belle asked, confused.

  Justice gave her an impatient look. “Don’t you guys get CNN? Shaquilla is a four-year-old girl who was found dead in the woods outside town. Wild animals had gotten to her body. It was a pretty horrific story.”

  “What the hell would that have to do with us?” When everyone looked at him, Tristan glowered. “Yeah, it’s a horrible crime, but we’re not cops. That’s a matter for the mortal police.”

  If anything, Davon looked even sicker. “Arthur said the killer was a werewolf, which was why we had to act.”

  “Which would make it his job.” Tristan jerked a thumb at Justice. “It sure ain’t yours. Dire Wolves handle justice for their own crimes. The Magekind doesn’t get involved at all.”

  “Not unless we’re the victims,” Belle added.

  “Arthur said he’d told the werewolves, but they refused to act.” Cherise looked as sick as Davon now. “You mean Arthur was wrong—that the boy didn’t kill Shaquilla?”

  “I mean whoever gave you the job, it wasn’t Arthur.” A muscle rolled in Tristan’s jaw as he ground his teeth. Belle could hear the grit of molar on molar.

  “Or maybe it was,” Justice murmured.

  Belle shot him an impatient glance. “We don’t send green recruits to kill people, Justice. Give us credit for intelligence if not moral decency. The Round Table handles executions.”

  Justice met Tristan’s gaze, his own narrow and intent. “And if Arthur told you to kill that boy, would you have done it?”

  “Hell no, but he wouldn’t have given the order to begin with. It makes no sense.”

  “Unless he wanted revenge on us.”

  “I told you . . .” Tristan began hotly.

  “But the boy didn’t kill the little girl?” Davon asked. His dark eyes glistened with rising tears. “I murdered an innocent?”

  “You were used, kid,” Tristan said, still glaring at Justice. “A werewolf sorcerer named Warlock wants to start a war between the Magekind and the Direkind. He probably cast some kind of spell to make you believe you were talking to Arthur.”

  “That’s one theory,” Justice drawled. “So you admit you killed James Sheridan?”

  “I wish I could say no, but we—” He broke off and straightened his shoulders as he corrected himself. “No, I did it. I . . . I cut Jimmy’s head off.”

  Tristan stared at him, gaze hard and narrow. “Why did you sneak up on that boy like a coward?”

  Davon sighed. “Because I couldn’t look him in the eye while I did it.”

  “But why?” Belle demanded. “I touched your mind, Davon. I’d have sworn that if Arthur himself ordered you to kill a kid, you’d have said no. No matter what Jimmy was supposed to have done.”

  Bewildered torment filled his glistening eyes. “Because I had to. And . . .” He frowned and added slowly, “I don’t know why.”

  “Arthur gave you an order.” Justice studied him, appraising, his nostrils flared as if he drank in the vampire’s scent. Seeking the stench of a lie. “And you couldn’t refuse Arthur Pendragon.”

  “Because Arthur’s infallible,” Belle suggested, playing a hunch.

  “No, he’s human just like anyone else,” Davon said automatically. “Just because he’s immortal, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t make mistakes.”

  “He could have been mistaken about the boy being a killer,” Belle pressed.

  “Well, yes.”

  Tristan followed her lead. “So why did you have to do it?”

  “I . . .” Davon frowned. “I don’t know. I didn’t want to. It was like a compulsion.”

  “It wasn’t like a compulsion,” Belle corrected him grimly. “It was a compulsion.”

  “No. Arthur was the one who gave the order.” Cherise’s blue eyes went hard, something feral in their depths. Something a little alien. “It wasn’t this Warlock casting some kind of spell on us. It was Arthur. I’ve met Arthur. I’d have known.”

  “Cherise, Warlock is a powerful sorcerer. He could have altered your memories, made you believe anything he—”

  “No,” Cherise snarled, her voice rising in agitation. “It was Arthur! He told me to make sure Davon killed the murdering bastard. He said the Direkind had to pay . . .”

  Involuntarily, Belle glanced at Tristan. He returned the look with a grim head shake and turned to Justice. “Don’t tell me you can’t see what happened to these kids.”

  “It wasn’t Warlock!” Cherise’s voice spiraled.

  Davon stared at her in shock. “Cherise, what the hell is wrong with you? What’s this about the Direkind having to pay? He didn’t say anything like that.”

  “He did, Davon. I know what I know.”

  “She’s under a spell, kid,” Tristan said, a note of gruff kindness in his voice. “You both are. Warlock’s trying to . . .”

  “Where is he?” The door crashed open as the werewolf charged inside, transforming as he moved, his body shooting up and up until he was over seven feet tall. Fur rushed over his twisting arms and legs like a tide, his face lengthening into a wolf muzzle, curving white teeth filling his mouth, ears shifting into triangular points on the top of his skull. “I know the bastard�
�s here!” His voice grew louder until it thundered, deafening in the narrow hallway. “I know that scent—it’s the son of a bitch who murdered my brother!”

  “Shit,” Justice growled. “It’s Steve Sheridan, the kid’s brother.” Light flared with a burst of magic as he transformed.

  More werewolves filled the door behind Sheridan, changing as they followed him inside. Claws clicked on the wooden floor, and voices rose in a rolling rumble of rage.

  “You’re going to die, you fucker!” The Dire Wolf charged Davon, fanged jaws open wide.

  The doctor lifted his chin, as if inviting Sheridan to rip out his throat.

  THREE

  “Belle!” Tristan stepped in front of Davon. Knowing what he wanted, Belle sent a stream of magic whirling toward him, transporting his sword, shield, and armor from the Mageverse. Weaponry glittered into being around his big body as he braced to meet the werewolf.

  But as he raised his blade, Cherise lunged into the werewolf’s path, dressed in nothing more protective than jeans and a T-shirt. “Leave him alone!” A sword materialized in her hand, and she swung it right at Stephen’s lupine head.

  “Cherise!” Belle shouted. “Armor up, dammit!” Too late.

  “Bitch!” Steve ducked her swing, popped up again, and sank his fangs into her arm.

  Blue light exploded around his teeth as they crunched down. Cherise screamed in startled pain, and the werewolf jerked away as if he’d been shocked.

  Tristan hit him hard across the muzzle with the flat of his blade. Steve yelped and ducked backward, helped along by a hard shove from the knight’s shield. “Calm the fuck down! Davon isn’t responsible!”

  Behind him, Cherise collapsed, a hand clamped over her arm as she writhed in agony. “Oh, Chriiiisst!”

  “Get up, Cherise!” Belle yelled, stepping over her to swing her conjured shield into another werewolf’s face. The big creature jumped back, snarling. “Get clear!”

  But the girl only twisted helplessly on the floor, shrieking as if unable to do anything else.

  Davon raced over to scoop his partner into his arms and carry her away from the knot of fighters. He lowered her to the floor at the rear of the hall and knelt beside her to check her pulse and examine the bite, his hands quick and skillful.

  Now in werewolf form, Justice stepped between Belle and Tristan, looking big as a grizzly as he snarled at the crowd. An armed grizzly: he pointed the shotgun at the invaders and racked the weapon with a menacing clatter. “This is a crime scene. Get the hell out.”

  “It’s my house!” A graying werewolf shouldered to the front of the furry mob. “And they killed my boy!”

  “I don’t care if it’s Buckingham Palace,” Justice roared back. “You’re not going to lynch this man without a trial. Not on my watch.”

  As the sheriff distracted the werewolves, Belle opened a magical connection to Tristan’s consciousness. “We need to get out of here before we get overwhelmed.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.” His thoughts held a distinct snarl. “We’ll be lucky if we don’t end up Kibbles ’n Bits.”

  More werewolves were transforming, voices deepening from human yells to rumbling roars.

  Belle whirled and cast a dimensional gate. The magic bloomed from her fingers, swelling into a rippling hole in the air. At the sight of it, the werewolves roared louder.

  “They’re getting away!” someone howled.

  I certainly hope so, Belle thought, and turned to gesture at the doctor and his patient. “Davon, get her through that gate. Now!”

  He swept the blonde into his arms and cleared the distance to the portal in one vampire bound. The superhuman leap jolted her wound, and Cherise screamed in pain as they vanished through the gate.

  Werewolves flooded the hallway, either already transformed or in the process of turning. “Don’t let the bastards escape!”

  Tristan stepped forward. “You’re not killing my people,” he snarled, blade pointed squarely at the muzzle of the nearest werewolf, who towered over him by more than a foot. “Back the hell off, Furboy.”

  Belle grabbed Justice by the arm and tried to shove him toward the gate. “You next!”

  “I’m Wolf sheriff. I stay with my people. Get out of here, witch, and for God’s sake, take Tristan with you before somebody dies.”

  She gritted her teeth in frustration and spun toward Tristan. He was swinging his sword in showy, threatening arcs. It was working. The werewolves hung back, reluctant to charge a Knight of the Round Table.

  “Tristan!” Belle shouted. “Come on!”

  Without taking his eyes off the werewolves, he backed toward her. She caught him by the shoulder and pulled him through the gate. Magic rolled over their skin with a welcome foaming tingle.

  The moment they were clear, she let the portal collapse. It snapped closed on the werewolves’ howls of rage.

  Justice pointed his shotgun at the Sheridan kid, who snarled. Only a head shot would kill a werewolf, but a less mortal blast wouldn’t exactly feel good. “That’s enough. I won’t tell you again. Get the hell out of my crime scene.”

  “That bastard killed my brother.” The kid lifted his lips to reveal an impressive set of teeth. “And you just let him go!”

  Justice bared his own teeth as he stared the kid in the eyes, willing him to look away. “You don’t know that.”

  “I know what I smell—it was him. That fucking vampire cut off Jimmy’s head.”

  “Maybe. Tristan and Belle say there’s something more going on, and I think they could be right. One way or another, I’m going to find out. If the murderer is Magekind, I’ll arrest him and let the Council of Clans decide his guilt. But if somebody else did the killing, they’re not going to use me to frame an innocent man.”

  “It’s Arthur!” a voice shouted from the crowd. “Arthur sent them to kill Jimmy to get revenge for his son.”

  “Maybe, or maybe not. But I will find out. And whoever’s responsible is going to pay.”

  “That,” Tristan said as the gate collapsed, “was a little too fucking close.”

  Belle frowned at the last dying pulse of the inter-dimensional portal. “They weren’t just pissed about Jimmy’s murder. Someone’s been working on those werewolves, to turn them against us. And I’ll bet I know which someone it is.”

  Tristan shook his head. “I don’t get this game Warlock’s playing. He—”

  “Belle!” Davon said. “Look at this!”

  She jerked around at his urgent tone. Given Cherise’s injuries, she’d transported them all directly into Belle’s bedroom. Davon had put his partner down on the canopied bed, where the girl now twisted in helpless pain, clutching her bleeding arm. “Jesus.” The Maja gasped. “It’s burning me alive! It feels like acid . . . Oh, hell.” Belle hurried over to the bed.

  Davon sat by his partner’s side, an expression of deep worry on his handsome face. “This bite—I’ve never seen anything like it. And I was an ER doc for four years.”

  “Let me see.” Belle reached for Cherise, but the girl curled tighter around the injured arm.

  “Let her see it, Cherise,” Davon said, his voice deep, soothing, as he gently took her arm and stretched it out. He had a hell of a bedside manner. It was almost a shame he’d left medicine.

  Then Belle got a good look at the bite, and every other thought vanished from her head. A set of deep punctures marked the woman’s arm in a V, sparks of magic leaping around the ragged holes. “Jesus, Mary, and all the saints,” she breathed. “What the hell is that?” Conjuring a basin of hot water, Belle went to work rinsing the blood away so she could get a better look. Her magical senses told her the bite had penetrated all the way to bone, shattering Cherise’s forearm.

  But what chilled Belle was the blue glowing lines that snaked up the length of the Maja’s arm, following the tracks of her veins, as if carrying some lethal spell throughout her body.

  “It hurts, Belle,” Cherise gritted. “God, it’s all I can d
o not to scream.” Her eyes shone with a feverish glitter, and sweat streamed down her face and matted her blond hair.

  “Call Morgana,” Belle snapped over her shoulder at Tristan. “Have her bring a healer.”

  “She’s going into shock,” Davon murmured, both hands cradling Cherise’s arm to support the broken bone. “Her pulse is thready—and the way that magic is following her veins is scaring the hell out of me. Whatever you’re going to do, do it now.”

  “Please!” Cherise gasped.

  “Calm, child.” Belle closed her eyes, gathered her magic, and sent mystical energy flooding the punctures—only to slam right into a wall of magic so viciously cold, it seared her mind like an arctic blast.

  Whatever this was, it wasn’t just a bite. It was devouring Cherise like magical acid. Belle could feel the Maja’s life force weakening as the spell ate away at bone, muscle, and blood. Gritting her teeth, Belle poured more power into the girl. Cherise cried out in pain.

  But it wasn’t working.

  “I don’t care if you’re hunting the grassy knoll shooter,” Tristan growled over Morgana’s protests. “Get your ass over here.” He shoved the enchanted iPhone in his pocket and turned toward the bed.

  Davon clamped his hands around the girl’s wounded arm, blood running over his dark fingers as magic popped and flickered over the Maja’s skin. Belle sat beside him, her hands tracing magical patterns in the air.

  Tristan stared at them, helplessness grinding at him. Belle sat as if carved from ivory, delicate and rigid, her face bloodless in the blue light leaping around the bite. Her eyes were wide, staring intently downward as her hands moved in the intricate patterns of spell-casting. Cherise was no longer conscious, though he couldn’t tell whether that was the bite or Belle’s doing.

  Davon looked up at him, dark eyes lost and helpless. “It’s killing her, Tristan. Cherise was bitten trying to protect me, and it’s killing her.”

  Tristan offered the only comfort he could. “Morgana and the healer are coming. They’ll save her life if anyone can.”