Master of Shadows

by Angela Knight

  Belle had dressed for spell work, in a loose, comfortable white gown that really had no business being as sexy as it was. It draped over the full swell of her breasts in a way that made Tristan’s mouth water. If he concentrated, he could see the shadows of her nipples through the worn lace. It was cool in the lab, and both little peaks stood at proud attention against the fabric.

  Her feet were bare and pink, and the gown’s short sleeves revealed long, elegant arms. It had a simple scoop bodice with pretensions of innocence its cleavage missed by a mile.

  Tristan all but drooled.

  She’d lit candles around the perimeter of the design, slim white tapers that cast dancing yellow light over the otherwise dark room. Incense burned, sending up coils of cool blue smoke smelling of sandalwood and lavender.

  Morgana had told him once that the candles and incense, even the design itself, did not have true magical properties. But the process of entering the Celtic circle, lighting the candles, and smelling the incense acted to focus the mind into a trance state that intensified a witch’s connection to the Mageverse.

  Meanwhile it gave Tristan a hard-on.

  He watched her, breath caught. Belle sat with her skirts in a white cotton pool around her long, slender legs. Her hair shimmered with highlights and mysterious shadows, blond and silver, gold and umber, and shades of sable, curling around her slim shoulders. Her long hands seemed to float over the seared pages of the book, slow as seaweed in an ocean current. Graceful fingers drew patterns in the air, and sparks of magic trailed them, gold shading into white.

  Her eyes looked dark and endless, until sparks of power lit them bright gray-blue, like lightning flashes in the clouds. The candlelight painted soft shadows over her lovely face, tracing her angled cheekbones, full, seductive lips parted in gentle breaths, the straight line of her nose, the round little thrust of her chin.

  If he concentrated, he could hear her heartbeat, tranceslowed to a steady thump. He remembered the taste of her blood, burning magic on his tongue, and it drove his pulse into a leaping bound. His cock lengthened in his jeans, pressing hard against his fly. He thought about tumbling her down in her spell circle, tasting her throat in the candlelight, thrusting deep between her legs as the incense wove blue patterns in the darkness.

  Tristan wanted to take her so badly, his balls ached like a sore tooth.

  “Randi, you’re gonna hurt him!” Hannah licked her lips, her frightened gaze lingering on the distance between her boyfriend’s feet and the pavement. “Please let him go!”

  “Bastard needs to be hurt.” Miranda didn’t look away from Eddie’s darkening face and rolling eyes as she dangled him well off the ground. “He’s a snake, Hannah, and you know it.”

  “No, he’s not really that bad. Randi, please!”

  Miranda ground her teeth, caught between the pleading in the other woman’s eyes and her own outrage. Hannah reminded her far too much of her mother. Joelle had let Warlock and Gerald Drake terrorize her for years. Miranda hadn’t dared attempt escape for fear of what they’d do to her mother.

  But Eddie wasn’t Gerald. And Hannah wasn’t Miranda.

  With a snarl of disgust, Randi tossed the meth addict like a ball of trash. He hit the graveled parking lot in a yelping tumble of elbows and knees.

  Hannah started to run toward him, but Miranda grabbed her arm. “No.” She sent a curl of magic out to catch the human’s thoughts and met the woman’s gaze. “Do you want to leave him, Hannah?” Longing flashed in the woman’s bruised eyes, there and gone so fast Miranda might have thought she imagined it. Luckily she knew better. “You do, don’t you?”

  “Eddie said he’d kill my babies,” Hannah admitted in a voice low with defeat. “I can’t go.”

  Little hostages. The same way Gerald and Warlock had used Miranda’s mother. “He’s not going to do a damned thing to your children, Hannah. I’m not going to let him.” With a flick of her magic, she snapped the chains of fear that Eddie’s fists and feet had forged in his victim’s brain. “You go on home now. You take care of your boys.”

  Hannah wrung her hands. “But what if he . . . ?”

  “He won’t. You let me take care of Eddie.”

  Her hands twisted harder at one another, expressing her anxiety and ambivalence. “You’re not going to kill him, are you?”

  “Do you really care?” The woman opened her mouth, and Miranda sighed. “No. No, I’m not going to kill him.”

  “Hannah!” Eddie yelled, staggering to his feet, his jeans ripped from impact with sharp bits of gravel, his knees bleeding. “Don’t leave me with her! She’s some kind of witch!”

  Miranda flicked a hand and he froze, locked in the grip of her magic. “Go on, Hannah.” She put just enough will behind the command to make the waitress head for her beat-up blue Cutlass Supreme. Another thought struck her, and she called out. “Hannah?”

  The woman froze and looked back at her, eyes wide, face pale.

  “You won’t remember this tomorrow,” Miranda gestured, weaving another quick spell. “All you’ll remember is that Eddie decided to leave, and he’s not coming back.”

  “He’s not coming back.” With a dreamy, relieved sigh, Hannah got into the car and started it. She threw the Cutlass into gear and peeled out of the lot.

  Leaving Miranda with Eddie.

  Feeling her teeth lengthening into fangs, she sauntered toward her captive, menace in every step. A knife materialized in her palm, raining blue sparks. Eddie stared at it, his mouth forming an O of terror. His body twitched as he tried to escape, but her spell held him fast.

  “How does it feel, you bastard?” Miranda whispered the words, soft and acid. “Being helpless. Being at somebody’s mercy. Knowing they could kill you if they want. I could kill you—and I do want.”

  His fear smelled acrid as piss. “What the hell are you?”

  “I’m exactly what you think I am. A witch. And I’m not human.” Miranda grabbed Eddie by his T-shirt collar and jerked him close as she flashed her fangs in his face. “And you don’t want to piss me off by talking about what you saw tonight. Do you?”

  “No! I won’t say nothin’!”

  “And you certainly don’t want to piss me off by bothering Hannah again. She’s under my protection now, and I wouldn’t like it if you came around her or her kids again. You don’t want to do that, do you?”

  “Okay! Okay, I’ll stay away from her. I swear it! Just don’t hurt me!”

  “And you won’t tell anybody about what I can do. Not that anyone would believe you if you did.” Miranda let magic ignite her eyes with an eerie shimmer. “Hell, they’d probably think you’re stoned. But you’re not.” She jerked him closer and pressed the knife against his throat until the sharp steel bit into flesh. A bead of blood welled and ran down his bobbing Adam’s apple. “So you’d better run, Eddie. You’d better run and keep running. Never come back.”

  When she let him go, he did exactly that, stumbling across the parking lot to dive into his Ford pickup. He started it with a roar and sped out, gravel flying from his spinning wheels.

  Miranda watched him go, wondering why she felt so damned ashamed of herself. As if she wasn’t any better than the man she’d just so thoroughly terrorized.

  Maybe she wasn’t.

  Wearily, Miranda’s fingers found the choker around her neck. Magic buzzed around it, generating a shield that should keep her father from sensing what she’d just done.

  If Warlock detected her magic, he’d be on her like a cat on a mouse. She’d pay for protecting Hannah with her own life. Miranda had known that was a risk when she’d crossed the parking lot, but she’d also known she had to take that chance. Doing nothing while another woman suffered would have made her no better than Eddie.

  Now at least Hannah and her kids would sleep safely tonight.

  Even if Miranda didn’t.

  How the hell was Belle supposed to concentrate with Tristan staring at her like a cat at a birdbath?

  H
e was sitting tailor-fashion, wearing jeans in a shade of indigo verging on black. A forest green shirt was tucked into the jeans, cinched by a belt tooled with intricate Celtic patterns, its buckle engraved silver. Soft black boots shod his big feet. His sword lay on the floor before his knees, gleaming unsheathed in case he should need to defend her while she was entranced. He’d bound his blond hair into a long tail, the severe style emphasizing the strong lines of his handsome face. His green eyes glittered in the candlelight.

  And she was supposed to be finding the little witch werewolf, not ogling Tristan. No wonder she’d been working for two hours now with no luck at all. She couldn’t concentrate.

  Forcing her attention away from him, Belle focused her will on the charred fragment of the spell book, trying to use it to locate its creator. Despite its badly burned condition, the magic that clung to it was strong; Miranda had a great deal of power. Belle had known that from their brief encounter last month before Miranda’s frightened mother dragged the girl away.

  As Belle focused her will on the book, she sensed a definite pull.

  That’s it. I’ve got her!

  Miranda crawled into bed and flopped over on her back. She knew she was going to have a hell of a time relaxing after her clash with Eddie.

  A leaden depression lay over her like a fog, clinging and cold, and she didn’t know why. After all, she’d made it possible for Hannah and her children to escape an abusive bastard who regularly beat her and threatened her kids. In the process, Miranda had struck a blow against Warlock and all the others who thought women were weak and inferior. She should feel a sense of satisfaction.

  But she’d also terrorized Eddie Gibson and used her magic to alter both Hannah’s mind and his. It didn’t matter that she’d had good intentions. She’d still misused her power just as her father misused his. Was she any better than Warlock if she used the same methods? Was she just an abuser, striking out against those weaker simply because she could? She . . .

  Magic.

  Miranda froze in terror as the power brushed featherlight against her consciousness, touching her like a questing hand.

  Warlock. Her father had found her!

  Driven by pure panic, Miranda reached into the Mageverse and dragged in every bit of power she could, then blasted it at the source of the magical probe.

  Die, you fucker.

  “Arrgh!” Belle’s blond head snapped back as if someone had punched her in the face. She flew out of the circle, banged into the shelves lining the opposite wall and collapsed in a heap of gold curls and white silk.

  “Belle! Dammit!” Tristan leaped to his feet, charged across the circle, and dropped to one knee beside her. At least she hadn’t been driven halfway through the wall, like the last time a magical search had gone bad. And she was conscious, he saw as she stirred. Relief made his voice sharp. “I told you to keep your fucking shields up!”

  She slitted her blue-gray eyes open like an irritated Siamese cat and straightened her long, deliciously bare legs. “I did. Shielded just before she hit me. You can’t find somebody and maintain a barrier against them at the same time.”

  Relief gusted through him, and he sank back on his heels. “Have you ever tried?”

  “Funny.” The word emerged as a groan that suggested genuine pain.

  “Fix that.”

  Another Siamese glare. “I was going to.” A slender hand touched her temple, and a faint golden glow danced. She sighed in relief.

  “You okay otherwise?” He looked her over critically. “Nothing crispy anywhere?”

  Belle laughed, which encouraged him. “No, nothing crispy. Would have been if I hadn’t shielded in time, though.” She started to sit up. He took her hand and helped, bracing his other palm against her warm, slender back to push her into a sitting position. The fact that she allowed it worried him, as did her weary slump when she was upright.

  He frowned. “So Warlock has the girl?” If Belle had tangled with Warlock again, it was a miracle she hadn’t been killed.

  “No, the blast came from Miranda. Same magical signature as that.” She nodded at the charred remains of the spell book.

  “Then why the hell did she hit you?”

  “God knows. Might have thought I was Warlock. I don’t think she and Daddy get along.”

  “I’d wonder about her taste if they did. Gonna try again?”

  “Oh, yeah. Really, reeeally carefully.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “What are you, my daddy? Yes, I’m sure. Get your brawny self out of my spell circle so I can work.”

  He grinned. “Brawny?”

  “Beefy? Muscle-bound?”

  “I am not muscle-bound.” Tristan got up and stomped out of the circle, then sat down again to pick up his sword and glower.

  After a moment, Belle growled, “Quit giving me that look.”

  “Your eyes are closed. How can you tell what kind of look I’m giving you?”

  “I can feel it burning the outside of my eyelids. It’s distracting.”

  But not as distracting as you are, Tristan thought, staring at her hungrily.

  Half an hour later, Belle gave up with a disgusted grumble. “That girl’s shielded tighter than a Crusader bride’s chastity belt. She is definitely not taking messages.”

  “Maybe she’s got a Facebook page, like every other kid in America. We could put something on her wall.”

  Her eyes lit up very briefly before she slumped. “No, she’s far too paranoid for that.”

  “I was joking.”

  “Yes, but you know how kids are about Facebook.”

  “But she’s hiding from an eight-foot-tall sociopathic werewolf wizard who can call down lightning bolts.”

  “We’re also talking about Facebook.”

  Tristan contemplated her. “I think I need to feed you. Your blood sugar must be getting low.”

  Belle snorted, rose to her feet, and stretched, reaching her slender arms toward the ceiling and arching her back. “Yes, but I’ll do the cooking. I have no taste for E coli.”

  He eyed the luscious jut of her breasts. “Hey, I can cook.”

  “How do you know? You haven’t eaten anything since before the Norman Conquest.”

  “I’ve never had any complaints.”

  “Given the infants you date, I’m not surprised. You could serve them sawdust and they’d eat it with a smile, dazzled by the swing of your broadsword.”

  “What do you know about the swing of my broadsword?”

  “More than I care to. Women talk.”

  Which shut him up, as he started wondering who’d said what. Tristan followed Belle into the kitchen and took up a position leaning against a counter, making sure to flex his biceps periodically. He’d spotted her eying them a time or two, though she always looked away when she realized he’d caught her at it.

  Belle pulled out a carving knife and went to work. She chopped leeks, carrots, and celery with skill and speed, then put them into a stock pot to sauté. Intriguing smells wafted into the air as she moved around the kitchen, all competent grace and economical movement. Lentils, chicken stock, and tomato paste joined the vegetables as she turned up the heat.

  Then she reached into the refrigerator and emerged with more than a foot of the most phallic piece of meat he’d ever seen. Giving him an evil grin, Belle pulled a huge carving knife out of a wooden block bristling with blades, and brought it down on the kielbasa with a thunk.

  “Ahh!” Instinct took over. He cupped himself protectively.

  She hooted in triumph at his reaction and went on chopping up the sausage with gleeful savagery.

  “You’re deadly with that thing,” he told her. “I gather you don’t let your infants see you with a knife.”

  The humor fled her face. “No.”

  Touched a sore spot there. Tristan winced as she grimly dumped the sausage into the soup. Hoping to change the subject, he asked her how her meeting with Justice went.

  She described t
he whole depressing incident as the soup finished cooking. “So those damned Chosen bitches have everyone convinced we killed Miranda’s parents, burned their house down, and abducted her for some nefarious purpose.”

  Belle handed him a glass of that wonderful blood, and he followed her to the table. “Joy.” He paused to sip, letting the taste of her roll over his tongue. His cock promptly sat up and took notice. He reminded it of the fate of that poor kielbasa.

  It didn’t seem intimidated.

  SIX

  “Who do you think killed the mother?” Tristan asked.

  Belle paused to sample her soup and take a bite of a crusty French loaf. “My money’s on the stepfather, that Gerald Drake character. Joelle certainly seemed afraid of him.” So much so she’d turned into a werewolf in the middle of Joan Devon’s tea party and threatened to attack Belle and Tristan if they tried to help Miranda leave.

  “Wonder what happened to him.”

  “He’s probably dead and magically disposed of. If he killed the mother, could be Miranda killed him.”

  “Then she burned the house down and took off?” He took another slow sip, trying to make the glass last.

  Belle shrugged. “All the magic I detected on the scene had the same signature as the spell book.” She poured herself a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon that was almost the same shade of red as her blood.

  An unpleasant possibility occurred to Tristan. “Could Miranda have killed her mother, too?”

  Belle slowly buttered a piece of bread while she thought about it. “I doubt it. She seemed to really care about Joelle. Otherwise she’d have accepted our offer to shield her from Warlock.” Unfortunately, Joelle had been vehemently against the idea, predicting that Gerald would beat her, Joelle, if Miranda left. The girl had given in.

  Pointlessly, as it turned out. Joelle had ended up dead anyway.