Master of Shadows

by Angela Knight

  True, there were plenty of other Magi who weren’t blood-addicted she could partner with. But the sad fact was, Bors fought better dog-drunk than most of those puppies did sober as a judge.

  The only man Tristan really trusted to protect Belle was Tristan. If he could be sure she’d go back to seducing Latents, that would be one thing. But he knew Belle, and she wasn’t going to take a safe job with the Magekind at war.

  Assuming you could call being a court seducer particularly safe. After all, she’d be on mortal Earth, among the witch-eating werewolves.

  No, thank you.

  Unfortunately, dumbass that he was, he’d said a bunch of crap he couldn’t take back. Now he was going to have to persuade her to ignore all that and partner with him again.

  Oh, what fun. He’d rather have his fangs pulled with a pair of rusty pliers. Tristan headed into the house and up the stairs, still wrestling with the question of how he was going to talk Belle into taking him back. He was so preoccupied, he was outside his bedroom door before he caught the scent of a woman waiting for him. His heart leaped in anticipation. Belle’s realized she needs me.

  Then he took a second breath and swung the door wide. “Sabryn, what the fuck are you doing?”

  A dozen candles ignited around the bedroom, revealing the witch lounging on a pile of pillows. She wore a wisp of red lace that barely shadowed her nipples and fell open across her thighs, framing the hot copper curls of her sex. She smiled, pure, wanton sex in human form. “I wondered when you’d get home. I was starting to worry we wouldn’t be able to play before sunrise. But you’re just in time.”

  Oh, shit. “Sabryn, go home. I’m tired, and I’m really not in the mood.”

  Her smile turned carnivorous. “Lord Tristan of the Round Table, too tired for sex?”

  “No,” he growled. “I’m too tired for the screaming fit you’re going to throw when I tell you to get the fuck out of my house. I don’t want to become your partner, in bed or out of it.”

  Shock flashed across her lovely face, followed an instant later by hot rage. No hurt at all. Good. “Are you telling me you’re turning me down for that skinny little hag?”

  “Hag? Belle?” Tristan laughed, a great whoop of amusement.

  “You bastard!” She jerked up the nearest object off the bedside table and flung it at his head.

  It happened to be a dagger. Tristan caught it out of the air and sighed. “Give it a rest, Sabryn.”

  “I’ll give you a rest, you arrogant fuck!” She exploded off the bed, a ball of bright gold magic condensing over her palm. She fired it at his head with lethal speed, her face twisted in rage.

  He barely ducked in time. “Now, wait just one damned minute, witch!”

  But Sabryn was already conjuring another fireball.

  Belle climbed the stairs to her bedroom with feet made heavy by grief. Tom’s ghost seemed to float at her shoulder, a laughing young man with dark eyes, cocky and handsome. Her ears rang with his son’s screams. “Daddy, Daddy, don’t die! Please don’t die!”

  Jesu. Her eyes stung, and she swallowed a sob as she pushed the bedroom door open. And stopped dead.

  Tristan sat in the armchair next to the bed, a cut-crystal glass full of something amber in one hand. A bottle of Jack Daniel’s sat beside his booted foot.

  She’d opened her mouth to tell him to get the hell out of her house when the condition of his face registered. A bright crimson burn marked one cheekbone, and his left eye was swollen shut. His right sleeve was wet with blood. “Sorry for dropping in like this,” he said, “but there are some very big holes in my house.”

  “What the hell happened to you?” Forgetting her anger at his invasion, she hurried across the bedroom to catch his chin and angle his head up. A cut marred his lower lip with a drying smear of blood. She conjured a light with an absent gesture. “Let me see that arm.”

  His bloody sleeve vanished at a wave of her fingers, revealing a long slash that cut across his biceps. It was at least five inches long. To her experienced eye, it looked like a sword wound. “Tristan, who attacked you?”

  One corner of his mouth quirked upward. “Sabryn has a very bad temper.”

  Her jaw dropped, and she stared at him in shock. “Sabryn did this?” The idea that a Maja would attack a Magus stunned her silent. Though vampires were far stronger than witches, they couldn’t shield themselves against magical attacks. That was the whole point of having a Maja partner.

  Too, a knight like Tristan would feel it was dishonorable to strike back against a woman. All of which would make it practically impossible for him to defend himself. Her gaze dropped to his bloody arm, and her rage flashed hot. “I’m going to kill that bitch. What happened?”

  “I got home to find Sabryn in my bed,” he said as she laid a palm across the wound and sent a wave of healing magic into it. “I told her rather bluntly that I’m not interested in a partnership. She didn’t take it well.”

  Belle stared down at him, her brows rising. “Why did you change your mind?”

  “After I watched you and Bors take on our large fuzzy friend, I realized I don’t want anyone partnering with you but me.” His green gaze met hers, dark and intense. “Please forgive me, Belle. I was wrong.”

  She cupped his burned cheek and sent another wave of power into his skin. The burn faded, smoothing into healthy flesh. “No, you weren’t wrong, Tristan. I caused a bad flashback, remember? What if I do it again?”

  His smile looked a bit twisted. “So you don’t get on top next time.”

  She sighed. “It’s not that simple, Tris.”

  “Yes, actually it is.” He caught her hand in his. His fingers felt almost feverishly warm, and his gaze seemed to burn with its intensity. “I want you, Belle. We’re probably going to go to war with the Direkind in the next few days. I want to be beside you when that happens.”

  Belle snorted. “You just want to make sure I don’t get myself killed.”

  “That’s not all I want.” He hooked a hand behind her head, pulled her down and took her mouth. The kiss was as fierce as his eyes, a hungry plundering of lips and tongue that let her feel the points of his fangs.

  Her head began to spin, and her knees went weak as he softly licked and bit at her mouth.

  Finally he pulled away to rest his forehead against hers. “Forgive me for being such an ass, Belle. Take me back.”

  She knew she should say no. He’d hurt her, and he’d probably hurt her again. And yet . . .

  Belle remembered Tom’s empty, staring eyes and the heartbreaking sobs of his son. She realized she didn’t want Tristan going into combat without her either. She wanted to be at his side, protecting him.

  And she wanted to make love to him again. Wanted to feel his big body pressing into hers, hot and strong and hard. She breathed her answer against his mouth. “All right. We’ll see how it goes.”

  “Thank you, Belle. You won’t regret it.” He combed his fingers through her hair. “The sun’ll be up in a few minutes. Would you lie with me?” His lip quirked. “Though I wish there was time to do more.”

  Straightening away from him, she turned toward the bed, flipping the covers back. “You’d better get in before you end up falling on your face.”

  Tristan gave her a smile and shrugged out of what was left of his shirt. She watched him strip, shamelessly enjoying the ripple of dense muscle as he moved.

  Her own clothing disappeared with a gesture, and she slid in beside him to seek that perfect spot between his left pectoral and the rise of his shoulder. Her arm curled around his waist as he drew her close. They lay there between the cool sheets, listening to the thump of each other’s heart, enjoying the warmth of each other’s skin. Just before the sun rose, she felt his lips against her hair. “Thank you, Belle.”

  Tristan was still deeply asleep when Belle woke some hours later. No surprise; it was only two in the afternoon.

  Belle sat up and looked down at him. He lay sprawled in bed, as abandoned in s
leep as a small boy. But there was nothing boyish about his big body. He had all the powerful muscle of a man who’d spent decades with a great sword in his hand, his legs long and powerful from years in the saddle and miles of running. He looked like the warrior he was.

  She couldn’t believe Sabryn had thrown a fireball at him. And that wasn’t all, either. She’d be willing to bet money that wound on his arm had come from a sword.

  Belle gritted her teeth and decided she’d drop by Tristan’s place to take a look at the damage. Though if she’d had any sense, Sabryn should have magically cleaned up after herself.

  Then again, Sabryn had never struck Belle as being all that smart.

  And she wasn’t. Belle stalked around Tristan’s bedroom, eying the hole in the outer wall. Sunlight streamed through the opening, more than enough to ensure Tristan couldn’t have slept in his own bed. Though Magi didn’t really turn to ash in the light of the sun as vampire legend said, it could burn them badly.

  The edge of the hole was singed dark, indicating Sabryn had used a pretty powerful fireball. “You were lucky you didn’t burn the house down, you stupid bitch,” Belle growled.

  She pulled her cell phone out of the back pocket of her jeans and flipped it open. “Morgana!”

  “Yes, Belle?” Morgana’s velvety voice sounded bright this morning. She was in a good mood.

  That was going to change by the time Belle got through with her. “Get over here and see what your pet slut did to Tristan’s house.”

  Morgana’s mood did indeed change as they studied the evidence of Sabryn’s magical strikes. But it was the bloody sword they found at the foot of the stairs that really set her off. Picking up the great blade, Morgana examined it with her magical senses. “This is Tristan’s blood.”

  “Looks like she took his own sword to him. And being Tristan, he chose not to fight back.”

  Morgana’s lip curled. “A Knight of the Round Table wouldn’t. Not against a Maja. He’d just duck and take to his heels.”

  “Which probably galled him no end. He wouldn’t like running from anyone.” Belle picked up the remains of a colorful pillow lying on the floor. It was sliced in two and trailing stuffing, as though he’d used it to deflect an attack. The streaks of blood on the batting revealed he hadn’t been entirely successful.

  Morgana conjured a cell phone. “Sabryn,” she snarled, “get over here.”

  “He insulted me.” The witch growled, her arms folded over her generous chest, a glower on her face that made her appear much less pretty than usual. “And he had the gall to laugh at me!”

  “So you tried to kill him?” Belle fought the impulse to slam her fist into the Maja’s face.

  Sabryn tossed her red hair. “If I’d tried to kill him, he would be dead.”

  “You blasted a hole in his bedroom wall, you psychotic cow! What if that blast had hit him instead?”

  She shrugged one shoulder and glanced away. “I would have healed him. And it would have taught him a lesson.”

  “So why don’t I teach you a lesson?” Belle spoke between her teeth. “I demand satisfaction, Sabryn Sans Merci. Choose your seconds.”

  Sabryn’s head snapped back toward her as her jaw dropped. “Are you challenging me to a duel, you lunatic?”

  “Lunatic? I didn’t blast holes in Tristan’s house. Will you give me satisfaction or not?” Duels among the Magekind were exceedingly rare, but they weren’t unheard of.

  “Not!” Morgana snapped, glaring fiercely at Belle. “Do I have to remind you we are on the brink of war?”

  “She needs her ass kicked by someone who can honorably do it.” Belle glared at the younger witch. “She wouldn’t have dared attack Tristan if he could have fought back.”

  “Are you calling me a coward, bitch?”

  Belle displayed her teeth. “And you’re clever, too.”

  “Stop it, Belle.” Magic sparked dangerously in Morgana’s eyes, revealing how close she was to losing her own temper. “As your liege, I forbid you to duel. Sabryn, I will deal with you. Belle, don’t you have armor to reinforce?”

  “Yes, actually.” She gave Sabryn another flash of her teeth. “Tristan’s.”

  Sabryn stepped toward her, magic flaming on her palm.

  “Enough!” Morgana roared. A wave of force rolled out from her palm, seizing Sabryn and flinging her against the wall of Tristan’s living room hard enough to shake the house. That the blast had simultaneously cushioned her back was revealed by the fact that she was still conscious as she hung there, pinned like a butterfly by the older witch’s power.

  “Belle, get out of here,” Morgana snapped, glaring at Sabryn. “You want Tristan that badly, he’s yours. I wish you joy of him. Go.”

  Belle turned and stalked for the door. Just before it closed behind her, she heard Morgana say, “Now, about this habit of yours of attacking other agents . . .”

  Belle’s knees were shaking, and she took a deep breath as she walked home. The sun rose high in a clear blue afternoon sky, and the cobblestone streets were accordingly quiet. Avalon tended to roll up the sidewalks during the day, since many Majae followed the same sleeping schedule as the Magi did.

  She’d challenged Sabryn to a duel over Tristan. Now that she’d left the scene, it was hard to believe she’d done it. But when she’d seen his burns and bruises, not to mention that sword wound, her temper had started smoking. It hadn’t taken much goading from Sabryn to make it explode.

  One thing was for sure, Morgana would never again stick her nose into Belle’s love life. Which made the whole embarrassing incident worth it.

  Now she intended to go home and curl up beside Tristan again. Tonight she’d start work on his armor.

  Well, maybe not first thing.

  When the sun set, Tristan’s consciousness returned in a rush, as it always did. He could feel the delicate weight of Belle’s lush body stretched across his.

  Opening his eyes, he glanced down. She was curled around him like a fox stole, one long leg thrown across his hip, an arm lying over his chest. Her long blond lashes feathered her cheeks; she was still deeply asleep.

  She’d forgiven him. With a sigh of relief, he wrapped his arms around her and relaxed back into a lazy doze.

  Until, that is, Belle stirred and moved against him in a long, feline stretch. He heard her heartbeat pick up as she woke, and he was abruptly aware of the lush female perfume of her scent, tinged with magic and jasmine.

  Just like that, he was as hard as Excalibur. His fangs lengthened, aching in his jaw, and he was abruptly starving for her, for the taste of her sex and the magic in her blood.

  He rolled over with her and covered her mouth with his, moaning in hot need at the way she tasted, at soft breasts and hard nipples, the long, silken heat of her legs sliding apart for him. His cock came to rest against her firm little belly, and he imagined how she’d feel gripping him, tight and slick and ready.

  His tongue slipped into her mouth. She opened for him with a moan, her arms sliding around his neck.

  TWELVE

  Nobody had ever kissed her like Tristan, Belle realized in that heady moment. He drew her close with arms strong and warm, and covered her in a body he’d forged as hard as any weapon. His tongue slipped into her mouth, swirling lazily, brushing over teeth and lips, teasing her into licking him back. She kissed him until the sheer heat of it grew to be too much, and she had to fling her head back and breathe.

  That didn’t discourage him. He only switched his attention to the angle of her jaw, the shell of her ear, the throbbing leap of her pulse. Belle quivered against him, loving every kiss.

  His long swordsman’s fingers discovered her breasts, stroking over them with fingertips rough with calluses that somehow made his touch even more arousing. When he pinched her nipples, she shivered, enjoying the delicate delight. He tugged her, twisted gently, even as he made love to her pulse with his mouth, teasing her skin with the gentle rake of his fangs. Not piercing, not breaking the skin, just
running the points over her flesh until she tightened, imagining the sweet almost-pain of his bite. She loved the way his bite made her float, head spinning as he fucked her, his body thrusting hard and sure into hers.

  Her dark lover. Her sweet bastard, with his fiery temper and utter lack of diplomacy. You always knew where you stood with Tristan. He never sugarcoated anything, never told pretty lies, no matter how badly you wanted to hear them. He was what he was.

  And he was delicious.

  She stroked her hands through the rough blond silk of his hair down to the hard planes of his shoulders. He’d kissed his way lower, and his mouth hovered over her nipples now, making her catch her breath.

  His tongue flicked out to circle one hard point in a teasing little dance. Another lick, hot, wet, teasing, making her squirm with the pure intensity of sensation.

  Tristan feathered his rough fingers over her breast as he licked her, a back-and-forth flick of his tongue. Until he engulfed her nipple for a good, hard suckle that sent streaks of golden fire running up her spine.

  She raked her nails gently across his back, barely resisting the urge to dig in as he teased and nibbled and stroked. Belle shivered as he played his hands over her skin, until one hand found its way between her legs.

  His fingers slid between her delicate lower lips, sending heat shooting through her like a lightning strike.

  “God, Tristan!” she gasped.

  “Yes?” he purred against her breast, his voice flavored with laughter.

  “You know, two can . . . AH! . . . two can play that game!”

  “Can they?” He bit down gently on the nipple, then laved it as if in apology.

  “Yes—especially if one of them’s a witch.” An image flashed through her mind: Tristan, tied to her bed with scarlet ribbons, deliciously helpless while she . . .

  Uh, no. Not with his mental scars. The thought of the fear such a scenario might trigger washed over her like a bucket of cold water.