Master of Shadows

by Angela Knight

  He headed toward Bors, who stood beside the vampires’ table looking as if he was about to jump out of his skin. Tristan caught his fellow knight by the shoulder and steered him firmly away from the array of bottles. “How’re you feeling, brother?”

  “Like shit.” Bors sent a longing glance toward the table. “But Petra says she’s making progress with my therapy. Another three or four days, and I should be through the worst.” His voice dropped. “If I live that long.”

  “You’re a strong man, Bors,” Belle told him quietly. “You’ll make it.”

  “I hope so.” He swallowed hard. “It just took me by surprise, you know? I knew I had a problem, but I didn’t realize how bad it was.” His eyes met Tristan’s, and he looked haunted. “You think Arthur will kick me off the Table?”

  Tristan started. “Oh, hell no. You’re one of us, Bors. Always have been, always will be. Everybody’s got problems.”

  “Look at Tristan,” Belle said with a smirk, hoping to lighten the moment. “He’s an asshole.”

  Bors laughed, then gave her a curious look. “Hey, is it true you challenged Sabryn to a duel?”

  Tristan’s eyes widened. “What?”

  “Ummmm,” Belle said. Dammit, busted.

  Luckily, her cell picked that moment to blare the theme from Hawaii Five-0. “It’s Justice. Wonder what he wants.” She plucked out her iPhone, ignoring Tristan’s we’re-not-done frown.

  “Hi, Justice,” she said. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing good. I need you and the knight. Now. Before the human cops show and this situation really goes to shit.”

  Fabulous.

  “You’re fucked,” Justice told Tristan.

  “Yeah, I picked up on that. Not as fucked as these poor bastards, but close.” He surveyed the house’s small living room grimly.

  Tristan judged that before the killer’s arrival, the room had been shabby, but clean, as if the lady of the house was a conscientious homemaker. The furniture looked as if they’d bought it at the Salvation Army thrift store, with wooden frames covered in an ugly brown fabric that was probably supposed to look like velvet. The coffee table was a cheap laminate that matched the entertainment center in the corner. They’d spent what money they had on the thirty-inch flat-screen television.

  Now all of it was blood splattered, including arterial spray from the beheadings. The soaked carpet squished underfoot, and the whole house stank of gore.

  Over fifteen hundred years, Tristan had become familiar with all the shades in the spectrum of violence, from completely lost-it butchery to just-doing-my-job professionalism. This he mentally labeled Goading the Civilians.

  First the killer had beheaded the couple, which was one of the few ways to really be sure of killing werewolves. Then he’d gotten artistic, painting the living room like a psychotic Jackson Pollock in arcs and whirls of blood, probably from his sword blade. Tristan, however, had seen real psychotics in action, and this bastard was just a shade too controlled for that.

  No, he was aiming to piss people off. And to frame the Magekind, since the whole house smelled like Maja spell work.

  “We’ve got one chance to avoid a war, Tristan,” Justice told him. “You’re going to have to persuade Arthur to surrender Davon to the High Council.”

  THIRTEEN

  “Fuck that.” Bors’s lips peeled back from his teeth. His hands shook and his glittering eyes darted around the room, less like a wary warrior than like someone in the grip of acute paranoia. “I’ve got a better idea—they want war, let’s give it to ’em. Fuck ’em all!”

  The knight had insisted on coming along, and Tristan had decided not to waste time with an argument. He was beginning to regret it. Bors was obviously in withdrawal. It was a good thing the killer was long gone—they’d conducted a thorough search—since the Magus would be useless in a fight.

  Belle gave Bors a long look before turning back to Justice. “Surrendering Davon would only make him another victim. Don’t you think enough people have died?”

  “Not nearly as many as are going to get killed if my people declare war on yours,” Justice told her. “Which is exactly what Carl Rosen has in mind. You’re going to play right into his hands. Davon admitted it; he’s toast. It’s better to lose one man than thousands of innocents.”

  “That’s not the way we work, Bill,” Belle told him quietly. “The lesser evil is still evil.”

  “But it’s also lesser.” He thrust a finger toward the bedroom where the smallest body lay. “Or didn’t you see what was in there? You want more like that? I would personally put a bullet in Davon Fredericks’s brain if it meant I didn’t have to look at any more butchered five-year-olds.”

  “Neville Chamberlain much?” Bors spat, referring to the British prime minister who’d tried to make peace with Hitler.

  Justice glared. “Fuck you, Bors.”

  Belle stepped between them and threw up a hand, arresting Bors’s lunge. “You’re not helping,” she told him.

  “Sorry,” the knight muttered, sounding abruptly tired. “My head feels like it’s about to detonate like an IED.”

  She moved to rest a palm on his forehead. Bors slumped as her spell relieved his pain.

  Tristan mentally growled at the jealous demon that reared in his skull. Don’t be an utter ass. Trying to drag his attention back to business, he looked at Justice. “So let me get this straight. You got a call from here?”

  Justice nodded. “A woman’s voice. She could barely speak. Said she was dying. Name came up on caller ID, so I got the address from the Internet and called you for backup.”

  “Good thing, too.” He nodded at the dead woman. “No way she called anybody.”

  “Yeah.” Justice grimaced. “Had to have been the killer.”

  “Well, he’s gone now.” Bors put a hand on the hilt of his sword, stroking the weapon as if longing to draw on someone.

  “Maybe,” Tristan told them. “Maybe not.”

  Belle had knelt beside the woman’s body, her hands spread wide over it as she used some spell or other. When she looked up, she’d gone pale, her blue-gray eyes huge. “It’s the same killer.”

  “What?” Tristan stared at her.

  “Whoever killed these people is the same as the creature that murdered Emma. There’s no magic left in either of these people, and there should be at least a fading trace. They’re not even cold yet. He fed on their magic just as he did on Emma and Tom’s.”

  Tristan frowned as he studied the corpses. “But this was done with a blade.”

  “He’s a shifter,” Justice said, hands on his hips as he appraised the scene. “He shifted to human form and used a sword on them.”

  “But the magical signature he left here is Magekind. He left nothing at all at the other scene.” Belle seemed to be thinking out loud. “He did it deliberately to frame us, but it’s really obvious if you look.”

  “You think we can use this to convince the council not to declare war?” Tristan asked Justice.

  “Normally I’d say yes. If I had an honest council, definitely. But Warlock has bought at least three of the members off—Tanner, Andrews, and Rosen. God knows how many of the others he owns. The only one I’m sure is honest is Elena Rollings, and that’s because her father’s death left her with more money than God. And she’s got the Wulfgar Seat . . .”

  “What’s that?” Belle asked, interested.

  “Wulfgar was one of the Saxon warriors Merlin chose to create the Direkind. The legends paint him as our Arthur, a courageous warrior and brilliant leader. He supposedly accomplished all these amazing feats. Elena is a direct descendent of Wulfgar’s, so she inherited his seat on the council, which traditionally represents the Chosen. Actually, her son inherited it, but he’s two years old, so she holds it in his name.”

  Belle shook her head. “Your system is screwy.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  Tristan suddenly got that crawling sensation on the back of his neck that told
him something was about to bite him on the ass. “Belle, call Arthur and the rest of the Table. I want to conduct another search for that bastard. We know he’s not in the house, but there’s one hell of a lot of woods out back.” He glanced at the werewolf. “He called you for a reason, Justice, and my gut says he’s not done.”

  Dice wrapped himself in an invisibility spell deep in the shadows of the woods, a thick blackness not even a vampire’s eyes could penetrate. He watched in sizzling frustration as Tristan divided up the Magekind search teams and sent them off into the woods.

  With Emma’s memories, he recognized the Knights of the Round Table, counting them off silently and cursing to himself. Arthur, Lancelot, Galahad, Bors, Gawain, Tristan, Percival, Marrok, Kay, Cador, Lamorak, and Baldulf. They weren’t all brawny bastards like Tristan and Bors; some were lean as marathon runners, while Marrok was a dark, towering brute who looked like a professional football player. There were witches, too: Belle, Guinevere, Morgana Le Fay, and three of the knights’ wives, Grace, Lark, and Caroline. Lark looked about four months pregnant, which was probably why her husband, Gawain, shadowed her like a protective wolf.

  But each and every one of them moved with a professional silence as they fanned out into the woods. Justice accompanied Tristan and Belle, and Dice ground his teeth. He’d hoped to get an opportunity to slip up behind the fucker and slit his throat, but the cop was staying too close to the Magekind.

  If only he’d move out alone, like some of the knights. You’d think they were invulnerable. Though considering the skill they’d acquired over fifteen hundred years of combat, he’d hate to challenge one of them. They’d take him apart. He knew a little about swordplay from Emma’s memories, but a Knight of the Round Table would simply gut him.

  He froze as a thought hit him, reckless and daring. It was a good way to get himself killed, but if it worked . . .

  Dice chose his target and moved after the man wrapped in a deep, tight shield of magic. He had to burn some of the power he’d acquired when he’d killed the werewolves, but it was worth it if the spell kept the witches from sensing him. He walked quickly through the moonlit woods after his target’s broad armored back, his magic keeping the leaves from rustling under his boots. Excitement surged through him as he approached his victim.

  This is wrong, Emma whispered. You must not. He’ll kill you. He’s one of the oldest of them, and he’s incredibly skilled with his blade.

  But he’s weak. Look at the way he moves, as if he’s in pain. And once I kill him, all that skill will be mine.

  No. No. No! she chanted the word in his brain, a rising wail of anguish.

  Be silent, witch!

  Not like this! Not like a coward . . .

  Do you think I’m stupid enough to warn him?

  Dice stared at the expanse of Bors’s back, covered in gleaming plate armor. Probing with a delicate curl of magic, he sought the spot where the metal was thinnest.

  And found it.

  Dice stepped in close to the knight and rammed his magical blade through the steel with all his werewolf strength, skewering Bors like a cocktail shrimp on a toothpick. The big man stiffed in agony as the sword broke ribs, sliced muscle and lungs to pierce his heart. The knight died before he could make a single sound.

  Still shielded by his invisibility spell, Dice wrapped an arm around the man and began to feed, absorbing the knight’s magic and memories in a hot rush of power.

  Belle smelled the magic first—a carrion reek she first assumed must be coming from the house. Until she realized the source was closer than that.

  Much closer.

  She glanced around, frowning, every hair on the back of her neck coming to attention with that oh-merde feeling she got whenever everything had gone to hell.

  Wait, where was Bors? He’d been walking to their left, but now he was gone.

  “Bors?” She started toward the spot where he should be.

  “Belle?” Tristan asked, following as silently as a ghost despite the leaves underfoot. “What’s wrong?”

  “I smell death magic. And Bors is gone.” She gestured, weaving a spell designed to disrupt illusions.

  The smell instantly hit her face in a gagging wave as the illusion shattered. Bors sagged in the grip of an even bigger man, blood sheeting down his armored torso, his eyes wide and blank in a corpse-white face. A full foot of sword blade protruded from his chest.

  His assassin wore black armor that seemed to drink the light. Eyes glared at her through the slit in his visor, red as a hell hound’s. “Bitch!” he snarled, and jerked his sword out of Bors, dropping the knight, who went down in a clatter of armor and a tangle of limp limbs.

  The killer thrust his blade right at Belle’s chest. She knew her parry would be too late even as she swung her sword.

  Tristan’s blade hit the assassin’s with a clang of steel on steel and a rain of magical sparks. “You fucker!” Tris snarled, and Belle heard killing rage in his voice. “You’re a dead man!”

  She spun out of the way, her training telling her to get the hell back. No witch was fast enough for this kind of fight. Her best bet was to stay just close enough to shield Tristan when he needed it, but far enough back not to get in his way.

  The killer swung his blade at Tristan’s head, magic flashing down the sword in a blue blaze. Death magic.

  Tris parried, and the spell leaped from the assassin’s blade to his. But before it could run right into his hands, Belle cast a shield to block it. The spell raged, black and hungry, fighting to reach Tristan and stop his heart, but Belle poured more power into her barrier, more and still more, until the spell finally snuffed out.

  “A moi!” she screamed, a knight’s ancient cry for help. “A moi!”

  “Tristan!” Arthur roared, charging between the trees like a destrier, all muscle and armor and hot rage, his wife flying at his heels. His sword flashed, and the assassin leaped back, parrying with a ringing rattle. Tristan pressed closer, and Belle followed, magic ready.

  “Fuck this,” the assassin snarled. “You’re too late anyway. I have what I need.”

  And then he was gone, bounding like a deer through a dimensional gate that snapped shut before any of them could follow. Belle threw her power at the gate’s fading pulse, but something hurled her spell back at her. She tried another spell and felt Guinevere’s magic probe alongside it. But her casting bounced off the block as the last of the gate vanished. “You get anything?” Belle asked Gwen as the men watched in helpless frustration.

  The witch shook her helmed head. “Something blocked me. Something damned powerful.”

  “Me, too.” She turned toward the armored body in the leaves and hurried back to his side. Her magic told her it was too late even as she dropped to her knees. “Oh, Bors.”

  “Morgana!” Arthur bellowed as the other Knights of the Round Table gathered around.

  “Here, dammit. Get back, you lot,” the Maja snapped as she knelt next to Belle. Gwen and Caroline joined them. “Give us room.”

  The men stepped back reluctantly as the witches began to probe Bors’s corpse with their magic, trying to determine what had been done to him.

  “We were too late,” Gwen said at last, sitting back on her haunches. Tears roughened her voice. “There’s nothing left. The bastard ate him.”

  “What do you mean, ‘ate him’?” Arthur demanded. “That’s a sword wound.”

  “He devoured his magic and his spirit.” Morgana pushed a lock of black hair away from her face, revealing the defeat in her eyes. “That bastard got it all.”

  Dice’s knees buckled under him, and he hit the cavern’s stone floor hard enough to jar his back teeth. He fell forward to land on his hands and knees. Shudders racked him.

  Fifteen hundred years. Bors had been a Knight of the Round Table for fifteen hundred years. Dice felt his pride in being chosen by Merlin himself for the Great Mission of protecting mankind He remembered what it had been like to fight for the innocent, to use his vampi
re strength in acts of courage and accomplishment. He’d been a hero.

  And Dice had killed him with a coward’s stroke. From behind, because he never would have been able to take the knight any other way.

  Self-loathing such as he’d never known filled Dice, so black and bitter that he wanted to take up his sword and slit his own throat.

  “Get up,” Warlock growled.

  He paid no attention, staring blindly at the blood on his gauntleted hands. Bors’s blood. For a moment he felt a sense of dizzy dislocation. He knew he was Dice, but Bors’s memories were so incredibly strong, pressing down on him with the weight of centuries.

  Warlock snatched off Dice’s helm and fisted a big hand in his hair, dragging him to his feet. “I said, get up!”

  “Oooww! Goddammit!”

  “Listen to me, boy.” The wizard thrust his fanged muzzle so close, Dice wanted to jerk away from the hot, stinking breath gusting into his face. “I’ve absorbed creatures like that before. If you are not careful, the sheer weight of his life will snap your mind like a twig. And his . . .”—Warlock’s lip twisted—“goodness will make you loathe yourself. But you listen to me, boy. You are not evil. He and his kind are weak, gutless idiots. A true leader is willing to sacrifice a few lives to save thousands, to clamp down with an iron fist in order to create peace and plenty. I have that courage. So do you. Together, we will serve the greater good.”

  Dice blinked up at the werewolf as he struggled with thoughts that were alien to everything he’d ever known. “How can acts of evil create good?”

  Warlock released his hair and grabbed his jaw, forcing him to meet the wizard’s orange gaze. “Because I will it so.”

  Dice felt the wizard’s consciousness slam into his, seizing those fragments of Bors, Emma, Tom, even the werewolf couple he’d killed. Warlock’s lips moved, chanting a spell, binding the ghosts in chains of magic. Moans of pain rose, sounding weak and distant.