I swore to save lives. Instead I killed an innocent.
The head rolled, spraying blood. It splashed across his face, hot and sickening. He’d staggered into the bathroom to throw up.
I swore to save lives. Instead I killed an innocent.
He’d slipped up behind Jimmy, unable to look into the boy’s eyes and kill him. He’d swung the sword, felt the thunk of steel biting bone. Jimmy’s head rolled, splashing blood across his face as it painted the walls.
I swore to save lives. I killed an innocent.
Davon shuddered. He’d been caught in the same vicious mental loop since he’d learned the boy hadn’t been a serial killer. The only thing that helped even slightly was working out until he so thoroughly exhausted his body that he was beyond thought. Even then, if he let the thought of Jimmy in, it instantly triggered another cycle. And the memory would roll over and over again like an endless, looping nightmare.
He should go back to the healer Arthur had ordered him to see, but Petra made him feel too good. Almost as if he’d never murdered the boy at all. That wasn’t right either. He was a murderer, whether he’d intended to be one or not. He should pay some kind of price. After all, the boy’s blameless family was suffering, and they’d done nothing whatsoever to deserve it.
The trouble was, this . . . obsession he’d developed was growing dangerous. He knew he was clinically depressed to the point of being suicidal. If Davon had discovered a patient this bad off in his emergency room days, he would have hospitalized him for his own good.
I swore to save lives. I killed an innocent.
“Davon? Well, hello there.” The woman spoke in a rich female purr, the kind that would have brought Davon’s senses on alert before Jimmy.
He looked around without much interest and saw Sabryn, who had stopped out in the hallway to peer in at him. Her mouth, slicked with bronze gloss, curled into a seductive smile.
“Hello, Sabryn.” He gave her a curt nod and waited for her to go away.
Instead she prowled into the room like an oversized cat. “Have you heard the latest?”
Like he gave a shit about gossip. But his mother had raised him to be a polite Southern gentleman, so he forced a smile. “I’ve been sticking close to home.”
“One of the werewolves killed Sir Bors. You know, the Knight of the Round Table?”
Davon hadn’t been an agent long, but already he knew the importance the knights had in Avalon. He tried to make himself care, but the thought barely pushed its way through the mental fog that surrounded him. “That’s terrible.”
“Arthur was furious. He called the leader of the werewolves and ripped him a new one. Do you know the man still demanded that he turn you over? Arthur told him to fuck off. The wolf said there’d be war if Avalon didn’t—”
“Wait—what?” Davon frowned, trying to focus through the bloody mental loop playing in his head.
“Didn’t you know? The werewolves are threatening to declare war on Avalon if Arthur doesn’t turn you over for trial immediately, but Arthur says you’re just as much a victim as Jimmy Sheridan, and the wolves can go to hell.”
“Are they serious?”
“Oh, yeah.” Sabryn eyed him. “A lot of people are going to die for you, Davon. I hope you’re worth it.”
Davon stared at Sabryn in horror. It seemed he couldn’t breathe, as if all the air in the room had turned to lead. He shoved past the woman and reeled down the hall, desperate to get outside, find some fresh air before he passed out.
I swore to save lives, and now more innocents are going to die because of me.
Sabryn watched the young Magus shove open a door and escape into the night. She winced. Probably should have kept her mouth shut, but when she’d walked past and seen Davon working out, all big, thoughtless rookie, she’d remembered Bors. Bors, who’d been kind to her. Thought of all the other agents who’d probably end up dead because of Davon.
It figured he’d be one of Belle’s pampered boys.
If Sabryn was honest—and she was many things, but dishonest wasn’t one of them—the thought of sticking it to Belle through one of her pets was irresistible. True, it was petty and beneath her, but Belle had humiliated her. Worse, she’d shamed her in front of Morgana.
And she’d stolen Tristan right out from under Sabryn’s nose. That stung.
Besides, there was no permanent damage done. The rookie would probably run crying to Mommy, and Belle would have to spend all night calming him down and convincing him that nobody blamed him for the mess with the werewolves.
And they didn’t. If Davon hadn’t provided the excuse, someone else would have. That was just the way people were when they were intent on going to war.
People were bastards.
Tristan woke to find himself hanging upright, supported in midair by a column of golden sparks. He was also naked from the waist down.
Bewildered, he glanced around. He was still in Belle’s bedroom, which was reassuring, since that was where he’d fallen asleep.
His arms were spread wide, clad in the most remarkable armor he’d ever seen. It was formed of countless tiny scales, each about the size and shape of a fingernail. When he moved, the scales flexed, shimmering silver. Each scale had edges of brilliant scarlet, so that bright crimson rippled across his body with every flex of his muscles.
“Belle?” She had to be around here somewhere.
A long fingertip stroked over the curve of his ass in a trailing little tickle.
And there she is. “Belle, darlin’, what the hell are you doing?”
“Shhhh,” she breathed, and the finger drew a rune over his butt with something wet. Belle hummed, the notes seeming to wrap around his body. He felt something move on his skin.
Craning his head to look over his shoulder, Tristan saw a wave of scales materializing in the wake of her moving finger, armor growing like something organic everywhere she touched him. He moved, stretching out his arms, testing the fit as best he could, pinned like this. It was lighter and more flexible than any armor he’d ever worn. Tris grinned, eager to try it out in combat, see if it was as perfect as it seemed.
Still humming, she circled him, sliding one delicate forefinger along his thigh, whatever paint she was using radiating those amazing scales. Belle was completely naked. Her eyes were wide and glowing, and he realized she was in the kind of deep trance Majae used to work major magic.
This was going to be one hell of a suit of magic armor when she got it finished.
Tristan frowned, realizing Belle held a knife. What was she . . .
Humming, she lifted the blade and drew it down her right breast, inflicting a shallow cut. Transferring the knife to her left hand, she ran a finger down the cut, then used the bloody digit to paint a rune of protection over his groin. Again, scales bloomed.
Holy God. No wonder they were edged in red. They were conjured from her blood.
Tristan stared down at her, stunned speechless. It wasn’t unheard of for Majae to use their own blood in major spells. It was the strongest kind of white magic you could work, in fact—an enchantment which drew its power from the witch’s own life force. It was said Gwen had done something similar to create Arthur’s armor.
But Gwen and Arthur were Truebonded. Of course she’d be willing to spill her own blood to protect him. He strengthened her in turn.
But Belle had given Tristan a priceless gift for nothing. It wasn’t the kind of thing you did for someone who was nothing more than a combat partner you sometimes bedded.
It was a gesture of love.
Isolde would never have done such a thing for him, even when they were in love. She wouldn’t have tied her own life force to his protection.
He had no idea what to say. Except . . .
I love you.
The words lay on his tongue, filling his mouth, desperate to be spoken. Yet some other part of him refused to say them, as if they’d leave him vulnerable. The last time he’d loved a woman, she’d stuck a knife in
his chest.
Which was ridiculous. With each stroke of her bloody fingers, Belle told him just how much he meant to her, just how far she was willing to go for him.
How far was he willing to go for her?
At last the spell was finished. Tristan’s feet, shod in armored boots, touched the ground as Belle’s magic lowered him to the floor.
Standing before him, Belle held out both bloody hands. Across her palm lay the knife. In a flash of magic, it became a great sword—almost four feet long from pommel to point, the kind of weapon it took two hands to use. Reverently, Tristan accepted the big blade.
“The sword controls the armor,” she told him. “You only have to will it, and the armor will vanish back into the sword. You won’t need me to conjure it anymore, so it will always be available.”
“That’s amazing.” Tristan stepped back to take a short practice swing. Despite the blade’s length, it was so perfectly balanced, it seemed to weigh nothing at all in his hands.
“Send the armor back into the sword,” Belle urged. “I want to see if it works.”
Obediently, he closed his eyes and willed the scales away. When he opened them again, he was as naked as she was, and the sword wore an elegant scale scabbard that shimmered in the candlelight. “Jesu, that’s beautiful,” he told her, examining the weapon reverently. “Thank you!”
Belle grinned at him, happy as a child on Christmas morning. “You’re welcome. I tested the prototype with a mock Dire Wolf bite while you were asleep. The scale didn’t so much as dimple. The magic dissipates any force applied to the armor out into the Mageverse. You could step on an IED without getting so much as a hangnail.”
“Amazing.” Tristan reached out, hooked a hand behind her neck, and pulled her in for a long, slow kiss. Belle purred into his mouth. He drew away just long enough to hang the strap of the scabbard over the bedpost. Then he bent, swept her into his arms, and put her down on the cool sheets. His eyes glinting with sensual hunger, he came down on top of her.
The long cut on her breast was still bleeding—she’d sliced herself a bit too deep. Carefully, Tristan ran his tongue the length of the wound, letting his saliva go to work healing it.
One by one, he found each cut she’d inflicted on herself, then kissed and licked them until she moaned and twisted in helpless arousal. The feel of her soft body writhing against his made him burn. His balls grew tight as his shaft rose to full erection, heavy and thick between his thighs.
Belle was every bit as hot as he was. When he slid a finger between her lower lips, he discovered she was as juicy as a fresh peach. His cock twitched in lust.
I love you. The words echoed in his head, but when he opened his mouth, they refused to emerge.
So instead he kissed her cuts some more, tongued her hard little nipples, and ignored the demanding ache of his cock.
Tristan’s tongue drew a long, wet line along one of her cuts, then paused to lick and tease her breasts.
God, it felt good.
Eyes half closed, Belle combed her fingers into his long hair and hung on tight, enjoying every stroke and touch. She could tell from the way he looked at her that he knew why she’d used her own blood in the spell.
Maybe she was an idiot. Maybe he didn’t feel the same way. She kept waiting for the words, but he didn’t say them. Instead he stroked and fondled and licked until she thought the pleasure would drive her out of her mind.
But he didn’t say I love you.
She’d realized the gravity of what she was doing when she’d prepared to make the first cut on her palm. This was serious magic, and it could take a deadly toll on her if the armor was destroyed.
But then she imagined Tristan lying in the bloody leaves in Bors’s place, and she realized she’d do anything to make sure such a thing never happened to him.
God help her, she loved him. Arrogant asshole that he was, he’d managed to steal her heart. Her life would be dark and empty without him. It was no wonder she was willing to bleed to ensure he survived his next clash with the Dire Wolves.
Belle wanted him to keep right on driving her crazy with his relentless honesty, his love of Arthurian belching contests, his flaming temper—and his mind-blowing talent for making love to her until she barely knew her own name. A little blood was a small price to pay.
Even if he couldn’t say those three exquisite little words.
Tristan spread her legs wide, lowered his blond head, and began to lick, stroking the very tip of his clever tongue around her clit in slowly tightening spirals. He paused a thoughtful moment, then closed his mouth around her and suckled so hard she almost convulsed off the bed with an ecstatic shriek.
Tristan laughed softly and went back to licking, back and forth, in and out of her tight core, around and around her clit. At the same time, he tugged and pinched her nipples, the two pleasures weaving together like a golden braid, tightening slowly until she felt the first pulses of her orgasm.
Then he stopped again. And ignored the frustrated fist she smacked down on his shoulder. “Tristan!”
This time his laughter had a slightly sadistic note. He went back to teasing her—nipples, pussy, clit, teasing and suckling until the swirl of sensation grew into a thundering storm that made her shake and scream.
She looked up to find him on top of her, guiding that delicious cock into her swollen sex. Belle gave a welcoming little yip as he drove home every last, luscious inch. Wrapping her calves around his thighs, she held on tight.
He started moving. In and out and innnn and ouuuuut, so slowly she thought she was going to detonate like a Roman candle. Moaning, she dug her nails into his back, and he took the hint, speeding up his rolling thrusts.
He reached between their bodies, clever man, and stroked a thumb over her clit as he ground. Her climax finally hit like the breathtaking slap of an unexpected wave, dragging her along as it spun her deep and stole her breath. When it finally retreated, she lay limp and panting with battered pleasure.
Tristan came with a shattering roar. Belle smiled.
Okay, so maybe he couldn’t say the words. Neither could she. They seemed so damned huge, she couldn’t wrap her tongue around them. Later. Later they’d say them. Right now, she was too busy holding tight to his delightfully sweaty body and enjoying the feeling of that big cock.
She’d made him safe. For now, that was enough.
“Are we sure we want to do this?” Rosen asked uneasily the next night. “People are going to die.”
“Of course people are going to die,” Andrews said contemptuously. “That’s why they say war is hell.”
“Not just the Magekind,” Rosen pointed out. “Our people, too.”
“Commoners.” Tanner sneered into his whiskey glass. The three of them had gathered at his mansion in advance of the night’s meeting to discuss how to handle the vote.
Rosen had to admit it was a beautiful house with its ivycovered redbrick walls and arched windows, not to mention the marble floors and fireplaces everywhere you looked. Lots of fussy Louis XV antiques, gilded wood and rose velvet upholstery that made him think of a really expensive whorehouse.
Tanner’s library felt more masculine. Leather-bound books filled floor-to-ceiling bookcases, interspaced with bronze statues of naked nymphs in poses of abandoned sensuality. He, Tanner, and Andrews sat in gilded antique chairs clustered around the crackling fireplace, sipping their drinks from Waterford crystal.
The only off note was struck by the painting that hung over the fire. A pretty young girl in Renaissance clothing sawed the head off a bearded man. The blood spurted realistically from her knife as an old woman looked on. The man looked horrified. Tanner swore the painting was a genuine Caravaggio, whoever the hell that was. It was all too damned gory for Carl’s taste. But that was the Chosen for you.
Bloodthirsty.
Carl hid his expression in his glass. It irked him, the way the Chosen dismissed Bitten descendents like himself as inconsequential. The Direkind might be we
rewolves, but they were also Americans, dammit. The lives of commoners were just as valuable as those of the Chosen.
He managed a civil tone with effort. “Commoners or not, we have a responsibility to the people we lead not to waste their lives.”
“That’s what they’re for,” Andrews said with a disdainful snort.
“No good cause has ever been won without shedding a little blood.” Tanner sipped his whiskey and smiled. “And protecting our way of life is a good cause.”
“But is it good enough?” Carl had been asking himself that very question all night.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Andrews snapped. “This modern world has strayed dangerously far from the path over the past forty years. Look at all the people that consider themselves our equals now—blacks, Hispanics, the Irish. Not to mention women.”
“And what’s been the result?” Tanner put in. “Crime, divorce, illegitimate children, pornography, and illiteracy. If we don’t put a stop to this now, God knows where it will lead.”
Like, oh, maybe a decent world, Carl thought, but he didn’t say it. Between them, Tanner and Andrews controlled more money than God, and they had Warlock’s ear besides. It wasn’t in his best interest to piss them off.
“Don’t curl your lip at us, Carl,” Tanner said, and Carl winced, realizing he’d given himself away. “We are the Chosen. Merlin himself selected our ancestors to preserve humanity. If we don’t act now, we will fail that responsibility. One day Merlin will return . . .”
“That’s what worries me,” Carl muttered.
Tanner ignored him. “I, for one, don’t want him to come back to a world in chaos.”
“Arthur actually knew Merlin, Tanner,” Carl said. “He doesn’t seem to believe Merlin held the Chosen’s traditions in all that much esteem.”
Master of Shadows Page 21
