Master of Shadows

by Angela Knight

  The Beast snapped at Justice, who danced around it with impressive speed even by vampire standards. The boy had no idea how to use the sword Belle had given him, but he was trying.

  Before Tristan could charge into the fight, magic hit him in a flesh-tingling wave. He looked down, startled, as the hole in the middle of his chest mail began to heal, sealing with incredible speed.

  Tris threw Belle a smile. “Thank you.” And leaped at the Beast, swinging up his sword for an overhand blow.

  The monster leaped away, opening its jaws as if to breathe fire at him. He ducked back, hoping Belle would shield him.

  But instead of attacking, the creature looked around, ears swiveling.

  Which was when Tristan heard it, too. A crashing in the distance, the sound of voices lifted in shouts, Arthur’s battlefield bellow ringing over it all.

  The Beast whirled and ran. Before Tristan and Justice could take more than a few steps in pursuit, he darted through a dimensional gate that promptly vanished with a soap bubble pop.

  Tristan glanced at Belle. “Did you get a fix on him?” It would certainly be useful to know where the monster had his lair.

  Instead of answering, her eyes rolled back and she fell to her knees. Tristan barely managed to catch her before she hit the ground. Her head lolled, eyes fluttering closed.

  “Belle! What’s wrong with her?” the werewolf demanded. It was hard to read the expression on Justice’s furry face, but that looked like worry in his eyes. He was covered in blood from countless bites, and claw marks scored his body.

  “The bastard hurt her when he savaged my armor,” Tristan explained as he stroked her face. “Then she used whatever was left repairing the damage.” He looked up and roared, “Morgana! A moi!”

  “Hold on!” More crashing coming closer through the brush. It sounded as if Arthur had brought every agent in Avalon. Which just might be enough to do the job.

  Tristan arranged Belle more comfortably in his lap and gently pulled off her helm. Her face was white, her eyes closed.

  Magic detonated beside him, and Tristan looked up, alarmed. But it was only Justice, reassuming human form. The change healed his injuries, but he dropped to his knees and slumped, obviously exhausted.

  Tristan examined him, concerned by his pallor. “You okay?”

  “Fight took a lot out of me.” Justice eyed Tris’s face through the raised visor. “You, too, looks like.”

  “Narrow escape. If that thing had gotten his teeth into my skin . . .”

  “You’d be dead.”

  “Yeah. That’s about the size of it.”

  Davon thought about dying. How would they kill him? Would it hurt?

  Little damned late to start worrying about it, he told himself, impatient with his own sudden fear. Whatever they did to him would still be better than watching that boy die in his mind over and over and over again. He’d do anything to stop that endless loop. Anything at all.

  Something rattled, and he looked around as one of the councilmen walked in carrying a reel of thick steel chain. He’d gone out to get it when Tanner announced they needed to bind the prisoner. Apparently the man was a landscaper in his day job, and he used the chain to pull up tree stumps.

  Tanner took the reel away from him and started winding it around Davon, who ignored them both. The landscaper shrugged and went to the corner of the room where the council was huddled, arguing in fierce, low voices about what to do with him.

  “You just had to go and be a hero, didn’t you?” Tanner snarled, and jerked the chain viciously tight. If not for Davon’s armor, the thick steel links would have chewed into his skin.

  “What the hell is your problem?” Davon demanded. “I did what you wanted. I surrendered. I’ll plead guilty. I’ll even let you execute me for my crime.”

  “But Arthur didn’t surrender you,” Tanner growled. “We should declare war anyway.”

  A spark of spirit flared through the doctor’s leaden depression. “So basically, you’re pissed because you’re not getting your war.” Davon shook his head. “Man, you really are an idiot. Arthur and his knights would go through you guys like a chainsaw. They . . .”

  He saw the punch coming, but bound as he was, there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to block it. The impact rocked his head and sent light exploding through his skull, and he tasted blood.

  “Tanner, you son of a bitch!” A female werewolf stalked across the room and stiff-armed Tanner with both hands. He stumbled back, then jolted forward, fist cocked.

  Davon instinctively jerked in his bonds, trying to break free and protect the girl, but the chain was too thick. “Leave her alone!” he roared.

  The little redhead danced back and snarled in Tanner’s face. “That’s right, asshole. Hit me. Show everybody here exactly what you are—the kind of man who beats bound prisoners and women six inches shorter.”

  Tanner’s face contorted with such savagery, it was obvious he was fully capable of killing her. Davon writhed in his chains, fighting desperately to break free.

  “That’s enough, Tanner!” Carl Rosen snapped, taking a long step toward them. “Don’t hit . . .”

  He swung anyway. The redhead ducked, and Tanner stalked her as she danced away. “Oh, yeah, you’re a real man,” she spat. “If my husband was here, you wouldn’t dare look at me funny.”

  Tanner bared his teeth. “If Lucas was any kind of man at all, he’d teach you your place!”

  “Dammit, Tanner!” Rosen and two other men grabbed the werewolf, jerking him away before he could hit her. “Have you lost your mind?”

  “Well,” Davon drawled, licking the blood from his split lip, “if we’re done displaying our collective heroism, maybe you should consider getting me out of here before Arthur realizes I’m gone and sends a team to get me back. Much as I’d love to watch the knights kick Tanner’s ass, it wouldn’t get the Sheridan family their justice.”

  The werewolves stopped and stared at him, openmouthed. Rosen went pale. “You mean Arthur’s here?”

  Great, Davon thought. I’m going to be executed by idiots. This’ll go well.

  Belle still hadn’t regained consciousness when Arthur led his merry band into the clearing. Tristan, still cradling his lover, did a quick head count and realized his liege hadn’t fooled around. There were fifty-one assorted witches and vampires in the crowd, all armed, armored, and looking grim. Justice edged closer to Tristan’s shoulder, as if unconsciously seeking protection from all the pissed-off Magekind.

  “Tristan!” Lark cried. “Are you all right?” His great-granddaughter hurried over and dropped to her knees in front of them. “What happened?”

  Tristan gave her a weary smile. “The usual. A monster tried to eat us.”

  “That’s what you get for teasing them,” Morgana said, striding into the clearing in a swirl of black velvet skirts embroidered in silver. “Get out of the way, child,” she told Lark, who still knelt at Tristan’s feet. “I need to see to Belle.”

  Instead of moving, Lark examined his face. “Tris, are you hurt?”

  “I’m fine.” He looked down at the woman draped over his lap. “Thanks to Belle.”

  “Well, that’s a relief.” Lark blew out a breath and rose, stepping aside so Morgana could take her place.

  “What happened?” the witch demanded. Arthur stalked over to stand behind her and fold his brawny arms, a glower on his bearded face. His wife joined him, concern knitting her brows.

  Tristan began his report as Morgana took Belle’s face between her palms. Her palms ignited in a glow, golden with healing magic.

  Tris found himself a bit surprised at Morgana’s obvious concern. Evidently Belle had the Ice Bitch charmed, just like everyone else.

  At last she stirred and opened her eyes. Tristan relaxed and exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

  “Oh,” she said, looking up at Morgana. “Hi.”

  “What the hell were you thinking, using blood magic to make his armor?” th
e witch demanded. “You’re not even Truebonded, for God’s sake. That thing could have killed both of you with one bite.”

  “I just . . .” Belle began.

  Morgana turned her glare on Tristan. “And you! Why did you let her do something like that? You know better!”

  “You’re right,” he agreed. “I knew the Beast ate magic. I should have realized it would eat magical armor.”

  Belle frowned and struggled to sit up. Tristan automatically pulled her back against his chest. “The point is, the thing wasn’t able to bite through his armor,” she said, her tone stubbornly defiant. “It saved his life. I don’t mind sacrificing a little magic for that.”

  “You could have ended up paying a lot more than a little magic, you silly twit, and you damned well know it.” Morgana glowered at Tristan. “What did you do, put a spell on her with your magic dick?”

  Tristan choked.

  “Morgana!” Belle snapped. “My sex life is none of your business!”

  “It is when I have to clean up the mess. Now, let me finish.” She caught Belle’s face between her palms again. Once more, Tristan sensed the fizz and pop of magic.

  Belle’s slumping shoulders straightened. “Thank you,” she said to her friend, a shade reluctantly. “I’m fine now.”

  “That’s debatable.” With one last glare at Tristan, Morgana rose to her feet. “But your strength is back to normal—at least until you try to kill yourself again.” Pivoting on one armored high-heeled boot, she stalked away.

  “She’s got a point,” Arthur told Belle. “Gwen may have created my armor with blood magic, but we’re Truebonded. You really shouldn’t . . .”

  “Arthur!” Petra interrupted, pushing through the crowd, dark eyes wide with concern. “We have a problem.”

  He sighed. “We have any number of problems, Petra. What’s your addition to the list?”

  “Davon’s gone. Since I’ve touched his mind in my healing, I was able to do a locate spell on him.” She turned and pointed. “He’s about two miles that way, moving fast. In a car, I suspect.”

  “The council must have captured him,” Justice said grimly. He’d been so quiet since the Magekind had arrived, Tristan had almost forgotten he was there.

  “Captured, hell. The suicidal idiot probably gave himself up. I’m going to kick his ass!” Arthur snarled. “He swore to me . . .”

  “Rant later, darling,” his wife murmured. “Get him back now.”

  “But should we?” Morgana asked, frowning. “He did, after all, kill an innocent. If he gave himself up to them voluntarily, and it prevents them from going to war against us . . .”

  “Don’t kid yourself,” Justice told her. “They’ll find another excuse. Smoke and Eva provided the council with concrete proof of Warlock’s existence and the fact that he’s an evil son of a bitch, and they still threatened war. I’d bet you dollars to dog chews the fucking wizard’s bought half the damned council off, and the other half is too witless to do anything but follow where they lead. Except for Elena Rollings, and one vote is just not enough.”

  “I’m not letting them have Davon regardless of their threats,” Arthur said. “I know the man is eaten up with guilt, but that comes with the job. He’s going to have to get over it. Warlock mind-fucked him, and I refuse to let the bastard get him executed on top of it.”

  He swept an eye over the crowd and started picking out vampires with thrusts of one gloved finger. “Gawain, Galahad, Lance, Reece, you go with Petra and recover our idiot doctor . . .”

  “And me,” Belle said as the men stepped closer.

  “Forget it. You’ve done your bit for the day,” Arthur told her, without even glancing around. He looked at his waiting agents. “Now, I want you to—”

  “He’s one of my boys, Arthur.” Her delicate jaw set in a way Tristan recognized all too well. “Besides, I think I can talk him into coming back without being dragged kicking and screaming.”

  “Merlin’s balls, woman . . .” Arthur began hotly.

  Guinevere leaned in. From the look in her eyes, Tristan suspected she was talking to him in their Truebond.

  He broke off in mid-rant and sighed. “Dammit, Gwen. All right, Belle, you can go. Tristan, go with them. And don’t get bitten by anybody. I’m tired of holding funerals.”

  SIXTEEN

  The werewolf’s clawed hand wrapped around Davon’s entire head the way his own could encircle an infant’s. Except his fingers didn’t have three-inch claws.

  “I want to kill you,” Stephen Sheridan whispered, his breath hot and rank, his eyes yellow with lupine rage.

  “Yeah, I can see that,” Davon said.

  The Council of Clans had moved him to Howard Sheridan’s church while they decided what to do. Apparently Jimmy’s father was a pastor. Why that somehow made it all worse, Davon didn’t know.

  The one-story brick building had stained-glass windows and the traditional pointed white steeple. The white wooden sign out front read: HOLY RAPTURE BAPTIST CHURCH.

  It reminded Davon of the church his family had attended when he was a child. His backside had occupied a pew every time the doors opened, which was usually at least twice a week.

  Now the members of the Council of Clans huddled together at one side of the soaring sanctuary, arguing in low voices as they tried to decide how to handle the situation.

  Stephen Sheridan looked over at Carl Rosen and licked his chops. “Let me bite him,” he demanded in a rumbling growl. “If Justice told the truth, he’ll die just like his girlfriend.”

  Davon looked up at the kid—a long, long way up. Stephen was more than seven feet tall, with dagger-length claws and teeth that would make a crocodile weep with envy.

  He should probably be terrified, but all Davon felt was a kind of weary fatalism. “Go ahead.”

  Stephen blinked. “What?”

  He shrugged, despite the weight of the chains still wrapped tight around his arms. He’d long since lost the feeling in them. “You’re certainly entitled. If it helps, it will be a lot more painful than what I did to Jimmy. It’ll take me longer to die, too. He never even saw it coming.”

  The kid tightened his clawed grip on his captive’s head. “You don’t talk about Jimmy!”

  Davon shrugged. “Okay.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “But I’ll still think about him. I think about him all the time. I can’t stop thinking about him . . .”

  The kid jerked back, letting go as if burned. Or as if he’d been unnerved by whatever he’d seen in Davon’s eyes . . .

  “I would like to satisfy my curiosity, though.” Davon lifted his voice. “Hey, Tanner. Come here a minute.”

  By all rights, Tanner shouldn’t have come anywhere near him, but they had an audience. A very large werewolf audience.

  After Elena Rollings had convinced Reverend Sheridan to let them use his church—figuring the knights might hesitate to attack them there—every werewolf in the area showed up to watch. Now the pews were full of Direkind, staring and whispering. Even in Davon’s current fatalistic mood, it was unnerving to be the focus of so much concentrated hate.

  Apparently, though, Tanner loved the crowd. He swaggered over to Davon. “What do you want, killer?”

  “I’m curious, Tanner—how much did Warlock pay you to sell your vote for war?”

  Tanner’s face went slack with shock, then flushed with furious rage. “You little . . .”

  “Smell that?” Davon asked Stephen. “Guilt. I thought so.”

  Tanner lunged for Davon’s throat, but Stephen stiff-armed him, knocking him back a pace. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “Giving me another black eye, I’d imagine,” Davon said dryly. “He’s got a nasty temper. Thanks for the save.”

  Stephen studied Davon’s bruised face. Something dangerous glittered in his yellow werewolf gaze. “Was that before or after they chained you up?”

  Davon shrugged. “After.”

  Howard Sheridan rose from the front pew. “
You hit a chained prisoner?”

  “He had it coming.” Tanner rolled to his feet and tilted up his chin in defiance. “He mouthed off to me.”

  Andrews looked around at them and glowered. “Tanner, shut the fuck up.”

  Sheridan stiffened. “I’ll thank you to remember this is a church.”

  Andrews opened his mouth, registered the watching crowd, and thought better of whatever he was going to say. “Of course, Reverend. Forgive me.”

  “Weasel,” Davon muttered under his breath.

  “You’re not kidding,” Stephen whispered back. “What a pair of jerks.” The boy hesitated, before adding thoughtfully, “And you were right—Tanner did smell guilty.”

  Davon concealed his smile of satisfaction with an effort. He might be a dead man, but maybe the seeds he’d planted could prevent the war Warlock was so determined to bring about.

  That had to be worth something. Didn’t it?

  Miranda contemplated the expanse of floor she needed to mop and sighed, greatly tempted to just cast a cleaning spell over the whole kitchen so she could go home.

  Yeah, and you’d get a visit from Daddy Dearest fifteen minutes later. She’d far rather do it the hard way than face Warlock’s savage temper. Again.

  Sighing, Miranda headed for the corner where the wheeled mop bucket waited. She pushed it over to the stainless steel utility sink, grabbed the faucet spray attachment, cranked the hot water on high, and began filling the bucket.

  She was just reaching for the bottle of cleanser when she thought she heard a cry coming from the restaurant’s dining room.

  Miranda frowned. “Hannah?” Her fellow waitress was closing out the front counter register. Concerned, she turned off the thundering water.

  “Goddammit,” a male voice roared, “I said hand over the money unless you want a bullet in the brain!”

  “I’m trying! The key won’t . . .”

  “Fuck it.” Boom.

  The sound of the echoing gunshot hit Miranda like an electric shock. She transformed before she even realized she was calling her magic, fur racing over her skin, bones and muscles jerking painfully with the change.