But even as she ate, she was acutely aware of Justice’s dark gaze flicking over her face. Miranda lifted her eyes to give him a defiant glare in return.
God, he was a handsome bastard.
The key word there is “bastard,” Miranda told herself. He might not be Chosen, but he was male. Which meant that like every other male she’d ever known, he couldn’t be trusted.
And yet part of her wished he was the hero he seemed: a man willing to fight to protect the weak. A man she could trust to have her back so that she didn’t have to struggle every single minute. She was so damned tired of being alone and afraid.
Okay, that was self-pitying, Miranda decided, suddenly impatient with herself. And the rest was just plain stupid. Stupid and stupidly romantic.
She really needed to hunt down that part of her mind and bludgeon it to death before it got her killed.
Belle walked around the two suits of armor she’d arrayed on a pair of mannequins in the center of the spell circle: her own and Tristan’s much larger one. The scales glittered in the candlelight like ancient treasure in a dragon’s horde.
“The problem with these suits is they’re magic, and that damned beast of Warlock’s eats magic,” she told Miranda. The girl had accompanied her into the basement to tackle the problem right after breakfast. “And since I used my blood to make Tristan’s, if the beast bites the suit, it also gets its teeth into me. Tris and I are now Truebonded, so we’ve got to fix that or we’ll both end up dead the first time Beastie starts to gnaw.”
“Yeah, that would definitely suck.” Miranda cocked her head, considering the armor. Tall and pretty, she had red hair as brilliant as a fox’s coat and eyes that seemed to glow against the cream of her skin. Her oval face had an Art Deco delicacy, with its long, thin nose and cupid’s bow mouth. You’d never guess she could become a seven-foot werewolf.
Today she’d conjured herself a pair of snug blue jeans and a black T-shirt with the words ONE OF LADY GAGA’S LITTLE MONSTERS scrawled across her generous breasts. No wonder Justice’s eyes had glazed when he’d seen her this morning.
Too bad they got along like two badgers in a burlap bag.
Belle muttered and paced around the armor again. It was early afternoon, and she needed to solve the problem with the suits before the vampires woke at sunset. They’d likely end up going into battle tonight, which was no doubt when the Council of Clans would put Davon on trial. She wouldn’t put it past them to try him during the day, but being a vampire, he’d be unconscious. Trying a comatose man would make for poor political theater. She hoped.
The key to the rescue was Elena Rollings. If only the councilwoman would use the communication gem she’d magically slipped her. Petra could find Davon again in a pinch, but it would be a good sign if Elena contacted her. For one thing, they’d know she, at least, hadn’t drunk the werewolf Kool-Aid. Or eaten the kibble, or whatever.
Abruptly Miranda turned to her with a wicked grin on her face. “I think I know how to put a kink in Beastie’s tail.”
After the girl described the spell she had in mind, Belle grinned back. “Oh, child, I do like the way you think.”
They were going to try him in a state park, for God’s sake. Davon stared out the window of Linda Corley’s SUV, watching the dark forest roll past, splashed here and there with silver pools of moonlight. He might have enjoyed the trip, but his wrists lay heavy in his lap, wrapped in chains and secured with a heavy padlock. You’d think he was a gate.
The truck stopped, and he looked around to see a wiry man in a state Department of Natural Resources uniform standing beside it. Linda rolled down the window and Davon caught a whiff of fur as the man leaned in to study him avidly. “That him?”
“Yes, that’s the accused,” Linda said, a bit primly.
“Figures he’d be black. Go on in.”
Linda obeyed, the set of her shoulders suddenly gone stiff.
“A racist werewolf,” Davon drawled. “Interesting. Gives the whole thing a lynching aspect I hadn’t considered.”
“This is not a lynching,” the woman snapped, glowering at him in the rearview mirror. “Marvin’s just a dick.”
“No? White folks taking a black guy out in the woods to kill him . . . Y’all gonna get out the hoods and bedsheets next?”
“Shut up, vampire.” Davon went to work cultivating an uncomfortable silence to give her a chance to think about what she was really involved in. He might have made his peace with God, but he wasn’t above pointing out the hypocrisy of his werewolf captors.
He did wish he’d been able to call his parents, but he had no idea what to tell them.
The caravan of council vehicles snaked on along the mountain road between towering dark trees. Finally they pulled into a parking lot marked with a sign that read, FAMILY PICNIC AREA.
What, are they serving—vampire? Davon wondered. Well, at least his sense of humor was back.
An hour later, it was gone again, mostly because the end of his wrist chains had been padlocked to a stake driven into the ground, as Rosen announced, “for the safety of our audience.”
What the hell did they think he was going to do? There had to be two thousand werewolves in the crowd.
Guess it’s time for Kabuki theater, doggy style.
Judging by the snippets of conversation he heard, some of the wolves had been driving for hours to attend the trial. Evidently some kind of order had gone out that morning. Lovely. Just in case everyone isn’t in a bad enough mood.
Then, as Davon watched in bemusement, the werewolves spread picnic blankets out on the grass and proceeded to wander around catching up with old friends.
Somebody started a bonfire. He eyed it nervously. Are we planning to roast vampires and make s’mores?
At least they’d left the kids at home this time.
That reminded him. They’d better get this show on the road if they expect to kill my ass before Arthur shows up with the marines.
What the fuck am I doing? Davon thought suddenly. Why had he turned himself in to these lunatics? Had he been high?
Shit. Too damned late now. His stomach felt like his half-blind grandmother’s embroidery: one big knot. He shifted his booted feet and wished they’d let him take off his armor. Guess they wanted to play up the Knight of the Round Table aspect, though Davon was hardly one of the elite.
A man in Dire Wolf form walked out into the center of the picnic area, not far from where Davon stood. He stopped, came to attention, and lifted a large silver hand bell he began to ring in clanging peals. The crowd quickly fell silent, and he bellowed, “Hear ye, hear ye! The Council of Werewolf Clans meets to deliver justice to the vampire Davon Fredericks and the family of James Wendel Sheridan, his alleged victim.”
Moving slowly in single file, the members of the council emerged from the trees. Like the guy with the bell—the bailiff?—they were all in Dire Wolf form.
They moved to the massive wooden table a pair of brawny wolves had earlier unloaded from a rental truck. It and its accompanying thirteen chairs were crudely built, in a way that suggested both tradition and great age.
The wolf who’d sat down in the center chair lifted a large mallet and brought it banging down on the table’s dark wooden surface in three steady raps. Must be Rosen. “Who brings this case before us?”
“I, Galen Vanderberg, Wolf sheriff of the Council of Clans.” It was the guy with the bell. Okay, apparently not a bailiff. Also not Justice either.
“Present your evidence,” Rosen said.
Feeling the knots in his stomach tighten even more, Davon shifted in his chains and prepared to listen.
Belle and Tristan stood at attention under the starry Avalon sky as Arthur inspected the ranks. There were five hundred warriors assembled for the rescue mission—every experienced agent Arthur could pull in from the field without causing chaos in operations.
To Belle’s delight, Elena Rollings had indeed used the spell gem to contact her with the location of the sc
ene. She was there now, the moonstone gripped in one furry hand, ready to guide a gate.
“I hope the kid appreciates what we’re doing for him,” Tristan said in the Truebond.
Belle suspected the smile she gave him was a little goofy. She loved feeling his consciousness brush hers. Banishing the expression as inappropriate for an inspection, she replied, “Unfortunately, Davon’s probably going to get just as pissy about it as he was last night.”
“I hate rookies.”
“Me, too.”
“Oh, bullshit, Court Seducer.”
“Not anymore.” The thought sounded more than a little smug. She’d handed in her resignation to Morgana that afternoon. Once you Truebonded, you were no longer eligible for the office. Morgana had accepted the letter with a sigh. Evidently, she’d been expecting it.
Retired or not, though, Belle fully intended to visit and encourage her boys. She just wouldn’t have to sleep with any of them.
Or, for that matter, kill them.
“Tonight we go to save one of our own,” Arthur said in his ringing parade ground voice, jerking her from her preoccupation. “Davon’s young, and his judgment leaves something to be desired . . .” His dry tone won a laugh. “But he’s also a victim of an ancient enemy we didn’t even know we had. Warlock is the self-appointed god of the Direkind, and he means to lead them to war against us.”
He fell silent, his dark gaze sweeping the lines of agents, his mailed hand riding Excalibur’s hilt. His armor shone in the moonlight, and he’d tucked his helm under one mailed arm. His wife stood just behind him, serenely beautiful in her own armor. “But remember, these people are our cousins—created, like us, by Merlin. They were to be humanity’s guardians in case we ever forsook our vows and attempted to victimize humanity.”
Arthur pivoted and began to pace along the line of warriors. “But we never did. We have done our duty faithfully all these centuries. Unfortunately, it seems Warlock has gone insane from jealousy and paranoia. He means to destroy us, and he’s using Davon Fredericks as his excuse.”
He stopped and swung to rake his eyes across the line. “I will not allow it. Warlock dies tonight, before he has the opportunity to poison his people any further. We will kill as few of the Direkind as possible, though we will defend ourselves when necessary. And we will bring Davon Fredericks home.”
Silence fell, seeming to vibrate like struck crystal in the moonlit darkness.
“Now,” he said, “as to the order of battle . . .”
“You have heard the evidence against you, Davon Fredericks,” Rosen said. “How do you plead?”
Davon licked his dry lips. That was the question, wasn’t it? Yesterday it had all seemed so very clear: he had killed Jimmy Sheridan, and that was all that mattered.
But then he’d prayed with Howard Sheridan and his son, and somehow that had changed everything. He’d felt God’s forgiveness. The self-hate that had haunted him for days had lifted like a dark cloud, and a sense of peace rolled over him. He could plead not guilty because now he knew he really wasn’t guilty. But if he did, the Council would howl betrayal and declare war on the Magekind, then execute him anyway.
If he pleaded guilty, however, maybe he could make the werewolves see that the Magekind were committed to justice, even if they had to pay the ultimate price for it.
Davon swallowed and lifted his chin. To his relief, his voice rose in clear, even cadences, without the tremor he’d half feared. “It was my hand that killed Jimmy. But I was the victim of . . .”
“We did not ask you for an explanation,” Rosen snapped. “You’ve admitted your guilt. That is sufficient for these proceedings.”
Howard Sheridan rose. “As the father of the victim, I claim my right to speak.”
Rosen hesitated, obviously worried about what the preacher might say. Finally he admitted, “You have that right.”
Sheridan paused, his gaze flickering across the faces of the watching werewolves. His eyes lingered last on the gaunt face of his wife, hollow-eyed and sleepless. The crowd went utterly silent.
Until at last he spoke. “I do not believe that Davon Fredericks is guilty of murder.”
A gasp rolled over the audience, along with a broken cry of protest. Davon winced; it had come from Sheridan’s wife. “But my boy is dead!” she wailed. “He’s dead, and he never did anything to anyone! I want his killer dead!”
Sheridan flinched, but he lifted his voice over his wife’s protests. “Fredericks told me that when he killed my son, he did so because of a spell cast on him by Warlock. He believed Arthur had told him my son was guilty of raping and murdering a four-year-old child. He wasn’t, of course, but Davon had no reason to doubt the man he believed to be his leader. A man who told him that unless he killed Jimmy, Jimmy would kill again. I believe he was as much a victim of Warlock as Jimmy, and I have forgiven him for what he did.”
Astonished whispers swept over the crowd. Some seemed surprised that he’d believe Warlock existed at all, while others were outraged that he’d suggest their mythic hero would commit such a crime.
“And why would I do such a thing?” The voice was all velvet seduction, tinged with a note of fatherly sorrow.
Davon jerked around and stared. The huge white werewolf stood at the edge of the trees, an armored warrior in human form standing just behind him like a bodyguard. He was the first werewolf Davon had ever seen in armor. Mailed gauntlets covered his hands and forearms, a chest plate stretched over his massive torso, and long tassets swung at his hips. The armor was black, with intricately engraved silver panels. He carried a huge battle-axe with rubies inset in the point between the blades. A helmet that resembled a crown covered his head.
“Warlock!” someone gasped. “It’s Warlock!”
Oh, shit, Davon thought.
“Merlin gave Arthur a great trust—to guide mankind into a bright future.” Warlock paced forward on clawed feet, his white fur seeming to shine with its own light. “But Arthur has failed. Anyone who has ever watched CNN knows that much. Chaos wracks this world—mad assassins, terrorists, religious fanatics killing anyone who doesn’t believe exactly as they do. Is this the world Merlin wanted?”
Warlock turned toward the crowd and spread his clawed hands. “Is this the world you want to give your children?”
“No!” a man yelled.
“Of course not.” Warlock paced on. Davon’s gaze slid to the bodyguard following the werewolf like a shadow, a two-handed great sword sheathed across his back. His plate armor was matte black; he was barely visible even to Davon’s vampire vision. A helmet covered his face completely, making him appear menacing and faceless.
A chill made gooseflesh rise on Davon’s arms. Something told him he was looking at his executioner.
“This world convulses with war, thousands starving while others die of obesity,” Warlock continued. “Countries lurch along guided by fools and costly bureaucracies that accomplish little beyond giving idiots work. Meanwhile, what does Arthur do?”
He pivoted to face the crowd, and his voice lifted into a contemptuous roar. “I’ll tell you what he does—nothing! Yet he has the means to take the chaos in hand instead of allowing it to thrive. Think of the power at his disposal. Thousands of witches who could make humans believe whatever he pleases, who can transport his vampire warriors wherever he likes to kill terrorists and madmen and murderers. Arthur’s witches give him the power to ensure the hungry are fed, to heal diseases of the body and mind, to persuade leaders to follow him. And he does nothing.”
His voice dropped, forcing the crowd to strain to listen. “Nothing except send his killers to kill our children. And blame me for his crimes. Me!”
A rumble of outrage rolled over the listening werewolves, and Davon’s heart sank. His gaze flicked to Warlock’s silent bodyguard shadow, and sweat broke out along his spine. Bound as he was, he could do nothing to defend himself.
But damned if he would stand here any longer and listen to this self-serving shi
t. “Arthur wouldn’t do such a thing!” Davon yelled. “He . . .”
“Silence, murderer!” Warlock flicked his fingers, and Davon’s vocal chords locked, producing nothing more than a strained croak. “You’ve admitted your crime. The rest is lies. I will not allow you to hoodwink my people the way you did that poor boy’s father.”
Why didn’t Warlock smell like the liar he was? Davon wondered in helpless fury. Tanner’s lies had burned the air, as sharp and obvious as the stink of urine, but Warlock smelled like a man speaking the absolute truth. He must be using magic to mask the odor. Werewolves can resist magic, but if he’s not casting the spell on them, but on himself . . .
“Arthur blames me because he knows I have the strength he lacks.” Warlock curled a hand into a massive fist. “He knows my people have the strength to lead the humans, instead of cowering in the shadows like his.” His gaze swept across the audience, blazing with a fanatic’s certainty. “You all have so much potential, more than you even dream of. You are the descendents of warriors—my bold Chosen knights who fought at my side so many centuries ago. I can help you realize that potential, become the fighters Merlin intended you to be. And together, we can lead Humanity into a new future . . .”
“I have never heard such a stream of bullshit in my entire life.”
Davon’s head whipped around, and his heart leaped in joy.
Arthur Pendragon had just stepped through a dimensional gate. He was dressed in full plate armor, the enchanted steel shining in the moonlight, faint golden sparks trailing him as he moved. The Knights of the Round Table strode behind him, like a wall of steel at his back. Their ladies moved alongside them, also in armor, all silent, gleaming beauty.
Master of Shadows Page 27
