Master of Smoke

by Angela Knight

  “Now I teach you how to make those furry bastards bleed.”

  Warlock sat at his desk in one of the deeper chambers of his mountain lair, his head bent over a conjured book. His gold fountain pen scratched feverishly over the fine linen paper as he tried to record every detail he could recall from the Demigod’s memory. He’d been at it so long he was getting writer’s cramp.

  As much as he hated to admit it, Warlock knew there was a possibility Smoke would reclaim his memories and powers. If he lost those abilities, he could always find an alternative, but the cat knew a great many very valuable things Warlock didn’t want to forget. Which meant he needed to write them down.

  He was particularly interested in other elementals like Smoke. Not many had survived, but there was at least one. And that one might be the key to turning the tables—if his plan to kill Smoke failed.

  He grinned viciously. There truly is more than one way to skin a cat.

  Because Eva’s living room wasn’t a good place for the kind of training he had in mind, David told her to drive them to somewhere more private.

  She chose a spot in a nearby state park she remembered from childhood rambles. It lay deep in the woods beside a shallow, snaking creek where she’d caught frogs as a kid. Best of all, it was far enough away from any homes that they shouldn’t have to worry about interruptions.

  Eva felt a strange combination of excitement and worry—excitement that he would teach her what she wanted so badly to learn, worry that she would somehow screw it all up. “I’ve been thinking. Wouldn’t it be better to get me a gun and just shoot them? I think Dad’s got a pistol. I could probably persuade him to give it to me.”

  “Shooting a Dire Wolf is a waste of time,” David told her, walking around the clearing examining the thick layer of fallen leaves that covered the ground. “They can heal the injury too quickly. It takes massive damage to put them down for any length of time, and for that you need a bladed weapon.”

  She frowned at him. “What did you just call them?”

  “Dire Wolves. That’s what they call themselves.”

  “Yeah, I know—Cat told me. But how do you know that? For that matter, how do you know the gun thing?”

  David looked at her, opened his mouth, then shut it again. “I have no idea. But it’s true.” He shrugged. “It just feels right.”

  “Okay. So we know swords work. Why don’t we get one for me? We probably don’t have time to order something like that online, but I bet we could find a machete at a garden supply store.”

  “Using a blade effectively takes a lot more training than we have time for. As it is, an attacker would probably take it away from you and behead you with it.”

  Eva eyed him. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Dr. Phil.”

  He met her gaze with a cool lift of an eyebrow. “Would you rather I told some flattering lie that got you killed?”

  “Not really.”

  “Good, because I’m not going to do it.” He gave her a come-on gesture. “Change now. I want to show you something.”

  When she’d recovered from the grinding pain of transformation, he extended a powerful arm, bent at the elbow. “Take my hand.” Eva obeyed, instantly conscious of the warm roughness of his callused palm beneath her furry one. “Now see if you can force my arm down.”

  Eva eyed him dubiously. “So we’re arm wrestling now?”

  “Yes.” His cool gaze did not invite argument.

  “Okay.” She started to push.

  He lifted a dark, faintly amused brow. “Is that the best you can do? Because I don’t believe our enemies will be impressed.”

  Anger zipping through her, Eva bore down hard against his arm. Thick muscle rippled as he fought her strength, but he still looked faintly contemptuous. Anger growing into rage, she applied more force.

  And wrenched his arm down. He released her and jumped back, shaking his hand and flexing his fingers.

  “Did I hurt you?” Alarmed, she caught his hand and examined it anxiously.

  “No.” He watched her check him over. “You know, you’re considerably stronger than I am.”

  Eva blinked, eyeing the width of his shoulders and the curve of the powerful muscles in his arm. “Who, me?”

  “Yes. Which implies that the werewolves we fought yesterday were even stronger. Yet who won?”

  “You did, but you had a sword.”

  “Was that the only reason?”

  “No.” She remembered his savagery as he’d chopped his blade into the fallen werewolf, his face contorted with ferocity. “You hit them so hard, you caught them by surprise.”

  He nodded. “A bigger fighter expects to win against a smaller one. And usually, he’s right. He’s got the leverage, he’s got the reach and the strength, and nine times out of ten he’s going to wipe the floor with the smaller man. So how does someone like me win against an eight-foot werewolf?”

  She considered the question thoughtfully. “You didn’t hold back at all. You hurt them so bad, so fast they don’t have time to counterattack.”

  “And you can do the same thing. More easily, in fact, because you’re bigger and stronger in this form, but you’re also female, which means they’re not going to expect you to give them a fight at all. They think women are weak and cowardly, and when they smell your fear, they’ll assume they can rape and kill you and get away with it.”

  He sounded so calm about it, she started to get a little pissed off—until she looked in those blue eyes and saw his cold anger.

  So she decided on honesty. “David, I just don’t see how I can take on four werewolves and win.”

  “That’s because you can’t. Luckily, they won’t send four wolves against you. I’m Warlock’s primary target, which will make me the main threat in their minds. So they’ll send most of their number against me, with one wolf to get you under control so they can play with you later. But you’re going to turn the tables.”

  “Ummm. Turn the tables. Right.”

  “Grab my wrists and try to keep me from pulling free.”

  She obeyed cautiously. He started jerking back and forth, so she tightened her grip until he finally stopped. “You see how pointless this is,” David told her. “You can hold on all day while I tire myself out. Attacking into your strength is not only a waste of time, it would eventually get me killed. I need to attack your weaknesses.” His sneakered heel abruptly rammed her shin with bruising force. She lost her grip in surprise at the shooting pain.

  Twisting, he hooked a foot behind her knee and shot his elbow into the underside of her jaw, snapping her head around. She fell flat on her ass, and he kicked right between her legs, pulling it at the last moment so the blow did not land with full force. Even so, it stung.

  “That’s always a good target,” David told her cheerfully, “especially since your pants vanish when you change.”

  “Kick ’em in the ’nads,” Eva said dryly, staring up at the leafy canopy over her head while she waited for the pain to fade. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

  “Do whatever wins, darling. Now grab me from behind.”

  Thirty seconds later, she was on her ass again.

  He had her attack him from the front, from behind, and from the side, then from lying on top of him, then from lying on his back. Each time, she thought she had him pinned beyond his ability to escape, yet he’d throw her off, sometimes with a simple thrust of his hip. Then he’d slam an elbow into her jaw, throat, or ribs, curl his fingers into her cheek in lieu of clawing her eyes, or kick her in the shin, thigh, belly, or ribs.

  Once she was sore and thoroughly pissed off, if not particularly hurt, he had her change to human form and started teaching her how to use the same techniques against him.

  “The difference in height and strength is about the same between me and you in human form as between you and the wolves when you change,” David explained.

  The kicks, strikes and throws he demonstrated weren’t complicated, but they were surprisingly e
ffective. Eva and David practiced them all day and well into the evening, hour after hour.

  By the time they got home, her muscles felt like overcooked pasta. Sore, overcooked pasta.

  Eva lay stretched out across the width of the bed, naked and clean. She’d had a shower and an impressive supper, but she still felt as drained as a teenager’s cell phone the day of the senior prom. “I used to think you were a nice man. I was wrong. I was so, sooo wrong.”

  Equally naked, David rattled around in a bedside bureau, pulled out a bottle, and considered the label. “Perhaps this will help.” His grin was distinctly wicked.

  She whimpered as he climbed onto the bed to straddle her ass. “David, like I told you in the shower, I’m too tired and full for sex.”

  Speak for yourself, Fluffy told her.

  Hey, you ate all those Whoppers. She’d been too exhausted to cook.

  I’m not taking the rap for that. You were the one stuffing your face.

  Because you threatened to eat the neighbor’s dog if I didn’t stop at Burger King.

  “This is not sex.” David poured a handful of something from the bottle. “This is a massage.”

  Too wrung out to move, Eva rolled her eyes to watch him warily. “How do you know how to do a massage?”

  “The same way I know how to do everything else.”

  “Good point.” Big hands landed on her shoulders, and long, slick fingers dug into knotted muscle in a burst of instant heat. He’d found the warming oil. “Oh, holy God.”

  The man was right—he was as good at giving a massage as he was at everything else. Really, really good.

  He coaxed the kinks from her back with a precise pressure calibrated just short of pain. And that oil—God knew when or why she’d bought it—left a trail of heat everywhere his kneading fingers touched, filling the air with the smell of cinnamon. He found knotted muscles she hadn’t even known she had and worked them like bread dough until they released.

  She started purring. He purred back, a throaty rumble that made her wonder if Cat was surfacing again.

  Hot fingers found her ass, caressed and stroked. Her libido woke up with a growl.

  Ha, said Fluffy. Told you.

  Then those wicked hands slid right off her butt and proceeded down her thighs. “Hey,” she told the pillow. “You’re headed the wrong way.”

  David chuckled, the sound warm and teasing.

  He kept going the wrong way right down to her feet, where he found and demolished knots the size of seed pearls between her toes. Who knew you could get knots between your toes?

  Marry him, Fluffy demanded. We can fly to Vegas and find a preacher dressed like Elvis.

  Would you shut up? You’re interrupting my toe-gasm.

  “Turn over,” he said in a baritone rumble when her toes were limp.

  I’ll get oil on the sheets.

  Fuck off, Martha Stewart, Fluffy said. This is the good part.

  Eva turned over, and he straddled her.

  Glancing down, she went cross-eyed. His cock rested on her belly, thick and massively erect, a bead of arousal glistening on the tip.

  I think I hear the dinner bell, Fluffy said. Let me at it.

  He did not, much to her disappointment, start with her tits. Instead he went to work on her shoulders and biceps and hands, until Fluffy started growling with impatience.

  Apparently he heard the impatient psychic rumble, because his next stop was her breasts. Oily fingers stroked aching nipples in tender figure eights, then squeezed and pinched slippery flesh until she squirmed. The warming oil tingled deliciously, burning just short of pain.

  If he hadn’t turned her arms into overcooked noodles, she’d have grabbed his cock to speed things along. As it was, she just didn’t have the strength.

  He massaged his way down her torso, moving to straddle her thighs as he went. His cock lay along her belly, a solid weight. She eyed it like a bird fascinated by a snake. A really big snake. “I have an idea for a new comic book movie.”

  “Mmm?”

  She sang it. “Ana-CONDA Man!”

  He grinned. “You’re good for my ego.”

  “I’d come up with a theme song, but all the blood has left my brain.”

  “Too bad.”

  “Not really.” The words spiraled into a yip as slippery fingers found her sex, skating back and forth over her outer lips. He lifted his weight off her legs and spread them until he could settle in between. “It’d have to be a porno.”

  Then he parted her and traced her clit with a slick fingertip, and she almost swallowed her tongue. Heat jolted from her groin straight to her brain stem. “Oh, God!”

  Slowly, deliberately, he traced lazy patterns over and around her button, stopping periodically to pump his fingers deep in her slick core.

  Then he’d lean close and blow a stream of cool air over her hot clit, and she’d damn near levitate off the bed.

  “David!” Eva yelped finally. “Anytime now!”

  He gave her a slow, far too innocent blink. “Anytime what?”

  Unable to take any more, she wailed, “Fuck me!”

  “Not yet.” A finger skated another set of designs around her clit. Hearts, moons—Was that a clover? Oh, God, he’s channeling Lucky Charms.

  She grabbed his shoulders. “Now!”

  “Not yet.”

  “Now!” Her voice deepened into a Fluffy growl, and her nails dug into his skin.

  He grinned. “Well, if you insist.”

  God, he moved fast. One minute he was doodling marshmallow shapes between her legs. The next he was on top of her, his cock in his hand, and then he was in her, deep and hard and thick and pumping, and she realized he was just as turned on as she was, and oh, Jesus, it was so good ...

  ELEVEN

  Eva gripped him in swollen heat, incredibly tight, hooking her feet over his butt so she could meet his rolling thrusts. A spike of raw pleasure stabbed into David’s skull, and he threw back his head, riding the surge.

  She cried out, sweet and high, and he had to watch her come. Her beautiful dark eyes looked drowned in delight as her lips parted on helpless moans, full and tempting. Her hair spilled over the bed in a tangle of gleaming curls, and her breasts bounced in time to his thrusts, lovely handfuls tipped in candy pink.

  So lovely. So brave and vulnerable.

  God, I love her. The thought hit him like a bolt to the brain. I just wish I could stay the hell away from her before I hurt her worse than Warlock. Yet even though he knew he should stay away, every time they touched, he went up in flames.

  The flash of guilt vanished in a blaze of orgasm. She screamed even as he went over, and he watched those beautiful eyes go blind in climax.

  David collapsed onto the mattress and hauled her over on top of him. Struggling to get his breath, he savored the way she felt lying across him like a sweet-smelling scarf, silken hair tumbled across his skin, tangled with his own.

  “I’ve come up with a sidekick for Anaconda Man,” she murmured sleepily.

  “Oh?”

  “Her name is Noodle Woman. She’s not much of a sidekick. Just kinda lies there with her eyes rolled back in her head and a sated smile on her face. But she drives all the female super-villains crazy.”

  He laughed, savoring the sound of her giggle.

  Then a thought wiped the grin off his face. How can I keep them from killing her? How can I keep from hurting her?

  “The car is registered to Eva Naomi Roman,” the werewolf said. “She lives at 605 Millview Road, Building Five, Apartment E-8, Greendale, South Carolina. I checked the Dire Wolf rolls, but she’s not registered.”

  Warlock grunted in satisfaction. Joe Byrnes was the Bastards’ computer hacker. Five minutes after Warlock gave him the car tag number Danvers had called in, Byrnes had the desired information.

  “She must be a Bitten rogue,” Warlock said thoughtfully. It was, of course, strictly forbidden to give a human the Bite without informing the local clan. It was too e
asy to create a rogue who had no knowledge of what it meant to be a Dire Wolf—and who was therefore a danger to everyone else. “She was probably one of Trey Devon’s victims. He always was an idiot. I’m not surprised he couldn’t control his Bite.” Trey had murdered women for years, until a Maja who was the sister of one of his victims tracked him down and killed him.

  That Trey had slaughtered all those women meant nothing to Warlock, but he was deeply irritated that the case had attracted Arthur’s attention. The Magekind always slew their own mad rogues; the Direkind’s inability to do the same pricked his ego. Adding insult to injury, one of the Magekind had cleaned up his mess.

  To make matters worse, Trey’s father had set out to avenge his son’s death, only to fail miserably despite Warlock’s assistance. Arthur’s son, Logan MacRoy, had survived all his assassination attempts. The only positive thing that had come out of the incident was Warlock’s acquisition of Smoke’s power.

  Warlock considered the members of Geri team as they lined up in his throne room. They’d all transformed to face him—four big, capable wolves. Unfortunately, Skoll had been just as tough, just as capable, but they’d still fallen to Smoke’s merciless skill.

  “We’re going to try something a little different this time,” Warlock told them.

  The wolves moved closer to listen.

  This, Tristan thought, as he pulled up to Joan Devon’s sprawling brick McMansion, is going to be one of those missions. The kind where you rammed your head repeatedly against a brick wall with nothing to show for it except a bloody skull.

  They’d been hunting Smoke and/or Warlock for the past few days with zero success. Tristan figured the cat was dead and buried in an unmarked grave somewhere. Which sucked, because he’d liked the fuzzy little bastard. Warlock—well, nobody knew nothing, which was a sure sign everybody was lying.

  He was starting to hate werewolves. What the fuck had Merlin been thinking?