“Ah. Okay. Umm, good-bye, Mrs. Devon. You take care, now.”
Joan clicked the portable phone off and gently cradled it. She looked around the bedroom with its overturned furniture, ripped bedspread, and trail of bloodsplatter. Did she have time to pick up?
Probably not. The damage was too extensive to repair in the time she had. And anyway, they would want tea.
Her gaze caught on the portrait of her family hanging over the massive four poster. Trey and Amanda, smiling happily to either side of her, George standing behind them all, tall and strong and smiling.
He could hide so much behind that well-bred smile.
Hatred rose in her, black and choking. She’d tolerated too much for too long. Too much death. Too much madness.
And Warlock. She’d tolerated Warlock for far, far too long. Well, she was done with that.
He was behind it all, she knew. That damned sorcerer had set all this in motion, stolen her children, her pride, her husband, put them all on the path to destruction.
But she would have her revenge. She would pay for it, of course—pay in heart’s blood. Not that it mattered. In all the ways that counted, she’d lost Amanda long ago. Like George, her daughter had always seen her as weak.
She wasn’t weak. She was a woman of the Chosen, and she had more strength than the men of her class ever gave her credit for.
Sometimes being underestimated was quite useful.
Briskly, Joan rose from the bed and limped toward the hall. She needed to prepare the tea.
Sheriff Bill Jones crouched by Samantha Taylor’s bloody body. Giada couldn’t help but notice he knelt in the same spot Arthur had occupied an hour before.
“It looks like her own fuckin’ K-9 killed her.” He shook his head, his expression weary and sick. “I let my grandchildren play with that dog.” He looked up at Giada and Logan. “So you found her like this?”
Logan nodded. “The kitchen door was standing open.”
Jones’s eyes narrowed. “So y’all just walked right on in?”
“We spotted the blood trail on the floor. Thought we’d better investigate.”
“We called 911 as soon as we found her.” Giada’s gaze dropped to the trail of bloody dog tracks that led out of the room and down the hall to the kitchen door. She’d conjured it herself, just as she’d removed the blast marks from the hallway and all traces of Sherri’s blood from the carpet. She’d also repaired the glass door and removed the camp chair from the woods.
The fact that she’d tampered with evidence in the process gave her a queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. Unfortunately, the only alternative had been to leave Sam to rot in her own bedroom, and Giada was no more willing to do that than Logan was.
Jones straightened. “So what were y’all doing here to begin with?”
Logan met his gaze steadily. “I wanted to talk to her.”
“About her belief you had something to do with killing Davis? I’d imagine that pissed you off.”
“I had no intention of starting trouble, Sheriff.”
“I’d fuckin’ well hope not, since if you did, it didn’t end too well for Sam.”
“So you think, what? I showed up and sicced her own dog on her?”
“Don’t be a smart ass, MacRoy.”
Anger sizzled through Giada. “Logan would never hurt any woman. Especially not a fellow cop. And the idea that he’d have anything to do with killing Mark is just ridiculous.”
Jones eyed her, his gaze cool. Though Giada could feel her cheeks getting hot, she refused to drop her eyes.
“You done?” he drawled at last.
She gave him a slight, cool nod. The tips of his mustache twitched into something suspiciously close to a smile. “Good, ’cause I agree with you.” He turned a cool, steady gaze on Logan. “I’ve known you seven years now, MacRoy, and I’d sooner suspect my own son-in-law of killing Mark Davis than you. You’re a good cop, a smart cop.” The sheriff shook his head. “But I’ve gotta tell you, coming over here was fuckin’ stupid. Sam had a temper, and she woulda jumped your ass in a heartbeat. As it is, you’re damned lucky those wounds are obviously dog bites, or you would be in deep shit.”
Logan sighed. “Yeah. But I wish to God I’d had to deal with Sam’s redheaded temper instead of finding her like this.”
“You and me both, boy.” His expression brooding, he watched as the evidence tech shot pictures of the dead woman. “Damn, I’m tired of standin’ over my people’s bodies. Just makes me sick in my gut.” He looked around at Logan and Giada again. “You two coming to Mark’s receiving tomorrow night?”
Logan nodded. “I want to pay my respects to the family, and I doubt I’ll be able to make the funeral.”
Jones frowned, obviously wondering what would be more important to Logan than his teammate’s funeral. There was no way to explain that since the service would be held during the day, Logan would be unconscious, out cold in the Daysleep.
“What time is the receiving?” Giada asked, obviously hoping to divert the sheriff’s attention.
The receiving of friends was an old Southern tradition, generally held at the funeral home the evening before the funeral so those who couldn’t attend the service could pay their respects.
“They’re expecting a pretty big crowd, so it’ll run from six thirty to ten P.M.,” Jones said. “I figure half the departments in the Southeast will send representatives, plus a sizable percentage of the public.”
It was fairly unusual for a Southern cop to fall in the line of duty. The last time a Greendale County deputy had died on the job had been in 1973.
An ambulance crew approached, leading a stretcher. Logan, Jones, and Giada stepped aside to let them put Samantha in a body bag. “Our visitors might as well stay in town,” the sheriff said, watching grimly. “Gonna have to hold another one for Jones in a couple of days. Hope we’ve killed that damn dog by then.”
Logan exchanged a look with Giada. Jones wasn’t the only one with plans for Sam’s killer.
Which was when his magic cell phone rang. He moved off down the hall as he flipped it open, Giada at his heels. His father’s voice spoke. “We’re moving on George Devon.”
“We’ll be right there.” Logan closed the phone and turned to Giada. “Let’s go.”
SEVENTEEN
The werewolf lived in a mansion.
Arthur and his team of knights and Majae gated into a huge, dour room lined with bookshelves and leather tomes. The air smelled of dust, ancient paper, and the lingering odor of cherry pipe tobacco. Under that lay a strange, exotic scent that reminded Arthur of a combination of ozone, fur, and deep woods. He knew that smell from the Dragon War.
Dire Wolf.
Eyes narrow, he scanned the room. An oxblood leather chair sat behind a massive desk of dark, heavily carved wood that occupied one end of the long room. The opposite end was dominated by a fireplace of black marble flecked in red quartz that reminded him a little too much of blood.
A life-sized painting hung over the fireplace: a young blond man dressed in cream jodhpurs and a red jacket. His chin tilted at an arrogant angle, hauteur in his cold blue eyes. A pair of fox hounds lolled at his booted toes.
“Trey?” Gwen muttered.
“Trey,” Arthur confirmed.
Galahad snorted. “Looks more like something out of the nineteenth century than the twenty-first.”
“Which was probably his whole problem right there.” Arthur lifted his chin in silent signal and started for the door, Excalibur naked in his gloved hand. His team followed him, silent as ghosts, moving out into the hallway to begin a fast, efficient search.
They’d found no trace of George Devon Jr. beyond the scent of Dire Wolf, when light steps and the faint ring of metal sounded on the stairs.
Arthur turned in the corridor, Excalibur in his hands, conscious of his wife beside him, ready to throw a spell.
“Hello, Arthur Pendragon. And Lady Guinevere, of course,” the woman called in a voice fl
avored with a Charlestonian drawl that sounded both cultured and wealthy. “Welcome to my home.”
Arthur tensed, exchanging a quick glance with Gwen. Despite the elaborate courtesy in her voice, the woman smelled of blood.
They watched, tense, as she reached the top of the stairs, a silver tea service in her hands. She was a slim, delicately built woman, dressed in a robe of heavy cream silk that made her skin appear almost ghostly. Thick hair curled around her shoulders, a rich, dark chestnut shot with silver. Fine lines fanned around her large, hazel eyes and bracketed her full mouth. She was probably in her mid-fifties.
Blood streaked one long, trailing sleeve of her robe.
“You’re bleeding,” Gwen said.
The woman glanced down, lifting one thin forearm. A set of deep claw marks raked in a spiral along its length, the blood dark and dried on her pale skin. “It’s nothing. It will heal when I transform.”
“Who hurt you?” Arthur asked, anger glinting in his dark eyes.
A faint, dry smile curled her lips. “My husband is a traditionalist. I questioned his judgment in reference to our daughter.”
Arthur tensed. “Is he home?”
“No.” The faint smile flashed again. “But your knights are welcome to search the house for him if you wish.” She started toward the library with the heavy tray, then paused to look at them. “Will you join me?”
“Of course,” Gwen said, exchanging a telling glance with Arthur. They barely needed their Truebond to communicate anymore.
He sheathed his sword and dipped his head in a half bow. “Lead the way, madam.”
Cautiously, they followed her. As they passed one of the bedrooms, Lance stuck his head into the corridor. Arthur nodded, silently indicating that his warriors should continue the search.
The Dire Wolf woman put the tray down on a small black marble table before the fireplace and gestured at the three oxblood leather chairs that surrounded it. “Please sit.”
“I don’t believe we’ve been introduced,” Gwen said as they obeyed.
“Oh, dear.” The woman looked momentarily flustered. “I’m sorry, I’m Joan Devon. Tea?”
“Yes, please.” Arthur studied her, frowning. The woman seemed entirely too calm about having her home searched by a team of armed vampires and witches.
And it had been a woman who’d killed Samantha Jones.
“I hope you’ll excuse our descending on you like this, but we have suffered some serious losses lately,” Arthur said. “Latents have been murdered, and my son has been targeted.”
“Yes, I know. Sugar? Cream?”
They said they’d take both. As the woman prepared three cups, Gwen met her husband’s gaze and spoke through their Truebond psychic link. She hasn’t poisoned the tea, anyway.
That’s good to know. Is it just me, or does she seem a little . . . odd?
More than a little.
“The death of our son hit my husband very hard.” Joan presented Gwen with a cup, then gave one to Arthur as well. “The Chosen put great store by their sons.” Her mouth flattened. “Much more than their daughters. Tradition again.”
Arthur’s eyes narrowed. “Do the Chosen have a tradition of revenge, madam?”
She did not blink. “Yes, Lord Arthur. I’m afraid we do.”
The silence that followed that statement seemed to crackle with their growing anger.
“Mrs. Devon, has your husband been killing Latents?” Arthur asked, his voice deceptively calm.
“Technically, I don’t believe my husband directly murdered anyone.” Joan sipped her tea, her expression serene. “But he did coordinate the killings.”
“What about the bomber that tried to kill my son?” Gwen demanded.
She considered the question. “I believe my daughter hired that particular assassin.” She could have been commenting on a shopping trip, for all the emotion she showed.
Gwen and Arthur exchanged a look. “And yet you’re willing to just admit that?”
She looked up at the painting over the fireplace. “Like my husband, I am a traditionalist. I fear I have kept my silence for too many years on too many subjects. And it has occurred to me recently that perhaps I have mistaken cowardice for duty.”
Compassion dawned in Gwen’s blue eyes as she studied the woman’s profile. “I’d imagine that would be a painful realization to make.”
Joan snorted. “My dear, you have no idea.”
“A woman willing to make such a statement is no coward, Mrs. Devon,” Arthur said quietly.
“I let my son kill far too many innocent women. That was definitely the act of a coward, for I feared the rage of my son and my husband, just as I feared the rejection of my fellow Chosen.”
“Judging by your wounds, you had good reason to fear,” Gwen said quietly.
“Perhaps.” She put her cup down on its saucer with a soft, definitive click, as if coming to a sudden decision. “You need to know that there is one Dire Wolf who can do more with magic than simply shift forms.”
Gwen and Arthur exchanged a quick look. After a pause, he said, “That is indeed news, Mrs. Devon.”
“Unlike the rest of the Direkind, he is not mortal. It’s said Merlin himself gave him his powers in the Dark Times. And he is very, very powerful. He leads an elite group of Chosen males who consider him semi-divine. My husband is one of them.”
“What’s his name?”
“They call him Warlock.” She met Arthur’s eyes. Such rage flashed in her gaze, he felt a chill. “Warlock put my son on the path that destroyed him. The path that destroyed my family. And I would see him dead for it.”
The werewolf’s name was Gordon Bryson IV, and he had teeth like stilettos. Logan could count every one of them in the lip-rippling snarl he aimed at Arthur. “I will tell you nothing, Pendragon.”
Which wasn’t exactly a revelation. Neither had the other two Dire Wolves Joan Devon had named as members of Warlock’s inner circle. They’d resisted so savagely, the knights had ended up killing them.
They’d tracked this third Dire Wolf to his own very expensive condo. Everything in the place seemed to be black, made of chrome, or covered in white leather, with the exception of the werewolf himself. He looked like a grizzly bear, and had the temperament to match.
“You and your furry friends have been killing my people, Gordon.” Arthur lifted Excalibur at a menacing angle, sending light dancing down its four-foot length. “Talking is the one thing that will keep you alive. Where is Warlock?”
The wolf threw back his golden head and laughed in a series of chilling barks. “Where you will never find him, Celt. Kill me if you can.”
Arthur’s lips peeled back from his own teeth. “Oh, we can.”
Gordon lunged at Arthur, massive clawed hands reaching toward his throat. Logan stepped in, slicing at the monster’s massive forearm with his own blade, forcing the Dire Wolf to twist aside. Lancelot struck, raking his blade across the monster’s furred belly. Roaring in pain, Gordon swung at his head, but Grace blocked the Dire Wolf’s claws with a thrust of her oval shield.
Magic was no good in this fight. They were down to medieval weapons against claws and fangs. Logan had earlier asked Giada to conjure him a Glock, only to discover Dire Wolves shrugged off bullets like rainwater. A surface-to-air missile might have done the job, but you couldn’t use a SAM in a condo without killing a lot of innocents.
Normally, the racket they were making would have drawn the county’s cops like bees to peaches, but one of the witches had cast a noise-dampening spell over the entire building. The combatants could hear one another, but the neighbors would sleep on, undisturbed.
It ended with shocking speed. Gwen danced forward, swinging her sword like a baseball bat as she screamed a taunt. Gordon dodged, realized she’d been left wide-open by the momentum of her own weapon, and lunged under her guard.
The Dire Wolf didn’t know her well enough to realize he was being suckered.
Excalibur descended like a li
ghtning bolt. The Dire Wolf’s head bounced, hitting the shining marble tile yards from his tumbling body. His blood painted the white walls in a scarlet arc.
Arthur eyed the corpse with disgust. “Well, that was an utter waste of time. Didn’t get a word out of the son of a bitch.”
Galahad turned to study the horizon through the glass French doors. “Sun’ll be up in an hour or so. I don’t think we have time to keep beating the bushes for Warlock.”
“I can mobilize my women,” Morgana said. She’d gated in to join the hunt, judging it to be of higher priority than the Afghan operation she’d been running. “We can continue the hunt in the day.”
“Make sure you take only the Majae who are competent with sword and shield,” Arthur told her.
She sniffed. “Since when do I need you to tell me how to wage a campaign?”
Arthur only grunted in response. “In the meantime, the rest of us need to get some Daysleep.” He turned to Giada, Gwen, Caroline, and Grace. “That includes you lot. It’s been a tough night, and tomorrow is likely to be just as bad. I want you fresh for when we find that bastard Warlock.” His expression went grim. “Because we’ll sure as hell need you then.”
Logan watched as Giada worked her way through a conjured pizza with delicate greed. She had offered to share, but one whiff of cheese made him feel a little queasy.
Which was actually a good thing, since his system could no longer handle any food but blood. Realizing that, she’d laughed at herself for making the offer. “I’ve got to get used to you being a vampire,” she said, taking another bite.
What he really wanted to bite was her. She looked long and lovely as she reclined against the beige fabric back of her sectional couch. Her blond hair was still damp from the shower they’d shared, and her long legs were bare beneath the frayed hems of her cutoff jeans. She wore a black T-shirt printed with a devilish smiley face and the words, “Lead me not into temptation—I can find it myself.”
She was definitely not wearing a bra.
“I’ve been thinking.” He hesitated a moment, trying to decide how to approach the topic. Might as well just go for it. “Did you see the way they fought?”
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