As he glowered, the werewolf gave his hands another absent shake.
And in a flash of inspiration, Smoke realized how he could escape the monster’s trap.
But the price—Gods and devils, the price would be high . . . It might be better to die. But no, dead he was no good to those who needed him. Alive, there was still a chance to get back what had been stolen.
And make the bastard pay.
The widow looked like a Katrina survivor, as if she’d seen her entire world washed away and was wading chest-deep in the filthy remains. Lori Davis’s brown eyes were swollen pits of dazed suffering that defeated the makeup she’d so painstakingly applied. She wore a simple black dress and a string of pearls, and she leaned on the stool someone had brought her, half sitting, half standing. The sheriff stood protectively behind her, his expression grim, looking as if he’d been aged ten years by the weight of sheer guilt.
When Logan and Giada stepped up, Lori’s tired eyes brightened, and she managed a smile, though her lips trembled. “Lieutenant MacRoy—I’m glad you could make it.”
Logan shook her extended hand, his smile warm and kind, despite the pain Giada could feel reverberating through the Truebond. “I wouldn’t have missed it. Mark was a hell of a cop, a great bomb tech, and a good friend.”
“He thought a lot of you, too. He told me there was nobody he’d rather go through a door with.”
This was high cop praise, Giada knew. It meant you knew the other officer had your back, regardless of the danger.
Logan drew in a breath as his smile faltered, and Giada winced at the stab of guilt and grief in his mind. “I’m . . . so sorry. More than I can say. If there’s anything you and Tara need—anything at all—just let me know.”
She gave him a sad, tired smile. “Thank you, Lieutenant.” She thought his offer was rote, but Giada knew otherwise. The department had started a fund for Lori and her daughter; Logan had put fifty thousand dollars in it, funds from investments and savings, plus the nest egg his parents had given him when he went out on his own. An anonymous donation Lori probably wasn’t even aware of yet. Knowing Logan, he’d probably add to it as soon as he could.
Giada murmured her own sympathies, even as the momentary animation drained from Lori’s features, leaving her eyes dull with grief.
The line carried them onward after that, toward the casket covered in roses and star lilies and great puffs of baby’s breath. Mounds of floral arrangements surrounded the gleaming oak box, in baskets or vases filled with flowers Giada didn’t even know the name of.
Normally at events like this, the casket was left open so the mourners could view the deceased. Not this time.
There wasn’t enough of him to view.
Giada could feel Logan’s rage grow as they stared at the casket, a fury so intense, his hands started to shake. I’m going to kill those bastards.
I’ll help, Giada thought back.
He shot her a faint smile and rested a hand on the small of her back as they started to turn away.
Their attention fell on a uniformed deputy winding his way toward the sheriff. Heather and Andy followed him, both dressed oddly in Windbreakers zipped all the way up. The jackets hung on their bodies, as though somebody had put them in coats intended for adults.
Giada stiffened. Both children’s faces were bruised, blood trailing from Andy’s nose and Heather’s split lip. “What the hell!” the sheriff said, alarmed. “What happened?”
The deputy leaned over to whisper in his ear. His eyes widened, and he went pale as he jerked as if someone had Tased him as he stared at his grandchildren in horror. “Evacuate the building.” Sheriff Jones’s voice rang with command, sure, steady, though Giada could sense his fear. “MacRoy, you’re with me. Where’s Billings?”
“Probably standing in line. I’ll get him.” Logan pulled his department-issued cell off his belt and called the last surviving member of the bomb squad. Meanwhile, a flurry of voices rose around them as the deputies began herding the civilians out of the room.
“What?” Lori asked in bewilderment as the sheriff gently urged her to her feet and handed her off to a deputy. “What’s happening? What about Mark?” That last was a wail.
Giada and Logan exchanged a single tense look. They’d be lucky if Mark was the only one in a closed casket when this was over.
Smoke glared through the wall of his magical prison. His captor smirked at him before stepping closer.
That’s right, you bastard, Smoke thought. Come on. Let’s fi nish it.
“Such eyes . . .” The Dire Wolf laughed, but if he was going for confidence, he didn’t entirely succeed. “You look as if you’d love nothing better than to rip me open.”
Smoke smiled with bared teeth. “I like to eat the heart first.”
Warlock jolted, then recovered enough to snarl. “We will see who eats what, pussy.” He plunged his ringed hands into the globe and sent his power rolling.
Just as Smoke had intended.
The pain was vicious, clawing, but he ignored it. It was going to get worse. Besides, he damned well wasn’t going to let it stop him, so it was irrelevant. He hadn’t lived this long without learning to deal with a little pain.
Or even a lot of pain.
He knew he had to act fast before Warlock realized what he was doing. Reaching down deep into his spirit, Smoke did something he hadn’t done in centuries: allowed the whole of his immortal life to flood his mind. All of it, all the crushing weight of millennia, of thousands of years of grief and pain and power. The failures and the triumphs, the loves and the hates.
Everything.
And then he drove it right into Warlock’s siphoning spell.
The Dire Wolf was pulling hard, sucking like a thirsty leech, expecting him to fight the draining of his mind and powers.
He obviously did not expect Smoke to shove the lot of it right down his throat.
Millennia of magic and memory hit the werewolf in a thundering cataract that tumbled him off his feet. In that instant, he lost his mental hold on the spell that held Smoke captive. Deprived of Warlock’s magic, it popped like a soap bubble.
Smoke hit the ground hard enough to rattle every tooth in his head. He rolled to his feet with one thought blazing in his mind. Run! He had to get as far away as he could before Warlock had time to recover his senses.
He’d had to give the Dire Wolf the full package—all the power, all the memories. Otherwise, the fucker would simply have taken it all anyway and killed him, and he would have had no chance to help those he loved.
And he couldn’t—wouldn’t—fail them again.
So Smoke ran, bare feet flying over the grass, armor and clothing having vanished with his sacrificed powers, knowing only that he had to get away.
He raced for the woods by pure instinct. There was safety in the darkness deep beneath the trees. But with every step he took, his memories grew fainter. As if he was leaving them behind.
In Warlock’s skull.
Warlock was fifteen hundred years old, and he’d thought he understood how much centuries weighed. But the weight of the demigod’s memories was immeasurably more.
And the bastard’s power burned.
Worse, emotions Warlock had never felt raged in his mind—guilt, love, loss. He, who had always existed in a clean bubble of pure purpose, suddenly felt the weight of the emotions mortals spoke of.
He’d always felt such contempt for mortal weakness. He’d had no idea.
Sick, aching, Warlock rolled onto his belly, fighting the poison that damned demigod had infected him with.
Vulnerable. He was vulnerable. Anyone could kill him now. Even that damned Smoke, stripped of his powers and memories as the demigod was.
Warlock knew he had to return to his sanctum. Heal himself in the belly of his magic and get control of these alien powers. It would mean he could play no part in helping George Devon and his daughter kill the Celt’s son, but that was a minor concern at best. If they died, he would si
mply recruit new followers. His survival was all-important.
He was, after all, Merlin’s Heir.
The sheriff blocked Giada’s path as she started to follow Logan and the children into the room across the hall. “You need to evacuate, Ms. Shepherd. You’ve risked your butt enough for a training placement.”
She met his gaze and cast a quick spell. “I can help keep the children calm, Sheriff.”
His face relaxed as the spell took hold. “I’d appreciate that. The kids are pretty scared.”
“And I’m sure their parents are, too. Why don’t you go out with the others and help keep them calm? We’ve got everything under control. The children will be fine.”
A smile of pure relief spread over the sheriff’s face as her magic gave him complete confidence in the bomb team. “I’ll just go take care of Jeff and Amy. They’re probably out of their heads with worry.”
He turned and strode off, determination in every step. Watching him go, Giada blew out a breath. She just hoped the bombs would yield to her magic half that well.
Opening the door, she slipped inside the room.
It was the kind of sitting room designed to give mourners a place to chat, with two hunter green couches against the opposite wall and a pair of straight-backed chairs in the corners. Heavy gold curtains draped the two windows.
Heather and Andy stood in the middle of the room. Logan and Lieutenant Billings had unzipped the kids’ engulfing jackets. Now, crouched in front of the two children, both men wore sick expressions. “Oh, fuuu . . .” Tom glanced at Andy and bit the curse off.
“What have we got?” Giada crossed the room to join them. Tom frowned at her and opened his mouth to throw her out. She shot him a look and a spell. “I can help.”
He closed his mouth, looking confused. He was evidently a little more magic-resistant than the sheriff, but not, thank God, by much.
Logan glanced up at her, his expression grim. Getting a good look at the bombs, she knew why.
The kids wore thick black vests punched with holes. The right front of each featured a bulging pocket painted with some kind of runes she’d never seen before. A square of fabric was cut away from each vest, revealing an LED timer ticking down the minutes. Both timers read 36:03:02, with fractions of a second ticking away in a blur of red.
Thirty-six minutes. Holy God, they only have thirty-six minutes.
A second pocket lay between the kids’ shoulder blades, holding something the approximate size and shape of a brick. Both children were wrapped with loops of black wire that crossed and re-crossed, dipping in and out of the pockets.
“What the hell is this?” Giada demanded in horror.
“Every bomb tech’s worst nightmare,” Tom told her grimly as he crouched to dig through a duffel of bomb disposal tools. He must have had the gear in his car. “We can’t use any of the usual techniques we’d use with an in situ bomb. No bomb suit because we need all the fine motor control we can get. And we can’t disrupt them with a water shot because we’d blow holes in the kids.”
“The bomb guy told us if we fall down or try to run, they’ll blow up,” Andy said. His hazel eyes looked dazed and shocky, and his voice sounded dull, as if he’d given up hope. “If you try to take them off us, they’ll blow up. If we get too far apart, they’ll blow up. If you disable one bomb, the other one will blow up. And if one bomb goes, the other will, too.” His voice dropped into a defeated mutter. “I think we’re just gonna blow up.”
TWENTY
Logan laid a comforting hand on the boy’s shoulder. “We’re not going to let you blow up, Andy.”
“You know what I don’t get?” Tom stared grimly at the bulging back of the child’s vest. “Two pounds of C4 on each kid. Where the hell did the bastard get that much military-grade explosive?”
“Somebody’s got a lot of nasty connections.” Giada scrubbed her fingers over her temples. She was getting a bitch of a headache.
“And a very nasty imagination. He’s put at least three detonators on these things.” Logan shot her a look she didn’t need the Truebond to understand. Disable these fucking things so we can get them off these kids.
Giada took a deep breath and called her magic, sending the spell into Heather’s vest.
It felt as though she’d grabbed a live electrical wire. She yelped in pained surprise and dropped the spell.
What? Logan demanded through the Truebond.
Don’t know. Cautiously, Giada tried again, sending a thinner tendril of power to investigate.
The runes written on the vest pouches were apparently some kind of spell she’d never encountered before, thus the shock. What’s worse, they blocked her magic from reaching the contents of the pouches.
We need more witches. Closing her eyes, she sent a communication spell to Guinevere. But the message hit a crackling wall of energy and fizzled out before it could punch through into the alternate universe. What the—Logan, I think the vests are producing a jamming spell.
Shit. Should I try the cell Mom gave me?
Worth a try.
He flipped it open and murmured into it. The resulting feedback squeal made even Tom jump.
Fuck. At least the Truebond is still working. Disgusted, he slid the phone back onto its clip on his belt.
We’re close enough to be inside the radius of the jamming spell. The spell couldn’t block all magic, because it would block itself.
Bastards are playing with us, Giada said grimly.
They’ve been doing that from the beginning. They don’t just want to kill me—they want to make me suffer by terrorizing these kids. He clenched a fist in rage.
Heather had been watching Giada’s face as she worked. Apparently something she’d seen made her decide to take a chance. “Dr. Shepherd?”
She looked up, met the girl’s one good eye; the other was swollen shut. “Yes, Heather?”
“This is gonna sound crazy, but it’s true, I swear.” She glanced at Tom and Logan, then leaned closer. “There are . . . things in the building. Hiding.” She swallowed. “Dogs. Or something.”
The kid’s expression was so conflicted, it was obvious she’d wanted to say something she’d considered far more unbelievable. “Dogs?” Giada said softly. “Or wolves?”
The girl nodded.
“Werewolves?” She murmured it in a voice too low for Tom to hear.
The kid nodded. “I know it sounds crazy, but I swear . . .”
“How many?”
“Two,” Andy said. “And maybe another one. They bit a guy. He’s supposed to . . . um. Change. Into one of them.”
Tom frowned at the boy. “What are you talking about?”
“Later, Tom,” Giada interrupted. She put out a hand and touched Heather’s swollen face with gentle fingers. “Now, listen to me, sweetheart. Everything’s going to be fine. You don’t have anything to worry about.”
For a moment, disbelief flashed over Heather’s face. Then her pupils dilated and her lips parted in a sigh.
Giada looked up at Logan and nodded. “You can do what you have to now. She’ll be calm for you.”
Turning toward Andy, she dropped a hand on the little boy’s shoulder and let the spell drift over his mind. The child blinked once, slowly, and went still, his eyes slipping out of focus.
Tom’s brows flew up. “What did you do?”
“I studied applied hypnotism for hostage situations,” Giada lied glibly. “I got to be pretty good at it.”
“Oh.” The lieutenant blinked. “That’s handy.”
Giada and Logan exchanged another look. I’d better go look for those werewolves.
Fear chilled Logan’s mind like a wave of ice Giada could feel as if it were her own. I really don’t think that’s a good idea. Those things are resistant to magic. How the hell can you fight something your magic can’t affect?
I have no intention of throwing around spell blasts. There’s more than one way to use magic in a fight.
He saw what she intended,
and his alarm faded slightly. I’d still rather you waited for me. You’ll be outnumbered.
Yeah, but I don’t think we’ve got much choice. If I don’t distract the Dire Wolves, one of the furry creeps may detonate these bombs before you fi nish disabling them.
He muttered a curse under his breath as he examined her logic. Finally he sighed in defeat. Point taken. Just . . . be careful. Please.
She gave him a smile. It’ll be fi ne.
Logan snorted. Save it for the mortals.
Giada opened the door and started to step outside.
“Where are you going?” Tom demanded.
She looked back at him, frowning. Better take care of him before she left. “Don’t worry about it. Just ignore anything you hear and concentrate on saving the kids.” A thought struck her, and she met his gaze, adding another jolt of power. “And do whatever Logan tells you to do.”
The spell did its work, and he instantly lost interest in her. Turning to Logan, he said, “So what the fuck are we dealing with here?”
“From what the kids said, I figure radio transmitters to tell one bomb if we disable the other. Probably motion sensors and a dissolving switch, too . . .”
Giada slipped through the door and closed it behind her.
The hallway was deserted and eerily quiet—apparently the sheriff had succeeded in evacuating the building.
Except for the werewolves.
And where the hell were they? Her gut coiled another fraction tighter, and she rubbed her stomach anxiously. What if she fought the wolves and lost?
Worse, what if Logan and Billings couldn’t disable the bombs? They’d all die, including Giada. The shock of the severed Truebond would kill her on the spot. Which was probably just as well, because without Logan, her life would be . . .
Giada? Logan said in the bond. Wait. Let us take care of these damned bombs, and then you and I can hunt the Dire Wolves.
She straightened her shoulders with a jerk. No. Too risky. The wolves are a complication we don’t need right now.
Master of Fire Page 26
