Logan’s fellow cops had gathered at a funeral home to mourn the death of an officer murdered by the werewolves’ hired assassin. “Those wolves strapped suicide vests on the human sheriff’s grandchildren,” Belle told Justice. “Everyone would have died if Logan hadn’t disarmed the bombs.” Which he then used to blow up the werewolves. Pissing off a Pendragon is never a good idea.
“I’m aware of that,” Justice said. “That’s why I want you to check out the scene. I don’t believe Arthur would kill a child either, but the family is pretty worked up.”
“I don’t bloody care,” Tristan snapped. “Yes, Arthur has ordered deaths, but only terrorist leaders and military dictators. He’s not going to murder an innocent boy to revenge himself on the Direkind. That’s insane.”
“But it’s exactly the kind of thing Warlock would do,” Belle said thoughtfully. “Especially if he’s trying to trigger a war between the Direkind and the Magekind.”
“Warlock?” Justice gave her a blank look. “Warlock’s just a legend.”
“Yeah, we’ve already heard that song and dance from every werewolf we’ve talked to,” Tristan drawled. “Except your ‘myth’ damned near killed one of my best friends last month, so please believe us when we tell you he definitely exists. And he’s a psychopath, so if anybody is butchering seventeen-year-olds, it’s Warlock.”
“But . . .” Justice stared at him, shaken out of his cool professionalism. “If Warlock really does exist, he’s as big a hero to my people as Arthur is to yours. Why would he kill one of our boys?”
“Because he’s a son of a bitch.”
“Look, why don’t you let us check the scene and see what we can find out?” Belle said. “If he’s trying to frame Arthur, I can work a spell to prove it.”
Justice took a deep breath and blew it out. “Fine. Come on then.”
* * *
The scent of Belle Coeur was driving Tristan insane. Some of that cock-teasing smell was expensive perfume—probably French, knowing her. Jasmine and moonbeams . . .
And what romantic tripe was that? Great. She’s making me think in stupid poetry. But it was hard to resist the scent of distilled sex, as female as the swing of her ass and the sway of her breasts.
Tristan had spent the past month trying to dig Belle and her scent out of his skull. There’d been the workouts with Arthur, both with blade and hand-to-hand, until his hair streamed sweat as his muscles cramped and shook.
“You’re obsessed with that woman,” Arthur had told him after listening to Tristan bitch about Belle one too many times. “She’s worked her way under your skin all the way to the bone. Serves you right after all the women whose hearts you crushed.”
So Tristan tried women as the cure. He banged every pretty young Maja he could seduce, the older ones being wise to his habits. Unfortunately, those green enough to be susceptible to his advances maddened him with their awed stares. He could say any rude thing he pleased, and all he’d get in return was a lip quiver that made him feel like a prick.
Belle didn’t quiver her lip. Belle gave as good as she got, toe to toe and snarl for snarl.
And his mind was supposed to be on the murdered boy, not on Belle’s admittedly luscious body. How did she do this to him? He never had trouble keeping his mind of the job. Distraction got you killed in this line of work. Worse, it could get innocents killed. Like Belle . . .
Jesu, look at all the werewolves.
Jarred out of his preoccupation, Tristan stopped dead in the center of the sidewalk, staring at the crowd gathered around the house at the end of the cul-de-sac. The brick colonial had a bigger yard than most of those on the block, with a long colonnaded porch, neatly trimmed holly hedges, and a yard shaded by a huge magnolia tree whose ghostly white blooms perfumed the night air.
The werewolves gathered under the magnolia’s spreading limbs and clustered around the pickup trucks parked along the street. The smell of Dire Wolf magic rode the summer breeze, thick with the scent of fur and rage.
And beer. Coolers sat on the open truck gates, filled with cans nestled on piles of melting ice. Just great. The werewolves are getting plowed.
They were all still in human form, thank Merlin. The men were dressed for the weather in short-sleeved shirts and jeans or khakis, while most of the women wore sundresses or shorts. The females all clustered together on the porch, gathered around a woman who sobbed fitfully in utter despair.
The boy’s mother, no doubt.
Every instinct Tristan had told him this was going to get nasty. For a split second, he considered asking Belle to conjure his armor and sword.
Then again, better not. The sight of an armored knight would only light the tinder under the werewolves’ rage. He simply couldn’t afford to do that, even though it meant being seriously under-equipped if things went south.
So instead Tristan fell back a pace behind Belle, guarding her back as Justice led them up the walk toward the house. The big cop carried the shotgun at the ready, his black eyes moving in wary flicks. Evidently he didn’t like the smell of the situation any more than Tristan did.
Sure enough, one of the werewolves stepped directly into the Wolf sheriff’s path. “What the hell are you doing bringing them here, Justice?”
Tristan was instantly aware of being the focus of enough fury to light a bonfire. Looks like we’re about to be the guests of honor at a werewolf lynch mob. Belle’s voice rang out, cool and clear. “If one of the Magekind did kill that boy, I can work a spell to identify the source of the magic.”
“Question is, will you tell us who it is—or will you cover it up?” another man shouted.
She turned and scanned every face in the yard. The Direkind was immune to magic, but Belle had another kind of power in her eyes, the kind that made even furious werewolves remember she was a woman.
And decent men protected women.
“I swore to serve mankind when I became a witch,” Belle said, her voice ringing calm and steady. “Anyone who would kill a child—especially from behind with a coward’s stroke—deserves nothing but death. If it’s one of the Magekind, I’ll kill him myself.”
“What if it’s Arthur?” a hoarse voice shouted.
Tristan had heard more than enough of that. “Arthur Pendragon is no child-killing coward. And any man who says he is in my presence again had better be prepared to bleed!” The last word was a little too close to a battlefield roar, but damned if he’d back down.
Arthur might no longer be High King of Britain—he hated anyone calling him by that title—but he’d never be anything but king to Tristan. Even if Tristan would rather die than admit as much out loud. He’d certainly never say so to Arthur himself.
Silence fell, broken only by the crickets. “Any more questions?” Tristan snapped.
Apparently the point had been made, because nobody said a damned word as the Wolf sheriff led the Magekind toward the house.
But as they climbed the steps to the porch, Tristan realized they had yet another gauntlet to run. The werewolf women glared at them, radiating an outrage that seemed to sting his skin like sparks raining from burning gunpowder.
One of them rose, the tracks of tears glistening on her cheeks in the moonlight. She wiped her eyes with a swipe of wadded Kleenex and managed a croak. “He was a good boy. Maybe his grades could have been better, maybe I had to ride him about doing his homework. But he cut the lawn every other Saturday without being asked.”
It’s the kid’s mother, Tristan realized. Just what we needed—a nice match to light all this dynamite.
Stopping for another swipe at her cheeks, she sniffled. “Somebody hit the neighbor’s cat with a car last week, and he found it lying on the side of the road, all bloody and hurt. He took it to the vet himself and paid for it to be treated. He hates cats, but he said Bonnie—that’s the neighbor’s f
ive-year-old—she loves that animal. And the cat made it because Jimmy took it to the vet.” Sheridan’s mother was crying so hard by this time, Tristan could barely understand her. “He didn’t deserve this!”
“I know, ma’am.” Belle reached out to lay a gentle hand on the woman’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry this happened. We’ll find out who’s responsible.”
The kid’s mother gave them a look so pitiful, Tristan felt his chest ache. “That won’t bring him back.”
Belle dropped her hand. “No, I’m afraid it won’t.”
“Could you . . .” A sudden, horrible hope lit the woman’s eyes. “They say you Magekind are really powerful. Could you bring him . . .”
“No,” Belle interrupted, her voice catching. “If I could, please believe me, I would.” She swallowed. “I had a daughter once. I know how . . . I’m sorry. Sorry for your loss.”
Breaking off as if realizing she was on the verge of losing it completely, Belle whirled and headed for the house’s front door. Justice pulled it open for her, and she started inside—only to recoil in the doorway.
Tristan realized why as the smell of blood rolled out in a choking wave. The boy’s mother collapsed into her chair and began to sob. The women around her joined in, voices a rising wail that made Tristan wish he was any other damned place at all.
Helpless. He hated feeling helpless.
Belle straightened her shoulders and walked into the house, her head high, her spine erect. The two men followed. Justice closed the door behind them, muffling the wails and angry mutters.
In the foyer, Justice took the lead. Not that he had to. They could easily tell where the scene was from the bloody tracks on the polished wooden floor.
When they stepped into the small den, they saw it was every bit as bad as Tristan had known it would be. He was no stranger to the effects of a beheading, so he’d expected the blood spray. He’d expected the body, still sitting erect in the armchair, since the chair’s cushions supported it.
What bothered him was the big screen television and the Xbox, which was still mindlessly running the kid’s last video game. Two armored knights swung swords at each other, accompanied by the sound of ringing steel and cries of pain. “Christ.”
“Yeah,” Justice agreed. “But take a deep breath. Under the blood—isn’t that the smell of a vampire?”
Tristan frowned at him, but dropped to one knee and took an obedient breath right behind the armchair, where the killer must have stood.
He expected some generic odor that Warlock had faked in an effort to trigger the war he wanted. Maybe even Arthur’s scent, since Warlock hated the Magus with an insane jealousy.
But as he breathed in, Tristan recognized a scent he didn’t expect. One he’d smelled just a few hours before.
Startled, he looked up at Belle, who was standing frozen at his side, her face pale as fine porcelain. “Merlin’s cup, Belle—It’s Davon Fredericks.”
Click here for more books by this author
Berkley Sensation titles by Angela Knight
Mageverse Series
MASTER OF THE NIGHT
MASTER OF THE MOON
MASTER OF WOLVES
MASTER OF SWORDS
MASTER OF DRAGONS
MASTER OF FIRE
MASTER OF SMOKE
MASTER OF SHADOWS
The Time Hunters Series
JANE’S WARLORD
WARRIOR
GUARDIAN
CAPTIVE DREAMS
(with Diane Whiteside)
MERCENARIES
Anthologies
HOT BLOODED
(with Christine Feehan, Maggie Shayne, and Emma Holly)
BITE
(with Laurell K. Hamilton, Charlaine Harris, MaryJanice Davidson, and Vickie Taylor)
KICK ASS
(with Maggie Shayne, MaryJanice Davidson, and Jacey Ford)
OVER THE MOON
(with MaryJanice Davidson, Virginia Kantra, and Sunny)
BEYOND THE DARK
(with Emma Holly, Lora Leigh, and Diane Whiteside)
SHIFTER
(with Lora Leigh, Alyssa Day, and Virginia Kantra)
HOT FOR THE HOLIDAYS
(with Lora Leigh, Anya Bast, and Allyson James)
BURNING UP
(with Nalini Singh, Virginia Kantra, and Meljean Brook)
Moon Dance Page 10