Master of Shadows

by Angela Knight

  “I don’t know what you’re thinking, but stop.” Rising to hands and knees, he slid between her legs, spread them with big hands, and settled his shoulders between them. Feeling his fingers spread her lips, Belle rose to brace herself on her elbows. His blond head bent as he contemplated her sex with a very wicked smile.

  His first lick streaked fire across her clit. “Oooh!”

  He rumbled back at her and licked again, treating her like a melting ice cream cone.

  “No fair,” she informed him. “I can’t touch you all the way down there.”

  “Really?” His tongue swirled, sampled. “That is too bad.”

  She shivered, and her eyes narrowed. There was more than one way a witch could touch her lover. Belle let her power rise and sent it swirling down his body until she could feel him, the ripple of hard muscle under velvety skin, the silken curls of chest hair spreading across wide pecs and down his abdominals, the tight jut of his male nipples.

  The width and heat of his cock.

  Belle smiled, slow and wicked.

  He threw up his head, startled, his wide eyes meeting hers. “Belle!”

  Her smile only widened.

  The grin on Belle’s face was downright evil. As well it should be, because it felt as if her tongue was simultaneously licking both Tristan’s nipples and the length of his cock.

  “Now, that is just not fair.” His attempt at a stern tone shattered into a near-squeak when teeth closed over the head of his cock. Which was flatly impossible, since his dick was pressed into the mattress more than a yard from her talented mouth.

  But Belle had a lot of talents, and she demonstrated every one of them on his hapless body. He went back to work licking her in sheer self-defense. She tasted delicious—salty, female, distilled, musky, sex. His cock lengthened and grew harder than his armor just from the taste alone—never mind the wet swirl of her tongue.

  Suddenly he had the unmistakable sensation of his cock plunging to the balls into Belle’s hot mouth, right down her throat to a depth he suspected was probably impossible. He was a big man, and taking him that far was not something most women could do.

  Yet Belle and her tricky magic accomplished the job nicely. She dug her nails into his shoulders—that was real; he saw one hand out of the corner of his eye. But simultaneously, those nails bit into his ass while her heels rode the small of his back. His head whirled from the delightful intensity of her hands, her mouth, the heat of her body, until he had trouble telling what was real.

  His body didn’t particularly care. He felt lost in the taste of her, the perfume of her arousal, the flick of tongues and fingers, until he felt a climax pulsing in his balls, and he knew he was about to lose it. Just shoot like a green boy into the sheets, which he hadn’t done since—ever, come to think of it.

  “Enough!” Tristan lunged upward, gasping as he crawled up her lush body and took his cock in a shaking hand. Barely taking time to aim, he drove to the balls, hard and fast, managing at the last minute to drag back on his vampire strength. They both groaned at the sensation.

  Which was when his gaze met hers, and caught helplessly in the blue-gray depths, in the pupils so huge and dark in the candlelight. He was conscious of her trembling mouth, her slow, dazed blink up at him, as if she was tracking about as well as he was. Which was not at all.

  Tristan’s arms shook, not with effort, but from the sheer sensory overload of being so deep inside her. His head spun with sensation. Every inch of her pressed to every inch of him. Warm. Fragrant.

  He lowered his head and kissed her. The magic of it exploded in his awareness—not some trick she was doing, but the raw truth they made together.

  “Tristan.” She spoke his name, and the word trembled on her lips, quivered from her mouth to his.

  “God, Belle,” he breathed. He knew he should add something clever and romantic, but just then, that much intelligence was beyond him. He started thrusting, a slow in-and-out pressure that made stars light up his skull. One of her heels dug into his butt, and he picked up the pace, as obedient to her urging as a stallion.

  He couldn’t seem to look away from her eyes. They held him, blue-gray as storm clouds, deliciously inescapable.

  This was different from every time he’d made love before. There’d been times he’d been more creative, times his partner had been kinkier, times there’d been riding crops and fuzzy handcuffs. Yet he’d never felt such stark intensity, as if something momentous was happening, something that went beyond mechanics and body parts and toys. As if he and Belle had touched.

  Fuck if he knew what it meant.

  All he did know was that the way she touched him reached parts of him no one had ever reached. Not Isolde, not any woman.

  Her pulse leaped in her throat, and he lowered his head and took it. Something snapped in his head like a closing circuit, forming an intense connection with the throb of her heart and the taste of her blood. And they were, somehow, one.

  He suspected he should be scared out of his mind.

  Justice reported what he’d seen to the members of the Security Council in a carefully objective voice. He couldn’t let them think his emotions had been affected by what he’d seen. It took real work; he still felt sick at the memory of Emma Jacobs’s savaged belly. It wasn’t the goriest corpse he’d ever seen; there’d been the ninety-year-old man who’d murdered his wife with a hatchet, plus a few shotgun killings and several traffic accidents that still gave him nightmares because of the kids involved.

  But the idea of taking a bite out of another human being made his stomach rebel. He’d hunted deer in wolf form, and he could remember biting into hot meat, tasting the rush of blood. To eat a human being like that . . .

  His mouth filled with bile. He dropped his eyes to his notes and struggled to keep his voice level.

  “The smell of death magic was unmistakable,” Justice told his four fellow members. Only Elena Rollings and Carl Rosen looked sympathetic, and he now knew better than to believe he had Rosen on his side.

  “And how would you know what death magic smells like?” Andrews demanded, lifting a contemptuous eyebrow.

  “I fought with the Magekind in the Dragon War,” Justice told him, keeping the temper from his voice. “I saw the Dark Ones fight, and I smelled their magic. It’s a stench you don’t forget. Like a corpse that’s been dead a week. In July. In a closed house.”

  Even Andrews winced at that.

  So he went on. “When I examined Emma Jacobs, the fang punctures on her arm were seven inches apart.”

  Tanner’s jaw dropped. “A wolf that big would have to weigh four thousand pounds.”

  Justice nodded. “Which would agree with the Magekind’s description of the creature they fought.”

  Andrews sniffed. “The creature they say they fought.”

  “Well, somebody sure as hell killed Emma and Tom Jacobs,” Justice snapped, thoroughly out of patience. “Unless you want to suggest Arthur killed his own people.”

  Andrews opened his mouth, and Justice knew he was about to do just that.

  “Oh, give it a rest,” Elena snapped. “This is getting ridiculous.”

  Andrews’s icy eyes narrowed at her in displeasure. “How much did the Magekind pay you, Rollings?”

  “If anybody’s been paid off, it’s you.” His mouth opened and closed like a landed carp’s as she snarled, “You won’t be happy until you get thousands of people killed—on both sides. And do you really think the humans won’t notice a magical war going on under their collective noses? Or do you want to be on CNN?”

  That shut everybody up for a full forty-five seconds.

  “Arthur may not give us a choice,” Rosen said solemnly. “We will do what we must.”

  “If the humans discover us, we all die,” Justice said. “It’ll be our Holocaust. There are six billion of them and only thirty thousand of us. We don’t have the numbers to survive, no matter how many humans we bite. And unlike the Magekind, we won’t be able to hide
from our hunters in the Mageverse.”

  Elena looked grim. “By that time, I doubt Arthur will be in the mood to give us shelter in Avalon, even if we beg.”

  Tanner sneered. “I’m not begging for anything from Arthur Pendragon.”

  She lifted a red eyebrow. “Not even to save that little boy of yours?”

  He eyed her in sullen rage and said nothing.

  “So you’re saying we should ignore Jimmy Sheridan’s murder?” Rosen asked coolly. “That will not go over well with our constituents.”

  “Neither will the deaths of their wives and children if the humans start hunting us,” Justice pointed out.

  “Merlin believed Arthur would eventually go mad, or he would not have created us!” Andrews’s perfectly tanned face reddened with temper.

  “I’ve explained this so many times, I’ve gotten sick of doing it,” Elena growled. “So I’ll just say you know what utter crap that is.”

  “I have seen no evidence that Arthur is mad,” Justice said carefully. “He has a temper, but he seems perfectly aware that war with us would cost his people. I don’t believe he would put them in that kind of danger over something that has already been avenged. He’s told me he considers it over and done with.”

  Rosen gave him an appraising glance. “We already know what you think, Bill. I’m just not convinced you’re objective. You’re far too passionate in Arthur’s defense, considering he’s a suspect in that poor boy’s murder.”

  It took Justice more than a moment to wrestle his temper back under control. “Look, I’m a cop. I’ve dealt with guilty people. I know the difference between a killer and an innocent man, and you can believe me when I tell you Arthur is an innocent man. He didn’t do it. Period.”

  “But Davon Fredericks did do it. He admitted as much. Unless Arthur delivers him to our justice, I will recommend war.”

  “Yeah,” Justice said, eyeing him coldly. “About that. I keep asking myself why, but I never come up with an answer I like.”

  Rosen stared at him. “What the hell do you mean by that?”

  Justice stared back. “Take a guess.”

  Sitting on his haunches beside Warlock’s throne, Dice watched the werewolf named Carl Rosen pace the cavern, fury in every step.

  “Justice knows,” the werewolf snarled. Rosen was in wolf form, as Warlock required of his visitors. His fur was grizzled, and age streaking his muzzle with silver. “He knows too fucking much.”

  Rosen looked soft to Dice. An easy kill. Tempting, given the magic in him. Dice managed not to lick his chops, but it was a near thing.

  Warlock had ordered him to transform into a four-legged wolf rather than his usual monster form. He was still roughly the size of a horse, and Rosen kept giving him disquieted glances. He’d have been even more freaked had he known what Dice was thinking.

  Then again, he’d probably figured it out.

  “I fail to see how this sheriff of yours is a problem,” Warlock said, putting a hand over to stroke Dice’s head as if he were a dog. Dice knew better than to jerk away and snarl. He’d be punished, and Warlock’s idea of punishment was not something he wanted to experience. Ever again. “Or rather, I don’t see how you think he’s my problem.”

  Rosen shot him an angry look. Idiot. Warlock punished looks like that. “It’s a problem for you if he starts spreading around that Arthur and his Magekind are being framed.”

  “You mean it’s a problem if he tells people I’ve bought you off,” Warlock said, giving Dice’s head another infuriating stroke. “The incorruptible Carl.” He laughed softly.

  “This thing could easily become a civil war if too many people believe whatever Justice decides to spill. Or do you want war among your own people, too?”

  Warlock’s hand stilled on Dice’s head, and Dice held his breath, sensing the fury in his master. “My people will do what I want them to do, Carl.”

  “How are you going to make sure of that? Magic doesn’t work on us, Warlock, and you can’t bribe everybody.”

  Warlock sprang to his feet and that big-ass axe was in his hand, so fast even Dice hadn’t seen him reach for it. “Watch your tone!”

  “If you kill me, who will declare war for you?” Rosen tilted up his chin as if daring Warlock to take his head. Not a dare he should make. “Tanner and Andrews aren’t exactly subtle about being bought off. I don’t think enough Direkind will follow them. Elena Rollings, on the other hand, is Wulfgar’s descendant, and there are plenty of werewolves who’ll listen to her.”

  “A woman?” Warlock turned and spat on the stone floor. Dice half expected it to sizzle with his rage. “Who’d listen to a woman?”

  “Most of the Direkind don’t follow the old ways the Chosen do. They’d listen to Rollings. And they’d listen to Justice.”

  Warlock turned to Dice. “Then kill them. Kill them both.”

  “That thing can’t do it,” Rosen said contemptuously. “It needs to look as if the Magekind did. That would really seal the deal.”

  “Oh, Dice can do that. Can’t you, my boy?”

  Dice knew his cue when he heard it. Concentrating hard, he transformed in a spill of magic, dragging the Mageverse in around him like a golden cloak, hiding his lupine essence. It had taken him hours to learn the trick, with Warlock disciplining him every time he got it wrong.

  When he was done, he stood beside Warlock’s throne, a tall, armored man with a sword.

  Carl stared at him with his mouth hanging open. “Magekind,” he whispered in astonishment. “He smells exactly like Magekind.”

  Dice grinned. So did Warlock.

  Noah Jacobs didn’t cry as he approached his parents’ funeral biers. Somehow that made it worse.

  Belle watched the boy walk toward the twin biers carrying a pair of white roses. The bodies lay dressed in white and crowned with roses, surrounded by a jungle of flowers and flanked by tall golden candelabra with white beeswax candles. Noah’s eyes were huge and dark, eating the light, and his face was as pale as his mother’s flowing gown. He placed the first rose on her chest, where her hands clasped her sword, then pivoted on legs that visibly shook as he placed the other bloom on his father’s still chest. He swayed when he turned back to face the crowd, and Belle was afraid he’d fall.

  Instead the boy squared his narrow shoulders in the black velvet doublet and walked back toward Ria and George Tizia, who waited for him with their daughter, Jenna. The couple reached for him and drew him in, hugging him hard as he shook, his face pressed to Ria’s chest.

  “Jesu, this sucks,” Belle murmured to Morgana and Gwen. “I’m going to kill that furry bastard if it’s the last thing I do in this life.”

  “And I’ll help.” Gwen sighed, her gaze lingering on the boy. He was crying now, great racking sobs that carried across the square even as the chorus began a soaring hymn. “At least the Tizias have taken him in. I know that couple. They’ll love that boy like their own.”

  The service continued. Finally the Majae aimed their magic at the biers and sent Emma and Thomas Jacobs into the sky on a wave of magic that detonated into the air overhead. Noah’s glassy dark eyes followed the shower of sparks.

  Belle’s chest ached as if she’d been punched in the heart.

  Dice considered himself something of an expert when it came to cops. He’d watched every forensic show he could find, and he’d observed them from a safe distance as they worked to solve the crimes he and the Demon Brotherhood committed. Which was why they’d never actually managed to catch him.

  Yeah, he’d been suspected plenty of times, but it took proof to put a guy in jail. He’d been good at getting rid of proof.

  This time, though, he wanted the cops to show. Or rather, a particular cop. William Justice, the man he needed to kill.

  Which meant he had to do some other killings first. He needed the strength and power they’d give him.

  Besides, he was hungry.

  Warlock found him a set of targets he considered perfect for his purpo
ses, a family of Bitten descendents. Which meant, Dice gathered, that they were not politically well placed, since their ancestors had become werewolves by being Bitten. As opposed to the Chosen, who became werewolves by being the descendents of the original Saxon nobles Merlin had chosen to make Direkind. Warlock had told Dice very firmly that he was not to kill any of the Chosen.

  Unless Warlock told him to.

  Dice stalked around his targets’ home surrounded by an invisibility shield and his Magekind disguise. It wasn’t much of a house, being one of those little one-story shotgun shacks the textile mills had thrown up in the twenties to house their employees. The mills were long gone, and the years had not been kind. A recent bright-yellow paint job was beginning to peel away from the wooden siding, and the grass needed mowing, whispering around Dice’s armored boots as he slipped through the night.

  A red and yellow Big Wheel was parked on the sidewalk, left by one of the family’s brats. Dice stopped and stared at it. Emma Jacobs’s ghost whispered urgently in his ear. Don’t do this. You can’t do this.

  Fuck off, he told her, and forced her back inside her box in the back of his head.

  His werewolf hearing picked up the TV blaring from the tiny living room as Jon Stewart gave his opinion of the day’s news. Somebody hooted in laughter.

  Dice strode up the cement-block steps to the front door and kicked it in. A skinny young man yelled, jumping off the couch as his wife screamed and cowered. Dice leaped at them with such speed, both went down under his sword before they had time to transform.

  Then he crouched beside the closest body, put a palm on her chest, and began to feed, drawing her lingering magic in through his hand.

  “I’m getting damned sick of funerals,” Tristan growled to Belle.

  “Maybe this will be the last one for a while,” she said, sending a warning glower to Sabryn, who glared at her from across the room. The little bitch had the good sense to come no closer, and Belle turned her attention to Tristan again.