“There.” Warlock studied Dice with satisfaction. “You’ll be able to access their memories and abilities without being overwhelmed. Now, come.” Turning on a clawed foot, he started deeper into the cave. “We have plans to make, and I must tell Rosen to find another way to deal with his sheriff.” His lips lifted in a feral smile. “I have other missions for you.”
Belle poured magic into her hands, adding it to the burning stream that rushed toward Morgana, who knelt beside Bors’s murdered corpse. The knight still lay where the assassin had dropped him. Morgana crouched with one hand on the center of the dead man’s chest, the other lifted as she led them all in a chant.
Eleven other Majae surrounded Avalon’s most powerful witch, feeding their magic into her so she could use it to search for the killer. The circle included not only the witches who had accompanied the search team, but several additional Majae Morgana had called in from Avalon. She sent all that power blazing out like a searchlight, a ferocious beam of magic and will that blazed through the night, seeking some trace of the killer, some echo of a spell they could follow back to its source. Belle’s palms burned as if she held them too close to a furnace, and sweat streamed down her face, despite the predawn chill. Her head throbbed savagely, and she could feel her power faltering.
“Enough.” Morgana let her arms drop as though they’d grown too heavy. “If we haven’t found him by now, we’re not going to. Not before sunrise.” One could work spells in daylight, but they weren’t as powerful. And power was what they needed now.
The Majae groaned in a combination of relief and disappointment. Relief that the grinding effort was done.
Disappointment that they had failed.
Belle felt her knees start to buckle and braced them with an effort. God, she was tired. Between fighting and searching for the assassin, she doubted she had the juice to light a candle.
Arthur spoke in a low growl that jerked her shoulders straight. “Before the sun rises, I have one more little job I need to take care of.” He gave Morgana a burning look. “Get me Carl Rosen.”
Morgana’s next words revealed just how tired she really was. “You mean on the phone?”
“No,” Arthur snarled. “I mean right here. Right now.”
Not even Morgana would argue with him when he used that tone. She turned to one of the witches who was a bit less thoroughly drained and nodded. Apparently Belle wasn’t the only one who doubted her ability to light a candle.
Morgana looked around for Justice. “Get out your phone and call Rosen. We need a homing signal.”
It took all Justice’s persuasive skills to convince Rosen that yes, he did have to get out of bed at 5 A.M. because the shit truly had hit the fan.
The man still bitched and complained bitterly, right up until he stepped through Morgana’s gate and saw Bors’s body lying in the leaves, surrounded by glowering warriors.
“Now,” Arthur growled, striding to meet the werewolf, “I don’t want to hear one fucking word about ‘Where’s the body?’ ” His tone turned savage. “One of my best knights was murdered by one of you furry bastards, and now you can by God tell your fellow council members that Bors is dead.”
Rosen blinked like a rabbit. “But I don’t smell werewolf. I don’t smell anyone but Magekind.”
Arthur stepped so close to the werewolf that they were literally nose to nose. Neither was a tall man, but somehow the Magus seemed to tower over Rosen. “I know you’re not calling me a liar.”
Rosen’s eyes widened, and he took a step back out of what looked like sheer reflex. “Ah, no.”
“Because my people saw the killer, and they say he was one of yours. Which means one of yours butchered that family in there.” He thrust an armored finger toward the little house just visible through the trees.
“A family is dead?” Rosen blinked. “An entire family?”
“A man, his wife, and their five-year-old daughter,” Tristan said, his arms folded as he, too, glared at Rosen. “Killed by a werewolf who tried to make it look like one of us.”
“Which is horrible, but beside the point. One of your people did kill James Sheridan.” Rosen lifted his chin and managed to meet Arthur’s blazing gaze. “If you don’t surrender him so we can put him on trial, we will use whatever means necessary to . . .”
“Don’t you threaten to declare war on me, boy.” Arthur’s lip curled. “When it comes to war, I do not fuck around. Your lot may be immune to magic, but you’re not immune to steel. I’ll cut off your damned head and mount it over the Round Table.”
“Don’t . . .” Rosen had to lick his lips before he could finish. “Don’t threaten me, vampire.”
“It’s not a threat, werewolf. I’ve been killing men for fifteen centuries. If you’re stupid enough to declare war on me, you’ll pay for it.”
“Then hand over . . .”
“No.”
“Our committee met . . .”
“Fuck your committee. I’m not giving you Davon Fredericks. Warlock cast a spell on that boy and turned him lose on your little werewolf. I’m sorry for it. But Davon is as much a victim as all the others Warlock has murdered, and you’re not killing him.”
“I . . .”
Arthur looked at Morgana. “Get him out of here.”
Five minutes later, Carl Rosen stood shaking in his own living room, having been pushed through a dimensional gate by one of Arthur’s thugs.
He’d believed Warlock’s portrayal of Arthur as an ineffectual medieval fop living in a fairy tale. Now he realized just how thoroughly he’d been deceived.
The man he’d met tonight had been every bit as scary as Warlock. Actually, more so. Warlock was surrounded by a cloud of magic so strong, you could almost taste it in the air like ozone before a storm.
Arthur exuded a different kind of power, the pure, distilled authority of a man other men followed without question. Had followed since Rome fell. It wasn’t a power that had been conferred on Arthur by some election, or that he’d seized with military might. Merlin hadn’t bestowed it on him when he drank from the Grail. Arthur had literally been born to lead, and now that authority informed every gesture, every thought, permeated every cell of his body.
When he chose, that raw dominion blasted out of Arthur’s eyes with such force, it made even Carl want to drop to his knees.
Carl, who’d sold himself to Warlock.
There’s good news, and there’s bad news, he thought with a flash of semi-hysterical humor. The good news was that Arthur would provide them with the excuse they needed to declare war: he wasn’t going to hand over Davon Fredericks.
The bad news was that Arthur would provide them with the excuse they needed to declare war. And having met Arthur, Carl was no longer sure they’d win.
But win or lose, a lot of people were going to die.
Belle was so tired, she was stumbling. Yet she still found the energy to worry, because the Knights of the Round Table were seriously pissed off. And that included Tristan.
Some of them raged and cursed as they stood guard around the house under an invisibility spell as several Majae worked the crime scene inside. Morgana had summoned fresh witches from Avalon for the job, which needed to look like a human shooting rather than beheadings by a swordwielding attacker.
Now, there was a tidbit nobody wanted on CNN.
But as some of the knights swore vengeance, others were dangerously quiet. Tristan was one of the quiet ones. She wasn’t sure why that worried her more than the others’ vows of bloodshed, but it did.
Belle threw another glance up at his face as he stood next to her among the knights and exhausted witches milling around the house’s shaggy lawn. His handsome profile was expressionless, but there was a look in his eyes she didn’t like at all.
“I’ll be glad when they wrap this up so we can get home,” she said, hoping to pull him back from whatever evil place he’d gone. “We’re cutting it close to dawn as it is.” The eastern horizon was already going pale.
He looked down at her. Now she saw emotion, but it was so stark, so tormented, she wanted to look away. “I just got one of my dearest friends killed. What do you think?”
Her jaw dropped. “Tris, how in the hell was this your fault?”
“He was walking not ten feet away from me, and I never even noticed when that bastard ran him through.” His lips twisted. “I was too busy worrying about you.”
Belle felt as though he’d slapped her.
“Yeah, and?” A petite blonde marched over to join them, a glower on her pretty face and Gawain at her heels. Lark was Tristan’s great-granddaughter, as well as Gawain’s wife. She’d also been eavesdropping—and didn’t care if they knew it. “Belle is your partner, Tris. You’re supposed to worry about her.”
“She’s got a point,” Gawain observed. “You have a duty to look out for your lady.”
“Yeah? And who was looking out for Bors?” Tristan growled.
Their raised voices had attracted Arthur’s attention. He stalked over to join them. Judging from his expression, Tris wasn’t the only one who’d booked a flight on Guilt Air. “There were unmated knights in the party. Bors could have been partnered with one of them. Which I should have seen to, but didn’t.” One big hand clenched around the hilt of Excalibur as the sword rode at his hip. “So if anyone is responsible for Bors’s death, I am.”
“Stop it!” Gwen snapped. They’d attracted quite a crowd by now. “Yes, Bors is dead. It’s a tragedy, and he will be missed. But flogging ourselves only distracts us from what we should be doing—catching his murderer. Because if we don’t, Bors won’t be the only agent we bury.”
Arthur gave her a faint smile. “As usual, my wife is right. We’ll meet tomorrow night at the Round Table to discuss our next move.”
“In the meantime,” Morgana said, “we Majae should concentrate on reinforcing everyone’s armor.”
Along with planning yet another funeral, Belle thought grimly.
A couple of exhausted-looking young witches stepped out of the house and gave them all a nod. “We’re done.”
Arthur glanced at the reddening horizon over the houses across the street. “Just in time.”
Belle lay in the curve of Tristan’s big body as he spooned around her. He felt wonderful—all warm, hard muscle and smooth skin, with a soft ruff of hair clouding his broad chest and fluffing around his cock.
But even as her body warmed to his, she could sense the grief that lay over him like a heavy weight. She rolled over to look into his eyes. He promptly turned his face into his pillow, but not before she saw the tear tracing a path down his cheek.
Belle sighed and kissed him. His tears tasted salty. “I’m sorry.”
“Bors was a good man,” Tristan said.
“Yes.”
“That bastard ran him through from behind because he knew he couldn’t take Bors in a fair fight.”
“Yeah.” She kissed him again. Gently, tenderly. “Definitely a coward.”
Another tear traced a slow, shining path down his face. “I’m going to kill that fucker.”
“I’ll help.”
He laughed, soft and rough. “Considering his powers, I’ll need all the help I can get.”
“Tristan,” Belle began, before breaking off again, not sure how to put what she had to say without making his pain worse.
Tris stroked his knuckles slowly down her cheek. “Yes?” he prompted, when she said nothing else.
“I think the Beast is doing more than simply feeding on the magic of those he kills. I think he’s taking on the abilities of his victims. That’s how he left traces of Magekind magic at the scene.”
Tristan considered the idea, frowning. “If you’re right, he could have absorbed Bors’s ability as a swordsman.” He thought it through before shaking his head. “Doesn’t matter. I’m still going to kill him, no matter how good he is with a blade.”
“Yes.” She cupped her fingers around his hand where it lay on the sheets. He turned it palm up and wrapped his fingers around hers. It felt good to hold his hand. Such a simple gesture, yet it said so much. Basking in the sensation, she brushed her lips over his mouth in a soft kiss. His arms slid around her, and he rolled over onto his back, pulling her against his side. With a sigh, she cuddled into him, the top of her head nestling under his chin.
“Thank you.”
Belle wrapped one arm around his narrow waist. “What for?”
He shrugged. “Being here.”
Belle smiled and snuggled against him. A moment later, the sun came up and his arms went limp around her as he lost consciousness.
It wasn’t long before she joined him.
FOURTEEN
Belle opened her eyes to the glowing image of a unicorn, its golden horn lifted, its emerald eyes wicked. They reminded her of Tristan’s.
She’d become adept at reading the light that poured through the stained-glass windows of her bedroom. Now she estimated that it was probably noon.
Belle stretched lazily, enjoying the waterfall of rainbow light pouring in. The windows weren’t just pretty, they were a necessity. The bright colors filtered the sunlight so it wouldn’t harm her vampire guests.
Like Tristan. He lay utterly still as his body drank in the magic of the Mageverse, an energy he needed every bit as much as he did blood. A vampire could die if he stayed away from the Mageverse for too long.
Tristan’s blond lashes feathered his cheeks like thick gold fans, and his sensual lips were parted, as if waiting for a kiss.
God, she was tempted.
He looked as deceptively innocent as a boy in sleep, though there was nothing boyish about the hard, masculine angles of his face. His hair tumbled across her pillow in bright skeins that shimmered in the light from the unicorn window.
He could have been the one to die last night instead of Bors. As skilled and powerful as he was, even Tristan could fall to an assassin’s blade in the back.
He needed better armor. Something without the chinks and weaknesses Bors’s killer had exploited.
Belle rolled out of bed, conjured a cup of coffee and a muffin, and went to work.
She tried gauntlets first. They needed to be strong enough to resist a Dire Wolf’s bite, yet light enough not to restrict mobility.
The armored glove she conjured incorporated sheets of titanium she folded and shaped with her magic into dense layers. Next she used her magic to create a disembodied Dire Wolf head that could bite with the same force as the creature they’d fought the day Emma died. A flick of her fingers, and the glowing avatar bit down on the gauntlet.
Crushing the glove like a beer can.
“Merde,” Belle growled. She flung up her hands in disgust, and the failed glove vanished.
She tried four more designs as the afternoon went on, but all of them either failed the bite test or were too heavy to fight in.
This isn’t working, she thought, pacing the bedroom in frustration. And if I don’t solve the problem, Tristan’s next battle could be his last.
Irritated, needing a break, Belle dressed and went out to her garden. The scent of roses and the tinkle of falling water never failed to soothe her frustration.
She began to pace as she struggled with the problem. There had to be some combination of magic and metal that would protect Tristan without keeping him from defending himself . . . A pair of huge winged shadows passed across the garden. Alarmed, Belle jerked her head up, then relaxed with a sigh.
It was only Kel flying with his wife, Nineva. Both were in dragon form, riding the thermals that rose from Avalon’s sun-heated cobblestone streets. He was a rich iridescent blue, while she blazed gold in the sun. Each was more than forty feet long from tapered nose to whipping tail tip.
They were magnificent.
Belle remembered watching Kel land, the way his iridescent scales rippled over the t
hick muscles of his shoulders and long, flexible neck . . .
Dragon scales.
Belle’s mouth fell open as the solution to the armor problem popped into her mind as if it had been waiting for the right moment to appear. She turned and hurried inside, detouring through the kitchen long enough to grab a blade from the set of chef’s knives.
For this, she was going to need blood.
Davon swung his sword with a grunt of furious effort, his eyes narrow, sweat rolling down his muscular torso. He parried and spun, sending a bead of sweat flying. His heart hammered in his chest, and his breathing rasped in desperate heaves of his chest.
He’d started working the moment the sun set and dragged him from the blessed oblivion of the Daysleep. Davon had promptly dressed in a pair of loose cotton shorts, picked up his sword, and padded barefoot into the sitting area. He’d already moved the couch and chairs into the other room to give himself space to work.
Now he ticked through every sword move he’d been taught, every parry, every attack, every retreat, until his muscled ached and a stitch cramped his side.
Not enough. Not nearly enough. He wasn’t shaking yet. He had to wear himself out until he couldn’t think.
Thought had become Davon’s enemy.
He leaped into full extension, driving his sword through the imaginary heart of his opponent, then slashed, taking his foe’s . . .
Head.
Nausea twisted his stomach into a sour knot as guilt slapped him like a hard palm.
He’d murdered Jimmy Sheridan. He’d slipped up behind a seventeen-year-old boy who was playing a video game and hacked his head off his shoulders. Never mind that he believed Arthur had told him the boy was a vicious serial-killing pedophile. He’d decapitated a child.
The memory kept playing in his head in a nightmarish loop. The thunk of the sword hitting bone, sending Jimmy’s head rolling off his shoulders, to spray blood like a garden hose, painting the walls scarlet, splashing Davon’s face. . . . Now the boy’s parents and brother were left with an aching hole blasted in their lives where a handsome young man used to be. All his intelligence, all his potential. All gone.
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