Master of Shadows

by Angela Knight

  He nodded, suddenly weary. “I’ll give you whatever you want. But don’t take so much time that you take too much.”

  “I wouldn’t do that to either of us.” Belle leaned in and kissed him. It was no little peck either, but a kiss so hot, so hungry, that his body leaped in response. Suddenly he was acutely aware of her nudity, her delicate grace, the scent of her skin . . .

  Pursuing her advantage, Belle threw a leg across his thighs and straddled him, delightfully naked, her breasts beaded with glistening drops of water as they bounced with the movement. Her sex pressed down over his trapped cock, her lower lips so soft and slick, he hardened under her in a hot rush. She gave him a smile and wound her arms around his neck. “I do love you.”

  “And I love you.” His eyes dropped to the pretty pink-tipped breasts bobbing in the bubbling water. God, he loved those nipples.

  She laughed in a surprisingly girlish giggle. “Yes, I can tell.” Her mouth swooped down on his, her tongue stroking past his teeth, then retreating to trace his lips, entering again to explore his mouth in gently erotic thrusts. The last of Tristan’s anger drained away as his senses filled with Belle. She tasted exquisite, her lips delightfully soft, her clever tongue so hot and promising he wanted inside her now.

  Even more delightful was the pressure of her sex caressing his cock, gone hard as a brick in the luscious captivity of her thighs. It occurred to him that this was the kind of pose that could trigger a flashback. Normally he’d find some way to change positions so that he was on top, in order to keep his errant mind from turning his partner into Isolde.

  He felt none of that panic now. Belle was not Isolde. Whether she knew it or not, she’d exorcised his wife’s vengeful ghost with every soft stroke on her hands, with every kiss and whisper.

  Isolde was dead. And Belle was very much alive, as she proved with a hot little wiggle. The friction as she rocked over his cock made Tristan groan. Resting his hands on her slim thighs, he felt the lithe muscle work as she rolled her hips against his, teasing his cock with every soft glide of her pussy along its length.

  He wanted in her. He imagined the hot, tight squeeze of her juicy inner grip and wanted to howl like a werewolf with need.

  Instead he cupped her soft breasts and leaned forward to taste a delicious nipple. Circling his tongue over the hard little nubbin, he closed his lips and suckled her, drawing hard. He loved the way the tip jutted inside his mouth as he teased it with his tongue. Reaching below the water, Tris slipped a finger into the clinging folds of her sex. She dropped her head back and moaned, one of those erotic purrs that shot lust through him like a drug.

  Belle reached down with one hand and caressed the head of his cock as she straddled him, teasing the sensitive glans. She kissed him lazily, licking at his mouth, tracing the line of his lips, nibbling his tongue.

  Finally she drew away to stare into his eyes, hers gray-blue and bright. Leaning forward, she began to nibble her way down the tendons of his neck, and used her free hand to tease one of his tiny male nipples. Tris couldn’t take any more. He reached past her to shove candles and plants out of the way, then grabbed her waist and sat her down on the marble edge of the tub. Belle laughed. “Tris, what the hell are you doing?” She sounded very French, and he grinned even as he slid off the bench, draped her thighs over his shoulders, bent to her sex, and took a good, long lick. She yelped, a sound that made his cock twitch.

  Belle braced her back against the chill tile and clung to his blond head as he used his tongue and fingers on her clit. The pleasure stung her with its pounding intensity until she writhed against the tile, gasping as she rolled her hips, desperate for that one . . . last . . . touch . . .

  Tristan pulled her off the lip and fell back into the tub, splashing water over the edge and sending it rolling across the bathroom in a little wave. Not that she gave a damn, because he pulled her down right onto his cock, impaling her with a powerful roll of his hips.

  And began to fuck her. He gave her no quarter—not that she wanted any—rolling hard, thrusting with such power, Belle could do nothing but brace her hands on his hard belly and hold on for dear life.

  She loved the deep, grinding thrusts he gave her, the water sloshing around them as he braced back on his elbows. His green eyes sparkled up at her, wicked with humor.

  And then it hit her. “Wait!” she gasped. “I’m on top!”

  He grinned, all roguish good humor. “I noticed.”

  “But Isolde . . .”

  “Is not in this tub.”

  And he thrust even harder, his cock probing deep as he lifted her and let her fall and lifted her again. She stared into his eyes, frantic, afraid Isolde’s ghost would overwhelm him.

  But as she met his passionate stare, she realized he was right. His dead wife no longer haunted his heart. The scars she’d left were gone, healed by some miracle of love.

  Her climax took her by surprise, a fierce, deep pulsing that shook her to her soul. Belle screamed in feral pleasure. He roared back at her, a cry of triumph and delight.

  “Do you still want to Truebond?” she gasped.

  “Yes!” he gasped back, still grinding into her. “God, yes!”

  She reached for his mind and threw her own open to him. Together, they drew hard on the Mageverse, letting its wild energy rage through them. But instead of using its magic to shift or create, each shot delicate strands of power into the other’s mind, slowly weaving a lattice of magical connections between them. More and more strands bound them, until each could feel the other’s thoughts, see the other’s heart. Until the web they wove hit a critical mass of magic.

  It burst around them, golden and blinding, binding them soul to soul until they knew each other, body and brain and heart.

  One. “I never realized I was so alone before,” Tristan said in wonder.

  “This is going to take some getting used to,” Belle murmured, her eyes half-closed as she enjoyed the velvet touch of his mind. Through his senses, she could feel her own sex gripping his cock like a juicy vise. The sensation was so deliciously exotic, she started grinding down on him, sending more sensation volleying back and forth between their minds, growing more intense with every searing pass.

  Another orgasm rolled over her like a sensory hurricane, throwing him into another climax, though he’d barely recovered from the first.

  When it was all over, they climbed out of the tub, dried each other off, and staggered to the bed. As they snuggled under the covers, Tristan asked the obvious question. “How the hell are we going to fight like this?”

  “We’ll figure it out.” After all, they’d defeated Isolde’s ghost. “But we’d better do it fast,” Tristan muttered. “The shit is about to hit the fan.”

  Warlock found Dice lying in one of the caverns in a pool of his own blood. Black eyes watched the wizard, gleaming dully in the light of his spell.

  “Kill me and be done with it,” the beast rumbled. “I did all I could.”

  Warlock sighed and conjured a gate. “I can see that. Come.”

  Dice didn’t bother lifting his head. “I can die as well here.” He let his eyes drift closed.

  “Well, I don’t choose to let you. I’ve spent a great deal of effort and magic on you, boy, and I have no intention of seeing it all go to waste.” A clawed hand closed over one of his pointed ears and dug into a bundle of nerves. The pain jerked away his breath, forcing him to his feet as the wizard pulled him ruthlessly toward the gate.

  Seething with resentment, Dice followed his master through the dimensional portal.

  The minute he stepped on the other side, the scent of magic hit him in the face, a warm wave of ozone and seduction, a delicious promise of power.

  Dazed, suddenly ravenous, he stared at the source of the smell.

  A lovely little pool lay in the center of the forest clearing. A cliff rose over the water, black against the starry sky. A waterfall tumbled down the black stone face, glowing gently, smelling of magic more powerful th
an anything he’d ever sensed. “What is this place?”

  “Your salvation. Wade in, boy.”

  Dice didn’t need to be told twice. He staggered into the pool, hissing in mingled pain and delight as the magical water touched his wounds. Instantly, they began to heal with a hot, stinging tingle he barely noticed as the pain vanished.

  “There’s a permanent dimensional gate over the falls, though no one knows why,” Warlock called over the gentle sound of falling water. He nodded at the top of the cliff. “The universe there has magic even stronger than that in the Mageverse.”

  Dice glanced up at the unfamiliar stars. “The Mageverse,” he said in wonder, as Bors’s stolen memories whispered. “That’s where we are.”

  “Of course. And once you’ve spent the day here, you’ll have more than enough magic to fight Arthur and his knights. Now, let me tell you what you did wrong,” Warlock said, wading into the water with a sigh of pleasure. “And how you’ll win against them the next time.”

  Davon sat with his back up against the cement-block wall and waited for daybreak to steal his consciousness.

  He wanted this over.

  Linda Corley had volunteered her house as a makeshift jail, then had locked him in the basement under werewolf guard. As basements went, it was pleasant enough, with dark green shag carpet that probably dated from the 1970s. An artificial Christmas tree stood in one corner, covered with a plastic sheet, while a couch and armchairs upholstered in dusty flowered chintz crowded in beside a washer and dryer.

  Reverend Sheridan and his son had guard duty at the moment, sitting in metal folding chairs beside the wooden stairs. They’d gossiped quietly for a while about people he didn’t know, so he ignored them.

  The silence that had finally fallen since then had a particularly glum quality. Davon wasn’t sure why. They should be happy justice for Jimmy was within reach.

  “Why?” Stephen asked suddenly. “Why’d you do it, Davon?” He’d reverted back to human form, and his voice was a full octave higher than the one Davon was used to. Tall, blond, and athletic, he was a handsome kid with earnest hazel eyes and a wide mouth. His hands and feet looked a bit too big for his body, reminding Davon of a puppy who had yet to grow into his paws.

  “I’ve been through this, Stephen. I’d been told he was a pedophile . . .”

  “Not that,” the teenager said impatiently. “Why didn’t you go with the knights when they came to rescue you?”

  “Steve, he already explained that to the congregation,” Howard Sheridan said. “He wants to atone.”

  “But they’re going to kill him, Dad!”

  Davon let his head fall back against the wall. “God, I certainly hope so.”

  Howard eyed him. “Is this repentance, or are you just using us to commit suicide?”

  He shrugged and closed his eyes. The angry energy that had allowed him to speak with such furious eloquence and humor at the church had abandoned him. He felt as if his body had turned to solid lead. It seemed he was sinking slowly into the floor, weighed down by his sins. Even fear required more energy than he had.

  “Or maybe,” Sheridan’s voice dropped to a deep, lupine growl, “you want me to kill you right now.”

  A huge clawed hand grabbed his gorget and hauled him into the air as if he weighed no more than a toddler. Davon’s eyes snapped open in surprise to meet the preacher’s, gone bright yellow in a Direwolf’s lupine skull. Sheridan’s lips rippled, revealing a great many shining white teeth, and his jaws opened as if to bite.

  “Dad!” Stephen cried.

  “Don’t sweat it, kid,” Davon said, his feet hanging a foot above the dated carpeting. “He’s not going to kill me. He’s not a killer.”

  Howard stared into his eyes. “Neither are you.”

  “Your son would beg to differ.”

  “You won’t goad me into killing you, Fredericks, no matter what you say.” The preacher lowered him carefully back down in his chair. “I was hoping to scare some sense into you. Guess not.”

  Davon snorted. “If I scared that easily, they wouldn’t have made me Magekind.”

  “Yeah?” the pastor asked shrewdly. “How do you feel about hell? Does that scare you?”

  He stared without hope at the ceiling. “I’m not real thrilled about going, but there’s not much I can do about it.”

  The werewolf shook his head in disgust. “For such a smart man, you are profoundly dim. Ever thought about asking God for forgiveness?”

  Davon snorted. “I’d think you’d want to see me fry.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m evidently a good bit brighter than you are, because it’s obvious to me Arthur’s right. You’re as much a victim as my boy was.” He folded his arms and stretched out his legs, then he directed a brooding stare at his toes. “I’m going to speak up for you tomorrow, but my people are probably gonna kill you anyway. I’d like to try to at least give you some peace.”

  He wasn’t sure it would do any good, but he managed a smile. “Would you pray with me, Reverend?”

  The werewolf looked up and gave him a genuine smile. “It’d be my pleasure.”

  So they knelt together on the green shag, and Davon placed his right hand in the pastor’s clawed one. Stephen took the left hand, and they bent their heads.

  EIGHTEEN

  Miranda watched Belle practically dance around the well-appointed kitchen, humming in pleasure as she diced vegetables and cheese for omelets. Whoever heard of a witch who’s a morning person? Her obvious joy made Miranda miserably aware of her own dark mood.

  The sound of boot heels on the stairs alerted her just before she caught the scent of another werewolf. Miranda tensed as her instincts howled a warning.

  The man paused in the doorway, tall and lean and so powerfully masculine her body purred approval. His hair was thick and curling over dark brows, and his eyes were black and shrewd.

  His nose was a hawkish blade that suggested something exotic somewhere in his family tree, an idea enhanced by his coloring. She wasn’t sure if the copper tint to his skin was a tan or genetics. His upper lip was a bit too thin, while the lower one had an intriguing fullness that made her imagine biting it. His cheekbones were broad—that exotic ancestry at work again—with deep hollows beneath them. His long jaw was a fraction broader than his temples, which gave him a caveman kind of vibe. None of which should have been appealing.

  But it was.

  He looks like a thug, she told herself. Precisely the sort of man she shouldn’t trust. Just like Warlock and her stepfather, the kind willing to use fists and claws and teeth to keep her and her mother in line.

  “Good morning, Belle,” he said, his voice surprisingly smooth and pleasant. She’d expected a Clint Eastwood rasp.

  “Ah, Justice.” Belle turned from the cutting board to flourish her knife in Miranda’s direction. “Miranda, this is William Justice. Bill, Miranda Drake.”

  He gave her a long, assessing look that made her straighten her shoulders and lift her chin. “You’re Warlock’s daughter. The werewolf witch.”

  She gave him a smart-ass smile. “Yeah. And you’re the Wolf sheriff the Council of Clans just fired.” Belle had told her that much when she’d mentioned she had another guest. Both of you have had to deal with idiots. Maybe you’ll find you have a lot in common.

  Like a shared talent for pissing people off, Miranda had muttered. Yeah, that’ll go well.

  “Satisfy my curiosity,” Justice said, walking over to accept the mug of coffee Belle offered. “Did you kill both your parents, or just your mother?”

  Belle growled something in French. “Dammit, Justice . . .”

  Miranda refused to let her gaze drop. “My stepfather broke my mother’s neck after years of abuse. So I stuck cut off his head and burned the house down.”

  He lifted a dark brow. “Way to make a statement.”

  “All he loved was that house and the money Warlock paid him.” She curled her lip over her coffee cup. “That’s all the Chosen ever
care about. So I got rid of it all and took the money. God knows I bled for it long enough.”

  He took a slow, deliberate sip of his coffee. Steam rolled up around his barbaric face. “You know, you could have called me at any time to report you were being abused. I would have arrested the bastard and put a stop to it.”

  “Uh-huh.” She leaned a hip against the marble counter and cocked her head over her mug. “And what would have happened when the case went before the Council of Clans for trial?”

  He didn’t flinch. “Hopefully, we would have found the evidence to obtain a guilty verdict.”

  “You and I both know better than that. The Chosen members would have voted not guilty because my stepfather was Chosen, and he’d have bribed the rest. Then he’d have killed my mother the minute they let him out of jail.”

  “I’d have protected you if you’d given me the chance.” Justice put the mug down on the counter with an irritated clunk. “Instead, you took the law into your own hands. Which makes you as much a killer as you claim he was. And your mother still ended up dead. I’d bust you, except—”

  “You’re not a cop anymore.” She smirked. “Isn’t that too bad.”

  “Okay, that’s quite enough of that,” Belle snapped. “I’ve been working my butt off on this breakfast, and we’re all going to sit down and chew on it instead of each other.”

  Ouch, Miranda thought, with a belated thought for the manners her mother had drilled into her head. She’d been rude to another guest in a friend’s home. Joelle would have been mortified. “Of course, Belle. I’ll set the table.”

  “I’ll help,” Justice said, biting off the words.

  “I don’t need your help.” Miranda stalked to the china cabinet to get the dishes.

  “Isn’t that too bad?” Justice said, deliberately echoing her earlier snark as he got the silverware out of the drawer Belle indicated. “Because you’ve got it anyway.”

  Somehow they managed to set the table without breaking into outright combat, then sat down to eat. Which distracted Miranda nicely from her fellow guest, because Belle’s omelets were light and deliciously fluffy, while the bacon had a perfect smoky crunch. Between that and the canned peach preserves the Maja served with her scratch-made biscuits, Miranda hadn’t had a meal so good in ages.