Master of Fire

by Angela Knight

  And good grief, he was naked. Beth blinked. What had happened to his armor?

  Not that it mattered. He was hurt. She had to help him.

  Beth scrambled to her feet, the dogs whining in excitement as she plunged after the staggering man. Her pack galloped at her heels—the black German shepherd she called Rhett, Irish Setter Scarlett, Rocky the pit bull, and Marty the fox terrier.

  Even as she ran, she threw a quick look back at the werewolf. He hadn’t moved, apparently out cold on his back in the driveway of the middle-class house, curls of smoke still wafting from his body into the spring night.

  Why the hell hadn’t the neighbors called the cops? Could be the monster had cast some kind of spell to keep them from noticing while he tried to commit murder next door.

  Though the idea of a magic-using werewolf was just wrong. Wasn’t it enough being a seven-foot tall fanged, furry sociopath? I mean, come on, Cujo. Isn’t that a little over the top?

  Beth glanced around. Cujo’s former victim wasn’t letting any grass grow under his bare feet. He reeled through the woods as if he could see in the dark, every step shouting of a grim determination to put as much distance as possible between himself and Cujo. Not that Beth could blame him.

  Hell, she was feeling a little better at leaving the bastard behind, and he hadn’t been trying to kill her.

  Though he probably would have gotten around to it sooner or later. He had that sort of charming personality. Kind of like a furry Komodo dragon.

  So Beth didn’t blame Naked Guy a bit for beating feet. Especially since he had a really nice ass. She could see it, showing pale and muscular through the darkness as it bobbed up and down with his determined strides.

  Then he stumbled over a root, slammed a shoulder into a tree trunk, and fell on his face in the leaves.

  Shit. Beth raced toward him, the dogs yipping in excitement as they paced her. Reaching the man, she slid to her knees.

  “Hey, are you okay?” She took him by one brawny shoulder and rolled him over. He was heavy, massive with bone and muscle. Back in her human days, she probably wouldn’t have been able to budge him at all. He stared at her, dazed. She tried again, enunciating. “Are you hurt?”

  “Don’t . . . know.” Swallowing, he blinked up at her. “Who’re you?”

  “Beth Roman.” She scanned his face. Damn, he was handsome, even with scratches marring his face. “What’s your name?”

  He opened his mouth, only to close it again. The expression of puzzlement grew in his striking blue eyes. They were pale as crystal in the moonlight. “I . . . don’t know.”

  Beth frowned down at him, then raised a hand before his eyes. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

  He didn’t even hesitate. “Two.”

  Okay, not seeing double or anything, which was a good sign. Still . . . She bit her lip. “You probably have a concussion.” Her first instinct was to tell him to stay put while she dug out her cell and called 911. Unfortunately, they were still way too close to Cujo.

  If the werewolf came to before the ambulance arrived, they’d have serious trouble. And they wouldn’t be the only ones, either, because Cujo might decide to eat the ambulance crew. Which was why she hadn’t called the cops earlier. “Do you think you can walk?”

  He considered the question, frowning deeply. “I . . . believe so. I think I’d better.”

  “I think you’re right.” She reached to help him up, sliding one arm around his bare waist and grabbing his hand in her own. He reeled to his feet and almost fell again.

  “Whoa! Hey, not so fast, big guy.” Beth tightened her grip and braced him against her hip, pulling one of his arms around her shoulders by the hand.

  She was abruptly aware of the feel of his body, tall and warm, his waist solid under her palm, his arm heavy with muscle. Cut it out, she told herself savagely.

  Beth could generally ignore men, no matter how handsome—and this guy was definitely handsome, his features as sharply sculpted as a male model’s. Her gaze lingered on his profile, on the full curve of lips that seemed to invite . . .

  Stop it.

  Just her luck to run into a guy like him this time of year, when all she could think about was sex. She badly wanted to get the heck away from him, but she strongly suspected he’d fall on his face if she let him go. The man is hurt. Quit acting like a nympho.

  Gritting her teeth, Beth concentrated on steering him deeper into the woods.

  “Where are we going?” He had a great voice, too, a deep masculine rumble that she could feel way down low in her . . .

  Stop it.

  “My apartment. But first we’ve got to make sure he can’t follow your scent.”

  “Who?” He frowned. Even that looked good on him.

  “The werewolf who attacked you just now. Don’t you remember?”

  He hesitated, as if searching his memory. “No.” His mouth drew into a grim line. Strangely, he didn’t question the “werewolf” bit at all. Must be used to weirdness. Which made sense, considering the way he threw magic around.

  She was suddenly far too aware of his hair, which spilled over his shoulders halfway down his back. The ends of it tickled the back of her hand where she gripped his waist. It was a deep black, except for silvery stripes that ran horizontally across the length of it, rather than vertically. She wondered how he’d achieved the effect. It couldn’t be natural.

  Then again, how did she know what was natural for him? It was a sure bet he was no more normal than she was.

  He jolted against her and looked down, his expression startled.

  “Rocky, get your cold nose away from there,” she told the pit bull, feeling a blush heat her face. “That’s just plain rude.”

  The man shielded himself from the dog’s sniffing muzzle with one hand. Big as his palm was, it didn’t quite cover the territory. “Does he bite?” He sounded more than a little nervous.

  “No,” Beth said, then added more honestly, “not unless I tell him to. Which I wouldn’t.”

  He looked up at her, the corner of his lips lifting in a dry smile. “I can’t tell you how that relieves my mind.”

  “Any idea what your name is yet?” Somehow “hey, you” didn’t seem appropriate, what with the nakedness and all . . .

  He considered the question for a little too long. Dark brows drew down over his remarkable eyes as a muscle jerked in his jaw. “No.” That growl would have done Rhett proud.

  Her gaze lingered on that chiseled profile. “How does David sound? Just until you remember.”

  His lips shaped the name, seemed to consider the taste. “All right.” He met her gaze and smiled. “David. Yes, that will do.”

  Oh, my God, that smile. Beth blinked, feeling as if he’d hit her with a board.

  She was in such trouble.

  His rescuer was beautiful. Her body curved against his, surprisingly strong considering the top of her head barely came to his shoulder. Her hair was a short, dark cap of intriguing curls, though he couldn’t tell the color in this light. Her eyes were dark under straight brows, her jaw delicately angular, features elegant. She looked as if she should be peeking between forest leaves, wings shimmering between her shoulder blades.

  Memory flashed through his mind—a small face peering at him just that way, eyes bright with magic . . .

  The image vanished before he could capture it, gone like smoke whisping between his fingers.

  Frustration whipped through him. Why couldn’t he remember? What in the name of all the gods and demons had happened to his mind?

  He felt so empty. So helpless. As if something that should be there was missing. Whatever it was ached like a phantom limb, like something vital that had been amputated.

  The girl was right about one thing: He’d been in a fight. He hurt, and bruises shadowed his ribs. There were cuts, too, slashing across his arms and legs. And his head ached as if he was being pounded by a fiend from hell.

  Why can’t I remember?

  It was
obvious that whatever had happened in the fight had resulted in both his vanished memories and the . . . amputation of whatever the hell it was he’d lost.

  He strained to remember as they walked, ignoring the dogs that trotted beside them like bodyguards. Trying to ignore the warmth of the girl’s slim body under his arm, the way she nestled against his side.

  Which was much more difficult than ignoring her pets.

  She smelled . . . delicious. Like deep forest and oranges. Odd combination, yet strangely seductive. Her body felt soft and strong at once, slim and solid and warm against his.

  Feeling his sex begin to stir, he straightened hastily away from her supporting grip. Naked as he was, getting an erection just now would be acutely embarrassing. “I can walk on my own now.”

  “You sure? If you’ve got a concussion, you don’t want to fall again.” Her eyes searched his face, dark with concern. And lovely. So lovely.

  “I’m fine.” A lie, but necessary to his pride. He straightened his shoulders and stalked along grimly, ignoring the leaves and sticks that prickled his bare feet and the ache of his abused body. One of the dogs pressed a big, broad head up under his hand, and he stroked the beast absently as he walked.

  He was acutely conscious of the girl—Beth, her name is Beth—watching him anxiously.

  It hit him suddenly that if this werewolf enemy of his came after him again, she’d be in danger.

  Then I’ll protect her, he thought grimly. And I’ll make the bastard pay.

  Memory or no memory.