Master of Fire (36 page)

And she was damned if she’d fail them.

Reaching for her power, Giada let magic roll across her body, flashing like a swarm of fireflies. Armor appeared in a gleaming steel wave—breastplate and greaves and pauldrons, gauntlets and mail and helmet.

And finally, the sword. Its hilt filled her gloved hand, four feet of steel engraved along its length with words of power. It seemed to weigh nothing at all in her hands, but when she hit a target, it would acquire the mass of a battle-axe. She’d spent so many months training with this kind of blade that both it and the armor felt a part of her. Just having them on made her a little more confident.

I can handle this. I
will
handle this.

She moved down the corridor on soundless feet, her armor a comforting weight on her shoulders.

 

 

Logan growled a
curse. Giada had blocked her end of the Truebond so he could no longer sense her thoughts. All he got was the faint echo of her emotions—fear, determination, fury, and a nagging worry that she wasn’t good enough.

“Logan?” Tom was staring at him, brown eyes sharp with concern. “We can’t afford to waste any more time, buddy.”

“I know.” He looked down at the pouch he’d opened in Heather’s vest. It was a deliberately confusing snarl of wiring and dummy parts, designed to keep a tech from correctly identifying the real parts of the bomb so he could disable it. If he clipped the wrong wire, he wouldn’t even have time to realize he’d made a mistake before four pounds of C4 blew them all to hell.

The two children stood shoulder to shoulder so that Logan and Tom could work in concert. The only way to defeat the bombs was for the techs to do the exact same thing at the exact same time. Otherwise, if one tech disabled his device before the other did, the active bomb’s radio would trigger a blast. With the four standing so close together, none of them would have a prayer.

There were a whole lot of ways the two bombs could kill their victims. Logan wasn’t interested in discovering any of them.

Luckily, he had one advantage the bomber hadn’t anticipated: his vampire nose. As he examined the open pouch, he could clearly smell the bastard’s scent on the tangle of wiring and parts.

Leaning closer, he ignored Tom’s lifted eyebrows and gave the bomb a deeper sniff. There were definitely parts of the device that carried that scent more strongly, as if they’d been handled more. Logically, the ones the bomber had handled the most were probably the ones that blew up.

“I think this is the motion sensor,” Logan said, his finger hovering over a small tube filled with mercury. A long black wire snaked away from the sensor into the rat’s nest of wiring wound around Heather’s body, eventually leading to the pouch on her back and the brick of C4.

The lieutenant craned his neck to look over Logan’s arm. “How can you tell? There are at least four sensors in here, and three of them are probably dummies.”

“I just know.” He leaned down to examine Andy’s pouch, quickly identified the sensor with the strongest scent, and pointed it out to Tom.

The lieutenant eyed him, brows lifted. “How in the name of little green apples can you tell?”

“Tom—trust me.”

“What the hell.” Sighing, Tom shook his head and lifted his wire cutters. “You’ve never steered me wrong before.”

The two men simultaneously clipped the leads to the two sensors. And waited, tense as drawn crossbows. Heather and Andy, deep under Giada’s spell, didn’t so much as twitch.

Nothing happened.

Tom blew out a breath and nodded. “I think that’s got it. What next?”

“Now we go after the dissolving switches . . .”

Giada eased around
the corner and through a pair of double doors. The room beyond evidently served as a chapel, judging by the big gold cross that gleamed in recessed lighting on the wall. The pews were built of a dark, somber wood, with burgundy upholstery on the seats and backs. The thick carpeting was the same shade of burgundy, and the walls were painted off-white. Arched stained glass windows in abstract patterns lined the room, the colors dull because the sun was down.

She padded silently down the carpeted aisle, scanning for magic, her sword lifted warily in her hands. A spell opened a second set of double doors at the opposite end of the chapel. Giada stepped through . . .

The werewolf hit her like a bullet train, smashing her off her feet and back through the swinging doors. She hit the floor hard on her back in a hail of broken wood, the impact jarring her head in her helmet.

Amanda Devon crashed down on top of her, a crushing, snarling weight, claws raking at her armored head. A gaping mouth full of teeth opened wide and lunged for her throat.

Giada stuffed her armored left arm between the werewolf’s jaws and swung her sword at the creature’s brawny side. Blood flew, and Amanda twisted away with a startled yelp. The beast cleared five feet in a single leap and landed, a rumbling growl of fury peeling the lips off her teeth. “Bitch! You’ll pay for that!”

“Bitch?” Giada rolled to her feet, despite the stabbing ache she suspected was a broken rib. “I’m not the one with fur and a tail—Mandy.”

“Don’t call me that!” The werewolf sprang at her, one long arm swinging. Before Giada could even bring up her blade, metal shrieked as claws raked across her breastplate. She backpedaled, and Amanda lunged after her, fangs snapping.

Damn, the wolf was fast—so fast Giada couldn’t even get in a shot before the creature ripped at her and darted away. When she dared a look down, blood rolled along her gauntleted arm.

“Very nice,” a rumbling male voice said. “You’re doing well, my dear. Show me what you’re capable of.”

“I’m capable of
anything
,” Amanda snarled, her feral gaze locked on Giada’s face. “I’m not some weakling like this one. I am Chosen.”

“What you are,” Giada spat, “is a hairy lunatic.”

From the corner of one eye, she saw a big, lean black werewolf enter the room. Had to be George Devon, paterfamilias of serial killers and furry sociopaths. The bomber limped at his heels, cradling one bloody arm. More blood covered the mortal’s face, and his expression was contorted with pain. Evidently he’d been bitten.

Oh, sweet Merlin’s Cup.
Andy was right—they’d gone and made the psychotic bastard a werewolf.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, George?” Giada growled, knowing she was wasting her time. You couldn’t reason with fanatics. “Murdering mortals, Latents,
and
Majae—putting bombs on children, for God’s sake! Have you completely turned your back on Merlin?”

She didn’t really expect the werewolf to answer, but his lip curled. “Arthur is the one who failed Merlin. How many millions have died because he didn’t have the courage to control mortal leaders? He’s permitted a reign of chaos out of sheer cowardice!”

With a roar, Amanda sprang eight feet through the air in an impossible rush. Giada jumped back and swung her sword. The Dire Wolf twisted with a cat’s grace, but the blade caught one thick shoulder. Blood flew. Amanda flashed out a clawed hand as she landed, raking Giada’s braced thigh. Steel curled under her claws like wood shavings as the leg erupted in pain.

Knowing she didn’t dare stop, Giada jerked into a spin, whipping her blade around as fast as she could manage. The werewolf threw herself backward, somersaulting like a gymnast to avoid the strike. One clawed foot slammed into Giada’s jaw with an explosion of pain. She went flying like a bean bag to plow headfirst into the side of a pew. Barely conscious, she went down in a stunned heap.

The thought jolted her like an electric shock, and she tried to stand. But the room rotated like a merry-go-round, and she lost her balance, tumbling across the back of the pew.

Before she could try again, a huge furry hand grabbed her arm and hauled her to her feet. She glimpsed a snarling lupine face before Amanda backhanded her so hard, the helmet flew from her head.

Another vicious slap sent Giada slamming into the opposite row of pews. Even with her breastplate, she felt something snap.

The pain made her want to throw up.

“You fight far better than I expected, daughter.” George sounded pleased, damn him.

“She isn’t much of an opponent,” Amanda said dismissively. “If you will permit me to kill MacRoy, it will give you a better demonstration of my abilities.”

Giada braced both hands on the seat of the pew and pushed up with a bitter, wrenching effort. “Kiss . . .” She gasped. “. . . my armored ass . . .
Mandy
!”

Before the Dire Wolf could snarl a reply, the bomber reeled to his feet. Apparently he’d been sitting on one of the pews watching, the asshole. “Something’s happening,” he said, voice trembling as he shook like a plague victim. He reeled down the aisle toward them. “I feel like I’m burning everywhere.”

“You’re about to transform, you fool,” Amanda told him contemptuously. “That, or die. The way you whine, I think I’d rather watch you cook in your own magic than listen to you.”

He stared at her, sweating and wild-eyed. “But I don’t
want
to die!”

“Join the crowd,” Giada muttered. Her broken ribs made a nauseating grinding sound as she breathed, and the claw wounds on her thigh and forearm burned as if dipped in acid.

And she’d lost her freaking sword, dammit.

She started to scan the room for it . . .

Amanda was on her, one big fist swinging in a vicious haymaker that caught her in the jaw. Giada’s skull detonated in an explosion of light and agony. She was only dimly aware of hitting the carpeted floor in an armored heap.

The pain was like nothing she’d ever felt. When she tried to scream, it felt as if she had an axe buried in her face.
She broke my jaw!

Giada lay staring up at the ceiling, the room swinging dizzily around her.
Concussion,
she realized.
I’m done. No way I can fight like this.

Through a haze of throbbing pain, she watched the red Dire Wolf approach to lean over her. One big hand grabbed her left arm and picked her up as if she weighed no more than a rag doll.

Giada’s jaw fell open, spilling blood down her throat, and she gurgled a howl at the sharp pain.

“Pussy,” Amanda sneered in her face. “Arthur will lose because his warriors are all cowards.” She raised a hand, claws glittering as she braced to take Giada’s head off her shoulders.

No! Logan will die, too!
The thought sliced through her pain like a bucket of ice water hitting a drunk.
I can’t let them kill me or Logan’s a dead man.
But what the hell could she do? She met Amanda’s vicious yellow gaze . . .

Before the Dire Wolf could strike, the bomber staggered into her, almost knocking them both to the ground. “Oh, God! Help me!
I’m burning!
”

He was right.

With a howl of agony, the bomber burst into a blue-white blaze of magic bright enough to light up the entire chapel. Startled, Amanda swung around toward him, still holding Giada by her left arm.

Giada reacted without thought, conjuring her missing sword into her right hand. Despite the savage pain of her broken jaw and shattered ribs, she swung the blade with every ounce of strength she had.

It hit bone and flesh with a solid
thunk
, magical inertia carrying it right through its target.

The Dire Wolf’s red-furred head flew off her shoulders. Giada barely managed to keep her feet as the body fell. Grabbing her shattered jaw, she tried to hold it in place and fought to keep her feet.
Damn, I wish I had time to heal this frickin’ thing
. Unfortunately, she could tell the break was too complicated. It would take more concentration than she could afford to give it.

“Amanda!” George Devon’s bellow sent Giada reeling back a cautious step. He stared from Amanda’s headless body to her, his yellow gaze first incredulous, then going dark with bloody rage.
“You killed my daughter, you bitch!”

Giada glared at him and managed to gurgle, “Oh, fuck
you
, George.”

Then the crazed fury in his eyes penetrated her anger, and she began backing away.

He started toward her, flexing his clawed hands.

“Hey!” a deep, rumbling voice said happily. “I’m alive!”

A third werewolf stood in the aisle over the shewolf’s body, wearing a very toothy grin.

The bomber.

Great. Just freaking great.

 

 

Acting simultaneously, Logan
and Tom clipped the wires that led to the devices’ radios. Both men froze, sweat standing on their foreheads.

And nothing happened. They’d successfully disarmed both bombs.