Master of Shadows (2 page)

I love you all, and I couldn’t have done it without you.

“What do you
do when they order you to kill?”

The conversation instantly died as every witch and vampire in the room turned to look at Davon Fredericks. Davon did not flinch under the weight of those incredulous stares. He’d been a trauma surgeon before becoming a vampire, and he’d never lacked balls. He just gazed at Belle, his chocolate eyes level and troubled. He was a big man in his jeans and dark blue oxford shirt, broad shoulders stretching the fabric as he leaned forward, elbows on knees. His curling black hair was cut close to his scalp, emphasizing the strong, handsome lines of his face—the full lips, the broad cheekbones, the wide swoop of his nose. His skin was precisely the color of milk chocolate, smooth and clear, with a faint, creamy gleam.

Belle looked up at him from the plates of hors d’oeuvres on the coffee table, a stuffed mushroom halfway to her mouth. “Why do you ask?”

A muscle flexed in his chiseled jaw, and he looked up at the CONGRATULATIONS, DAVON AND CHERISE! banner hanging across the back of the den.

Belle had designed the room especially for the dinner parties she loved to throw, with two big white leather L-shaped sectionals arranged around a low, square coffee table. Davon’s brooding gaze dropped to the table, flicking among the trays and bottles that crowded it. He chose a beer and opened it with a violent twist of one strong hand. “I was just wondering.”

Now all twenty of her guests looked uneasy. Ten vampires and ten witches, Asian, black, Caucasian, Latino, all of them wet behind the ears. Though they were either in their early thirties, like Davon, or late twenties, none of them had been Magekind for longer than a few months. Well, except for Cherise Myers.

And Belle herself, who had been around one hell of a lot longer than that. She sighed and decided she’d better scotch this concern before they
all
started obsessing about it. “First off, none of you is going to be ordered to kill anybody.” She dropped the mushroom on her plate and used a toothpick to skewer a couple of cheese cubes from a tray. “If someone needs killing, Arthur will send one of the Knights of the Round Table.”

Like Tristan, who had been avoiding her for the past month. She curled a lip and stabbed a cheddar cube through its cold, imaginary heart.

“But . . .” Cherise began, only to fall silent with a glance at Davon, who sat beside her on the sectional. Each promptly looked away from the other, as if they’d synchronized their chins. Cherise looked delicate as a fairy next to big, broad Davon. She had a heart-shaped face, enormous blue eyes, and a tumble of blond hair that made her look like she’d just stepped off the cover of a romance novel. Yet a solid buzz of power radiated from her, and intelligence lit those blue eyes.

So what was with the grimness that thinned the line of her full mouth?

Frowning, Belle eyed the couple. They’d returned from their first mission a few days before, which was the whole point of this get-together. Belle always threw her boys a party to celebrate that first-mission milestone.
You’re a real Magus now, kid.

There was more to being a Magekind vampire—a Magus—than having a set of fangs. You had to save the world, too.

Whether the world liked it or not.

But Cherise Myers was no green recruit; she’d been a Maja for several years now. A steady, intelligent young witch, she had just enough power to handle most jobs without getting dangerously cocky about it. Belle had been pleased Davon had been assigned to her.

So why were they acting so twitchy now, when neither was the twitchy sort? “Look, Arthur doesn’t make the decision to kill humans lightly. You’ve got to be a career asshole along the lines of a major terrorist leader to make him decide to take you out.”

Richard Spotted Horse looked up from pouring himself a glass from one of the bottles of donated blood each of the witches had brought. He cocked a dark eyebrow. “But why not just cast a spell to make the bastard give up the terrorist business?”

“Wouldn’t work,” she said, and noticed that Davon was now pointedly avoiding her gaze. She’d have to pull him aside after the party and make him spill whatever was bothering him. Nobody had appointed Belle den mother to the men she’d recruited; she just couldn’t help herself. “Once a murderous attitude becomes deeply engrained, you can’t wipe it out of a subject’s mind no matter how much magic you use.”

“So why not kill ’em all?” Davon picked up a chocolate-covered strawberry, then dropped it back on the tray as if remembering he didn’t eat anymore.

“Because we don’t work that way. Not that we’re not tempted, but . . .”

“Belle, we’ve got a mission.” The familiar male voice rang across the room, cutting her off as a shaft of helpless longing stabbed through her. Which instantly pissed her off.
Tristan.

The knight filled the doorway with his height and swordsman’s solid brawn. He was dressed all in black.
He would be,
she thought. A black knit shirt tucked into black jeans over soft black boots, the darkness broken only by the glint of the silver belt-buckle at his narrow waist. His hair fell around his shoulders in thick, blond strands that gleamed like expensive silk.

Tristan had the face of a Renaissance warrior, long and square-jawed, his cheekbones precise juts, with sculpted hollows and a determined chin. His mouth was wide and far too sensual for her peace of mind. His eyes glittered vividly green under his thick blond brows, demanding and more than a little arrogant. “Sorry to interrupt your party, but I’ve got a nasty situation on my hands.”

Belle gave him a smile sweet enough to rot the fangs right out of his head. The kids, of course, were staring at him in hero-worshipping awe. “Come on in, Tristan.”
Since you already let yourself in my house without knocking
. “We’re celebrating Davon’s first mission.”

“Congratulations.” Tristan didn’t even glance over at him. “Look, Belle, I’ve got a pissed-off werewolf waiting for me. It’s kind of urgent.”

She bared her teeth. They weren’t fangs, but they apparently got the message across; he flinched. “I’ll be happy to open a gate for you to go meet your fuzzy friend, but I’m a little too busy to accompany you just now. I’ll join you once the party’s over.” Damned if he was going to stroll into her house and start ordering her around. Not when he’d been treating her like a Black Plague victim for weeks.

“Belle, if you need to go on a job, we can clean up,” Cherise said earnestly.

“I think we can all be trusted not to get drunk and trash the place.” Richard gave her a lazy grin, shameless flirt that he was.

Tristan glowered at him before turning the glare on her. “Look, I realize I’m interrupting fun and games with your . . . boys, but the Direkind needs us to investigate a murder. And they’re convinced magic was involved.”

Belle stared, making the instant leap. “Warlock.”

“That’s my thought.”

“A murder?” one of the kids asked. “Who?”

“What happened?” Davon looked uneasy.

Tristan didn’t reply, his gaze hard and demanding on Belle’s.

Dammit, there was no choice in this one. She had to give him what he wanted. Again. Warlock and his daughter were the only Direkind werewolves who could work magic, and he was both immortal and incredibly powerful. He was also murderous, ambitious, and insane. Belle and Tristan had locked horns with him the month before, and had damn near died doing it. If he’d surfaced again . . .

Belle stood and looked around at the Majae. Unlike the vampires, they did eat, which is why she’d spent the day cooking for them. “There’s more hors d’oeuvres in the kitchen, girls. Please finish them off. Stay as long as you want.”

As Tristan stepped aside, she stalked past him through a chorus of good-byes. “All right, where am I opening this gate?” she said after he’d closed the door behind her. “And what the hell’s going on?”
And why have you been avoiding me?

Tristan shook his head. “Actually, I don’t know many of the details myself. William Justice is my contact. He’s the Wolf sheriff—the top werewolf cop, appointed by the Direkind Council of Clans. He’s a good guy . . .”

“As opposed to the aristocratic nutjobs we dealt with last month,” Belle muttered.

“Right. This guy fought for us during the Dragon War.” He was referring to the battle the Magekind had fought a year or so ago, back when they’d been ass-deep in alien demons and calling in every ally they could find. The Sidhe, Dragonkind, and assorted werewolves had joined the battle against the Dark Ones, and a lot of them had died doing it. “He’s been contacting me for help on cases ever since, usually when he needs me to bring in magical firepower.”

Like vampires, werewolves couldn’t use magic beyond the limits of their own bodies; for spell work, they needed witch help.

“So where is this scene?”

“South Carolina. Some podunk little town.” There were a lot of werewolves in South Carolina, Merlin only knew why. Tristan reached into a pocket to pull out an iPhone. “Hey, Justice? I found my witch. Help her with her gate, would you?” He offered her the cell, and she accepted it. The touch of his hand sent a flush of frustrated heat zinging up her arm.

Belle dragged her attention away from his stern, handsome face as she put the phone to her ear. Some Maja had enchanted it to carry inter-dimensional transmissions between Mortal Earth and the magical city of Avalon. She could sense the buzz of an active spell as she handled it. “Hello, Justice?” Good name for a cop.

“Look, you people need to get over here
now
,” growled a deep voice with a distinct Southern drawl. “The kid’s parents have called every wolf in the fucking county. The mood’s getting ugly. I need to get you and the knight in and out before I have a riot on my hands.”

“I’m sorry for the delay,” Belle told him. “We’re on our way.”

“Do you want to gate directly to the scene?”

“Not if you want me to sense any magic cast by the killer,” she told him. “A dimensional gate produces a pretty strong blast of magical energies that would destroy older traces. We’re going to have to come in some distance from the scene if we don’t want to contaminate it.”

“You do realize that means you’re going to have to walk through a pack of pissed-off family members?”

She shrugged. “Can’t be helped.”

“All right. How far out do you want me to get?”

“At least a couple of blocks.”

“Okay. Give me a minute.” She listened to the rustle of clothes and the murmur of angry voices, then the click of boots on cement. Silence fell, broken by the chirp of distant crickets. “I’m there.”

Belle concentrated, drawing on the hot roil of the Mageverse as she used the phone’s magical connection to home in on Justice’s location. Magic poured from the tips of her fingers, conjuring a glowing point in the center of the hallway. A heartbeat later, it had expanded into a shimmering oval: an inter-dimensional gate.

Avalon, the Magekind’s capital city, was located in another universe entirely, on a world that was a twin to Mortal Earth. Magic was a physical law in the Mageverse; both the Magekind and their werewolf cousins, the Direkind, drew on its energies to power their magic. Travel between the two Earths could only be accomplished with a magical gate, which meant Tristan needed Belle’s help. Otherwise he’d probably still be avoiding her, the bastard.

Tristan ducked through the gate before it was even finished expanding. Belle followed, trying not to admire his ass as she went. Like the rest of him, it was a very nice ass.

Too bad his personality wasn’t as pleasant as the view.

They emerged in a neighborhood straight out of a fifties sitcom. Middle-class tract homes, all very similar, nestled in small yards surrounded by azaleas and oak trees. A startled black cat crouched and hissed at them, before darting away to vanish under a wax myrtle hedge. William Justice must be the guy pacing the sidewalk. Lean as a fencer, dark haired, and starkly handsome, he wore chinos and a navy blue polo shirt. He carried a pump-action shotgun tucked under one muscular arm.

Justice wasn’t fooling around.

“Clock’s ticking here,” he told them after a quick round of introductions. “I need you to check the scene so we can get the boy to the funeral home before some human cop shows up and starts asking questions. Or before there’s a riot.” His mouth tightened into a grim, flat line. “Could go either way.”

“Tell us about this kid.” Tristan frowned down the length of the sidewalk as though he’d heard something that worried him. Belle, whose Maja senses were less acute, heard nothing.

Justice swung the shotgun up across one shoulder. “Vic is seventeen years old. Name’s Jimmy Sheridan. Just got through his transition successfully, so his mom and dad thought they were in the clear.”

“In the clear?” Belle asked. “Of what?”

“A fifth of our kids don’t survive their first transformation. The magic runs rogue and burns them alive. Just incinerates them to ash.”

She stared at him, having never heard that particular horrific detail about the Direkind. “My God.”

“Why do you think we call it ‘Merlin’s Curse’? It’s hell on our families. Which is why we’re a little nuts when it comes to our kids.”

“Everybody’s nuts when it comes to their kids.” Belle cast a quick spell, opening a telepathic link to Tristan.
“This is going to get really, really ugly.”

“You
are
quick.”
Smart-ass. Belle curled her lip at him before turning to Justice.

“The Sheridans took their oldest son, Steve, out to dinner,” the Wolf sheriff continued. “They left Jimmy at home because he had a term paper for summer school he’d been putting off writing. Paper was due tomorrow, so he was cutting it pretty close. Apparently, they had a little fight about that.”