Master of Shadows (26 page)

“What do you mean, ‘ate him’?” Arthur demanded. “That’s a sword wound.”

“He devoured his magic and his spirit.” Morgana pushed a lock of black hair away from her face, revealing the defeat in her eyes. “That bastard got it all.”

 

Dice’s knees buckled
under him, and he hit the cavern’s stone floor hard enough to jar his back teeth. He fell forward to land on his hands and knees. Shudders racked him.

Fifteen hundred years. Bors had been a Knight of the Round Table for fifteen hundred years. Dice felt his pride in being chosen by Merlin himself for the Great Mission of protecting mankind He remembered what it had been like to fight for the innocent, to use his vampire strength in acts of courage and accomplishment. He’d been a hero.

And Dice had killed him with a coward’s stroke. From behind, because he never would have been able to take the knight any other way.

Self-loathing such as he’d never known filled Dice, so black and bitter that he wanted to take up his sword and slit his own throat.

“Get up,” Warlock growled.

He paid no attention, staring blindly at the blood on his gauntleted hands. Bors’s blood. For a moment he felt a sense of dizzy dislocation. He knew he was Dice, but Bors’s memories were so incredibly strong, pressing down on him with the weight of centuries.

Warlock snatched off Dice’s helm and fisted a big hand in his hair, dragging him to his feet. “I said, get up!”

“Oooww! Goddammit!”

“Listen to me, boy.” The wizard thrust his fanged muzzle so close, Dice wanted to jerk away from the hot, stinking breath gusting into his face. “I’ve absorbed creatures like that before. If you are not careful, the sheer weight of his life will snap your mind like a twig. And his . . .”—Warlock’s lip twisted—“
goodness
will make you loathe yourself. But you listen to
me
, boy. You are not evil. He and his kind are weak, gutless idiots. A true leader is willing to sacrifice a few lives to save thousands, to clamp down with an iron fist in order to create peace and plenty. I have that courage. So do you. Together, we will serve the greater good.”

Dice blinked up at the werewolf as he struggled with thoughts that were alien to everything he’d ever known. “How can acts of evil create good?”

Warlock released his hair and grabbed his jaw, forcing him to meet the wizard’s orange gaze.
“Because I will it so
.
”

Dice felt the wizard’s consciousness slam into his, seizing those fragments of Bors, Emma, Tom, even the werewolf couple he’d killed. Warlock’s lips moved, chanting a spell, binding the ghosts in chains of magic. Moans of pain rose, sounding weak and distant.

“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.

Tristan might as well have been the statue of David for all his reaction. Belle gave up on subtlety. “Are you all right?”

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.”