Master of Shadows (28 page)

Holy God. No wonder they were edged in red. They were conjured from her blood.

Tristan stared down at her, stunned speechless. It wasn’t unheard of for Majae to use their own blood in major spells. It was the strongest kind of white magic you could work, in fact—an enchantment which drew its power from the witch’s own life force. It was said Gwen had done something similar to create Arthur’s armor.

But Gwen and Arthur were Truebonded. Of course she’d be willing to spill her own blood to protect him. He strengthened her in turn.

But Belle had given Tristan a priceless gift for
nothing
. It wasn’t the kind of thing you did for someone who was nothing more than a combat partner you sometimes bedded.

It was a gesture of love.

Isolde would never have done such a thing for him, even when they were in love. She wouldn’t have tied her own life force to his protection.

He had no idea what to say. Except . . .

I love you
.

The words lay on his tongue, filling his mouth, desperate to be spoken. Yet some other part of him refused to say them, as if they’d leave him vulnerable. The last time he’d loved a woman, she’d stuck a knife in his chest.

Which was ridiculous. With each stroke of her bloody fingers, Belle told him just how much he meant to her, just how far she was willing to go for him.

How far was he willing to go for her?

 

At last the
spell was finished. Tristan’s feet, shod in armored boots, touched the ground as Belle’s magic lowered him to the floor.

Standing before him, Belle held out both bloody hands. Across her palm lay the knife. In a flash of magic, it became a great sword—almost four feet long from pommel to point, the kind of weapon it took two hands to use. Reverently, Tristan accepted the big blade.

“The sword controls the armor,” she told him. “You only have to will it, and the armor will vanish back into the sword. You won’t need me to conjure it anymore, so it will always be available.”

“That’s amazing.” Tristan stepped back to take a short practice swing. Despite the blade’s length, it was so perfectly balanced, it seemed to weigh nothing at all in his hands.

“Send the armor back into the sword,” Belle urged. “I want to see if it works.”

Obediently, he closed his eyes and willed the scales away. When he opened them again, he was as naked as she was, and the sword wore an elegant scale scabbard that shimmered in the candlelight. “Jesu, that’s beautiful,” he told her, examining the weapon reverently. “Thank you!”

Belle grinned at him, happy as a child on Christmas morning. “You’re welcome. I tested the prototype with a mock Dire Wolf bite while you were asleep. The scale didn’t so much as dimple. The magic dissipates any force applied to the armor out into the Mageverse. You could step on an IED without getting so much as a hangnail.”

“Amazing.” Tristan reached out, hooked a hand behind her neck, and pulled her in for a long, slow kiss. Belle purred into his mouth. He drew away just long enough to hang the strap of the scabbard over the bedpost. Then he bent, swept her into his arms, and put her down on the cool sheets. His eyes glinting with sensual hunger, he came down on top of her.

The long cut on her breast was still bleeding—she’d sliced herself a bit too deep. Carefully, Tristan ran his tongue the length of the wound, letting his saliva go to work healing it.

One by one, he found each cut she’d inflicted on herself, then kissed and licked them until she moaned and twisted in helpless arousal. The feel of her soft body writhing against his made him burn. His balls grew tight as his shaft rose to full erection, heavy and thick between his thighs.

Belle was every bit as hot as he was. When he slid a finger between her lower lips, he discovered she was as juicy as a fresh peach. His cock twitched in lust.

I love you
. The words echoed in his head, but when he opened his mouth, they refused to emerge.

So instead he kissed her cuts some more, tongued her hard little nipples, and ignored the demanding ache of his cock.

 

Tristan’s tongue drew
a long, wet line along one of her cuts, then paused to lick and tease her breasts.

God, it felt good.

Eyes half closed, Belle combed her fingers into his long hair and hung on tight, enjoying every stroke and touch. She could tell from the way he looked at her that he knew why she’d used her own blood in the spell.

Maybe she was an idiot. Maybe he didn’t feel the same way. She kept waiting for the words, but he didn’t say them. Instead he stroked and fondled and licked until she thought the pleasure would drive her out of her mind.

But he didn’t say
I love you
.

She’d realized the gravity of what she was doing when she’d prepared to make the first cut on her palm. This was serious magic, and it could take a deadly toll on her if the armor was destroyed.

But then she imagined Tristan lying in the bloody leaves in Bors’s place, and she realized she’d do anything to make sure such a thing never happened to him.

God help her, she loved him. Arrogant asshole that he was, he’d managed to steal her heart. Her life would be dark and empty without him. It was no wonder she was willing to bleed to ensure he survived his next clash with the Dire Wolves.

Belle wanted him to keep right on driving her crazy with his relentless honesty, his love of Arthurian belching contests, his flaming temper—and his mind-blowing talent for making love to her until she barely knew her own name. A little blood was a small price to pay.

Even if he couldn’t say those three exquisite little words.

Tristan spread her legs wide, lowered his blond head, and began to lick, stroking the very tip of his clever tongue around her clit in slowly tightening spirals. He paused a thoughtful moment, then closed his mouth around her and suckled so hard she almost convulsed off the bed with an ecstatic shriek.

Tristan laughed softly and went back to licking, back and forth, in and out of her tight core, around and around her clit. At the same time, he tugged and pinched her nipples, the two pleasures weaving together like a golden braid, tightening slowly until she felt the first pulses of her orgasm.

Then he stopped again. And ignored the frustrated fist she smacked down on his shoulder. “Tristan!”

This time his laughter had a slightly sadistic note. He went back to teasing her—nipples, pussy, clit, teasing and suckling until the swirl of sensation grew into a thundering storm that made her shake and scream.

She looked up to find him on top of her, guiding that delicious cock into her swollen sex. Belle gave a welcoming little yip as he drove home every last, luscious inch. Wrapping her calves around his thighs, she held on tight.

He started moving. In and out and innnn and ouuuuut, so slowly she thought she was going to detonate like a Roman candle. Moaning, she dug her nails into his back, and he took the hint, speeding up his rolling thrusts.

He reached between their bodies, clever man, and stroked a thumb over her clit as he ground. Her climax finally hit like the breathtaking slap of an unexpected wave, dragging her along as it spun her deep and stole her breath. When it finally retreated, she lay limp and panting with battered pleasure.

Tristan came with a shattering roar. Belle smiled.

Okay, so maybe he couldn’t say the words. Neither could she. They seemed so damned huge, she couldn’t wrap her tongue around them. Later. Later they’d say them. Right now, she was too busy holding tight to his delightfully sweaty body and enjoying the feeling of that big cock.

She’d made him safe. For now, that was enough.

 

“Are we sure
we want to do this?” Rosen asked uneasily the next night. “People are going to die.”

“Of course people are going to die,” Andrews said contemptuously. “That’s why they say war is hell.”

“Not just the Magekind,” Rosen pointed out. “Our people, too.”

“Commoners.” Tanner sneered into his whiskey glass. The three of them had gathered at his mansion in advance of the night’s meeting to discuss how to handle the vote.

Rosen had to admit it was a beautiful house with its ivycovered redbrick walls and arched windows, not to mention the marble floors and fireplaces everywhere you looked. Lots of fussy Louis XV antiques, gilded wood and rose velvet upholstery that made him think of a really expensive whorehouse.

Tanner’s library felt more masculine. Leather-bound books filled floor-to-ceiling bookcases, interspaced with bronze statues of naked nymphs in poses of abandoned sensuality. He, Tanner, and Andrews sat in gilded antique chairs clustered around the crackling fireplace, sipping their drinks from Waterford crystal.

The only off note was struck by the painting that hung over the fire. A pretty young girl in Renaissance clothing sawed the head off a bearded man. The blood spurted realistically from her knife as an old woman looked on. The man looked horrified. Tanner swore the painting was a genuine Caravaggio, whoever the hell that was. It was all too damned gory for Carl’s taste. But that was the Chosen for you.

Bloodthirsty.

Carl hid his expression in his glass. It irked him, the way the Chosen dismissed Bitten descendents like himself as inconsequential. The Direkind might be werewolves, but they were also Americans, dammit. The lives of commoners were just as valuable as those of the Chosen.

He managed a civil tone with effort. “Commoners or not, we have a responsibility to the people we lead not to waste their lives.”

“That’s what they’re for,” Andrews said with a disdainful snort.

“No good cause has ever been won without shedding a little blood.” Tanner sipped his whiskey and smiled. “And protecting our way of life is a good cause.”

“But is it good enough?” Carl had been asking himself that very question all night.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Andrews snapped. “This modern world has strayed dangerously far from the path over the past forty years. Look at all the people that consider themselves our equals now—blacks, Hispanics, the Irish. Not to mention
women
.”

“And what’s been the result?” Tanner put in. “Crime, divorce, illegitimate children, pornography, and illiteracy. If we don’t put a stop to this now, God knows where it will lead.”

Like, oh, maybe a decent world, Carl thought, but he didn’t say it. Between them, Tanner and Andrews controlled more money than God, and they had Warlock’s ear besides. It wasn’t in his best interest to piss them off.

“Don’t curl your lip at us, Carl,” Tanner said, and Carl winced, realizing he’d given himself away. “We are the Chosen. Merlin himself selected our ancestors to preserve humanity. If we don’t act now, we will fail that responsibility. One day Merlin will return . . .”

“That’s what worries me,” Carl muttered.

Tanner ignored him. “I, for one, don’t want him to come back to a world in chaos.”

“Arthur actually knew Merlin, Tanner,” Carl said. “He doesn’t seem to believe Merlin held the Chosen’s traditions in all that much esteem.”

Andrews sneered. “Arthur Pendragon is Celtic trash. We are the descendents of
Anglo-Saxon
warriors. It’s our job to preserve our ancient bloodlines.”

He might be the descendent of warriors, but Arthur
was
a warrior. Carl remembered the look on the vampire’s face—that royal fury and steely determination. “Declaring war on King Arthur is a good way to get a lot of people killed. That’s not preserving your bloodlines.”

“Warlock will not let our people fall to the Celts,” Andrews said, a fanatical gleam in his eyes. “He will lead us to victory, first over Arthur, then over the politically correct weaklings of Modernity. That’s our destiny.”

Tanner eyed Carl and asked in a silky tone, “Are you losing your nerve?”

Rosen swallowed, recognizing the danger he was in. If Tanner told Warlock he wouldn’t play ball . . . “Of course not. I just want to make sure we’re doing the right thing.”

Tanner rose and sauntered over to the bar to pour himself another whiskey. “Of course we are, Carl. Vote with us, and unborn generations of Chosen Direkind will applaud your courage.”

“Or vote against us,” Andrews added in a low, nasty voice, “and your own grandchildren won’t even know your name.”

“Don’t worry.” Carl had to stop and swallow before he could add, “You have my vote.”

Tanner smiled. “Of course we do.”

 

“Before they left,
the Magekind magically altered the bodies of the Green family to make it appear they had been shot,” Justice told the members of the Council of Clans. “Given Jimmy Sheridan’s beheading, we didn’t want another set of deaths from a blade.”

“No, we wouldn’t want that,” Andrews said snidely.

Justice ignored the comment. Andrews and Tanner had been making snarky little asides through his entire report on the murders. “Judging from the article in the paper this morning, the police have concluded the Greens were the victims of a home invasion.” He paused and scanned the council. Almost all of them avoided his gaze. Shit, that wasn’t good. “Are there any questions?”

Justice braced himself for another grilling about his every move during the investigation. He’d already answered a blizzard of such questions, but if he knew the council, they’d probably ask the exact same ones all over again.

“No,” Rosen said, “I think it’s all fairly clear.”

“Indeed it is,” Tanner said. “I move the council fire William Justice from the post of Wolf sheriff.”

“Seconded,” Andrews said, smirking.

Yeah, Justice had figured something like that was coming. He asked the obvious question anyway. Damned if he’d roll over for the bastards. “On what grounds?”

Tanner assumed a sober expression completely at odds with the sadistic pleasure in his eyes. “You knew Arthur was suspected of involvement in these murders, and yet you called the Magekind to the scene, corrupting the evidence . . .”