Authors: Angela Knight
Master of Smoke (10 page)
Dead.
Miranda stared at Harold’s twisted body, taking a deep, relieved breath.
The bastard’s dead.
He wouldn’t rape her now. He’d inflict no more pain on her or anybody else. Someone should give her a medal. She’d be lucky if they didn’t gut her instead.
Miranda stared at Harold’s twisted body, taking a deep, relieved breath.
The bastard’s dead.
He wouldn’t rape her now. He’d inflict no more pain on her or anybody else. Someone should give her a medal. She’d be lucky if they didn’t gut her instead.
The last of her rage collapsed inward, a psychic black hole of weariness. Even this would change nothing. Nothing that mattered, anyway. The Chosen were as set in their collective path as a glacier grinding across a valley.
The bedroom door banged open, and Joelle rushed in. “What was that crash?” She broke off, staring in horror at Worthington’s corpse. “Merlin’s Cup, what have you done?”
“Nothing he didn’t have coming.” With a flick of her fingers, she sent a blazing ball of magic at Worthington’s corpse, which burst into flame and vanished.
Mechanically, Miranda turned toward her walk-in closet and threw the door open, searching for her suitcase. She finally located it behind a box of clothing.
“Randy, you can’t.” Joelle stepped into her path and tried to take the case from her hand. “This will only make things worse.”
Miranda pulled away, ignoring her mother’s pleading eyes. Now that the flare of murderous rage was spent, she felt numb. Empty of everything, even the bitter anger of so many years. “At this point, I don’t have a choice.”
“They won’t kill you, Miranda. You’re too essential to Warlock’s plans. Yes, you’ll have to be punished, but ...”
“I’ve already been punished.” She flung the suitcase on the bed, then walked over to her dresser and dug out an armload of clothing. “They’ve been making me pay since the day I was born. All I did today was balance the scales.”
FIVE
There were twelve
Dire Wolves, with fur that ranged from coal black to cinnamon red to honey blond, in textures from horsehair to silk. Most were tall and massively built, though a few were as deceptively lean as fencers. Their intelligence varied from brutish to gifted. There was, in fact, only one thing they all had in common.
Dire Wolves, with fur that ranged from coal black to cinnamon red to honey blond, in textures from horsehair to silk. Most were tall and massively built, though a few were as deceptively lean as fencers. Their intelligence varied from brutish to gifted. There was, in fact, only one thing they all had in common.
Every last one of them was a sociopath.
For centuries, Warlock had maintained a corps of killers, men who had none of the idealism Merlin had ingrained in the rest of the Direkind, even the most cynical of the Chosen aristocracy. These twelve were Warlock’s shock troops, the ones who did his bidding without question.
The group’s small numbers limited what he could do with them, but it couldn’t be helped. More than one emperor of Rome had been assassinated by his own Praetorian Guard, and Warlock had no intention of suffering the same fate.
No, twelve was the perfect number.
Besides, Arthur had his twelve Knights of the Round Table.
Warlock had his twelve Bastards.
He’d opened magical gates to transport them—easy enough to do, since he’d dictated that members of the three teams live together. Now they stood in the central cavern of the network of caves he used as a headquarters.
The thick stone helped shield him from magical detection by Arthur’s witches, and the glowing ward runes carved into the rock looked impressive as hell. So did the massive throne that supported Warlock’s eight-foot-frame. Carved of ebony wood and studded with gemstones, it was damned uncomfortable under his ass. But it did create the right effect, so he put up with it.
Though all the Bastards looked expressionless, even bored as they faced his throne, every one of them smelled of fear. They had reason. The last time he’d brought them together, he’d killed the one whose job performance had dissatisfied him.
Then he’d produced the man’s replacement, whom he’d Bitten the day before.
The others got the point.
“I have a mission for you,” he said slowly, looking from muzzle to wolfish muzzle. “There is a man I would be rid of.”
“Just a man?” Tommy Danvers was one of the more intelligent of his team leaders, a cunning wolf who led his three subordinates with ruthless skill and brutal discipline. “Or a Dire Wolf?”
“At the moment, he’s nothing more than human, but that may change. And he has a female Dire Wolf with him, which complicates matters a bit.”
Danvers curled his lip. “A female? Shouldn’t be much trouble.”
Warlock made a dismissive gesture. “She won’t be, not for you. But at the moment, she’s an inconvenience, because I can’t use my magic to pinpoint the male’s location as long as he’s near her. And so far, judging from my lack of contact, she’s stayed pretty damn close.”
“I’ll bet,” said Steve Miller, Danvers’s second-in-command. The chorus of laughter that followed held a nasty note, with more than a little anticipation.
Warlock shot him an impatient look, and the laughter cut off as though he’d flashed a knife. “Sooner or later, they’ll separate, and at that time I should be able to get a location on him. I’ll need you all to maintain readiness, because you’ll have to move within minutes.”
The men exchanged looks. “Move how?” asked Kevin Wheeler, the Fenir team leader, who had a surprising intelligence for all his brawny size.
Warlock made an impatient gesture. “I will transport you.”
“We’ll be ready whenever you give the signal.” Scott Brown headed the Geri team with a cool, murderous efficiency. Warlock considered him the best of the team leaders.
“As usual, you’ll work in your established teams.” Warlock nodded at Brown. “If Skoll fails, I want Geri ready to go in, then Fenir.” He’d named the teams for wolves from Norse mythology. “You will stop him at all costs.”
“We won’t fail you, sir,” Danvers said with easy confidence.
“See that you don’t.” Warlock pinned him with a cold glare. He gestured, conjuring a set of photographs in the hands of each man. “This is your target. I want him dead as quickly as possible.”
“What about collateral damage?” Danvers asked.
“Eliminating him is the priority. If bystanders get in the way, you have my permission to eliminate them as necessary, so long as you can do so without witnesses. However, avoid police involvement. Police mean media, and media mean Arthur may get wind of this. That is not acceptable.”
Warlock watched in satisfaction as all twelve nodded their understanding. They wouldn’t fail him.
They didn’t dare.
Miranda clattered down
the sweeping stairs with her suitcase, ignoring her mother, who fluttered in her wake. “Randy, please! You can’t just leave!”
the sweeping stairs with her suitcase, ignoring her mother, who fluttered in her wake. “Randy, please! You can’t just leave!”
“Watch me, Mom.”
Got to get to the car before Dad comes back,
she thought, her mind flashing through the possibilities. The blue Volvo belonged to her mother, and Miranda knew Gerald would call the police and report it stolen. Fortunately, Miranda had been making contingency plans for years, and she’d already prepared spells to take care of that problem. She could take the car and go anywhere.
Got to get to the car before Dad comes back,
she thought, her mind flashing through the possibilities. The blue Volvo belonged to her mother, and Miranda knew Gerald would call the police and report it stolen. Fortunately, Miranda had been making contingency plans for years, and she’d already prepared spells to take care of that problem. She could take the car and go anywhere.
As long as it was away from here.
New York. Even she could vanish among eight million people. She’d set up wards to hide her magical signature, making it tougher for Warlock to pinpoint her location. If she was careful not to use magic, she could stay hidden indefinitely.
As for their usual threat—beating Joelle—they’d have no reason to harm her mother if she wasn’t around to watch.
Maybe. Miranda frowned, worrying. They were petty bastards, Warlock and the Dire Wolf who called himself her father. What if they took out their anger on Joelle?
Did Miranda have the right to save herself if her mother paid the price?
But if she didn’t leave, she was setting herself up for rape and brutalization. She wasn’t that big a martyr. “Get the hell out of here, Mom,” Miranda said over her shoulder. “It’s the only chance you’ve got after I’m gone. Or come with me. Either way, I’m not staying.”
But before she could reach the front door, it banged open. Gerald Drake strode in and slammed it behind him. He was Changing before the door was even closed. “What the fuck have you done?” His voice deepened as he transformed, growing into a shattering roar.
She whirled on her mother. “You
called
him?”
called
him?”
“I had to! I ...”
Miranda didn’t hear the rest. Gerald’s fist hit the side of her head like a ball-peen hammer. Hurtling through the air, she curled into a protective ball the instant before crashing through the stair handrail. Pain detonated in her back as she hit the hardwood floor in a rolling tumble. Her right arm took the brunt of the impact, and it snapped with a wet crack that blinded her with agony. She started changing before her body had even rolled to a stop, the pain triggering an instinctive transformation that healed her injuries.
Miranda could survive damn near anything her father did to her. Sometimes that wasn’t a blessing.
Enough
. The word blasted through her mind in a roar of Burning Moon rage. A sword materialized in her hand as if forged from her fury. Miranda bounded to her feet, healed and whole and seven feet tall, a rippling growl vibrating her red-furred chest. She lifted the blade ...
. The word blasted through her mind in a roar of Burning Moon rage. A sword materialized in her hand as if forged from her fury. Miranda bounded to her feet, healed and whole and seven feet tall, a rippling growl vibrating her red-furred chest. She lifted the blade ...
Only to lower it as the strength drained from her arm.
Gerald Drake held her mother in a tight, vicious hold. Joelle hung there, limp, one shaking hand resting on his thick forearm. She was obviously afraid to move. And she had reason. Gerald’s huge hand was wrapped around her head, the claw of his index finger a fraction of an inch from one terrified eye. “Get rid of the sword or I’ll break her neck.”
Miranda hesitated.
“Now!” His roar seemed to shake the house.
Defeat tasted acrid, and she could smell her own fear stink. But she could smell her mother’s, too.
The sword fell from her hand.
Eva watched David
stalk around her shop, examining its contents intently. Her father had acquired an extensive collection of film and comic book memorabilia over the years, and most of it was proudly displayed at the Comix Cave. There were all kinds of colorful superhero figurines in freestanding display cases, but the object that interested David most was the replica sword that hung point-down on one wall.
stalk around her shop, examining its contents intently. Her father had acquired an extensive collection of film and comic book memorabilia over the years, and most of it was proudly displayed at the Comix Cave. There were all kinds of colorful superhero figurines in freestanding display cases, but the object that interested David most was the replica sword that hung point-down on one wall.
“May I examine this?” he asked, the third time he’d gravitated over to the big weapon.
“Sure. Just don’t break anything with it.” The thing was solid steel; it had been used in a sword and sorcery epic a few years back, so it was a fairly hefty prop.
David lifted it from its brackets with great care, then sighted along its length before testing its edge with a thumb. “Dull.” He hefted it and swung the weapon in a circle with a twist of his wrist. “The balance is not bad. A bit gaudy, but it would make a decent practice weapon.”
“It’s more for looks than anything else. Dad paid a pretty penny for it several years ago. He loves stuff like that.”
David grunted and fell into a crouch. His blue eyes narrowing, he surged forward into a lunge, thrusting the weapon through an imaginary opponent. Pivoting on the balls of his feet, he slashed the sword in a shining arc.
Luckily there were no customers in the store; they might have been a little alarmed. That, or awed. Eva propped her elbows on the counter and rested her chin on her hands, settling down to watch.
David went after his imaginary enemies like a professional swordsman, flipping and spinning the heavy weapon as if it weighed no more than a yardstick.
When he started sweating, he paused just long enough to tug off his knit shirt and toss it onto the counter. Before Eva could frame an objection, he was hard at work again, half-naked, sweat painting gleaming trails down his broad chest.
Fluffy started purring.
Eva had to agree. Watching the muscle work in his broad chest made her remember the way he’d felt stretched along her body, thrusting slowly, using his mouth and hands to drive her straight out of her mind.
He wheeled, revealing a set of parallel scratches down his broad back. Eva winced, remembered digging her claws in at a particularly intense moment. “Ouch. Does that hurt?”
David gave her a blank look. “What?”
“Your back. I scratched you up pretty bad.”
“Ah.” He grinned, broad and slow and more than a little wicked. “Feel free to wound me whenever you want.”
She snorted. “That’s a dangerous offer, stud.”
“Sometimes danger makes a delicious spice.” The grin broadened. “Even on the tastiest dishes.”
Eva laughed. “Flatterer.”
The bell jangled a bright note as the shop door swung open and closed. The customer stopped in his tracks, eyes going wide at the sight of the muscular, half-naked man with a sword in his hands.
“Hi, Joel,” Eva said, thinking frantically. “This is David. We brought him in for a swordsmanship demonstration.”
“Oh.” Joel Harmon edged past David, watching in fascination as he hunted imaginary werewolves. Circling display cases or lunging down the aisles, the big man moved with a predator’s silence and a bullfighter’s cruel grace. His brilliant eyes were narrow, intent, and his sensualist’s mouth flattened into a grim, cold line.
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