Master of Wolves (6 page)

“Shut up,” she gritted. Keith Reynolds was an adrenalin junkie; he viewed the possibility of getting killed with the enthusiasm of a coke addict surveying a line of pure Peruvian flake. “I have to get this spell right or they'll be all over us.”

“Don't worry about the vamps. I'll take care of them.”

“It's not that easy.” Reynolds had no idea what it was like to be at the mercy of people who relished your suffering. Celeste, on the other hand, understood that kind of powerlessness all too well.

Obtaining Korbal's Grail would go a long way toward ensuring her safety, but to get it, she had to go up against Korbal himself. And he was one of the most powerful of Geirolf's cultists—so much so, he'd been one of the three priests chosen to transform them all into the demon's vampire army. The idea of confronting all that chilling power made sweat break out on Celestine's forehead.

Get over it,
she told herself savagely.
You're either predator or you're prey, remember? And you sure as shit don't want to be prey.

Celestine squared her shoulders, took a deep breath, and reached deep for the power she'd seized. She'd told Reynolds to take his time with Cruise, and she reaped the benefit of that magical murder now.

Stolen life force surged though her as she lifted her hands, preparing to cast the spell. Slowly, she began the chant, the ancient, alien words burning her tongue with their twisted syllables. Dark energy boiled up from her soul like a bloody fountain, rolling down her arms to blast from her shaking fingertips. She kept chanting, shaping the magic with every word, forcing it to her will, building a dimensional gate between her home and the lair of her enemies. But not just any gate—one even Korbal with all his powers would be unable to sense.

At last it hung there, shimmering, gleaming red walls visible beyond its swirling forces. But Celestine didn't drop her aching arms.

“Is that it?” Reynolds asked, his voice a low growl of excitement. His big body coiled as if eager to leap through the gate, no matter who or what was on the other side.

“Almost,” she gritted. “Hold on. I've got to shield us first.” Her voice growing hoarse from manipulating death magic, she started chanting again.

Another wave of energy foamed from her hands, coating her body and the werewolf's, forming an invisible shield around them. Glancing at Reynolds, she watched him grow transparent and finally vanish. With an exhausted sigh, she dropped her arms. They were now impossible to detect by sight or magic. Even their voices wouldn't carry to anyone other than each other.

As long as nothing went wrong, anyway.

“Now,” Celestine said. “Let's go.” With the werewolf at her heels, she stepped through the gate. Power pulsed over her skin as that single magical pace carried her hundreds of miles, from Clarkston to the heart of New York.

She and Reynolds emerged in a corridor built of blocks of crimson stone polished to a mirror gleam. Celestine gazed around them, reluctantly impressed. If the decor was any indication, Korbal was even more powerful than he'd been before.

When last she'd been in the New York temple, the building had looked like the rundown warehouse it was, with rusting steel I-beam supports and graffiti-splattered walls.

Korbal's death magic had transformed it into a cathedral supported by black columns with gleaming solid gold capitals. Eyeing the closest pillar, she saw it was carved with naked, writhing figures, entwined in sex or murder—it was hard to tell which.

“Bet this goes over real well with the locals,” Reynolds whispered. “Looks like a whorehouse.”

“Not from the outside, if I know Korbal,” Celestine said absently as she started down the corridor. “Probably looks just like it did before.”

“…did you call us, priest?” a male voice demanded from somewhere down the corridor. “This had better be good.”

“I suspect you'll find my reasoning more than compelling, Jarvis.”

Celestine's mouth went dry at the sound of Richard Korbal's sonorous voice. For more than a year, she'd been a member of his New York Satanic Temple, until Geirolf had summoned them to destiny. Within hours, she'd drunk from the third grail and tasted true power as a vampire. She'd fought the Magekind as a member of Geirolf's un-holy army, only to watch the demon god die. She'd have died, too, if Geirolf's lieutenant hadn't scattered his vampire army to the four winds.

The spell had dumped Celestine in the wilds of South Carolina. She hadn't even known where she was, or where she should go next. She only knew she wasn't interested in rejoining Korbal's flock.

She wanted a flock of her own.

A week later, Celestine had been driving through Clarkston on her way to Florida when Reynolds had pulled her over. It was then she'd realized she could create her own temple. Hungry for blood, she'd seduced him—had, in fact, meant to kill him. Then she'd realized he was a kindred spirit beneath his badge. What's more, many of the other cops of Clarkston were just as amenable to seduction.

The question was, what had Korbal discovered while she was laying the groundwork for her own power? There was one way to find out.

Celestine started toward the set of open double doors where she'd heard voices. Reynold's claws clicked faintly on the gleaming marble floor as he followed.

Rounding the corner, she stopped short in surprise. The room beyond was huge, an echoing space wrapped in gloom and theatrical splashes of torchlight.

It was also completely filled with robed vampires. The stench of death magic rolled over her in waves. To Celestine, the scent was as intoxicating as it was nauseating.

“Jesus,” Reynolds breathed in her ear. “There must be two thousand people in here. I hope to hell you don't want to take them all on.”

“Not likely. Listen!”

At the other end of the cathedral, Korbal stood on an elevated stage. He was a tall man, graying and handsome, with blue eyes that blazed with fanatical charisma. Behind him, a massive carving depicted Geirolf presiding over ranks of cultists lined up to drink from the three grails.

“We face a great threat, my children,” he said, his voice rising and falling in the hypnotic cadences she knew so well, “one we must band together to defeat—”

“Under your leadership, I assume?” a man sneered from the crowd.

“Does it matter who leads,” Korbal told him, “as long as we deal with the threat?”

Celestine suppressed a snort. No matter what kind of game the priest played, his ultimate goal was power.

“What threat?” a female voice demanded.

The priest drew himself up in in his embroidered black robes. “Three weeks ago, on March tenth, precisely at 11:34
P.M
., half my army was wiped out in the blink of an eye.”

Celestine's jaw dropped. She wasn't sure what was less likely—the possibility that it would happen, or that he would admit it if it had.

On the other hand, Korbal was entirely capable of inventing a crisis to stampede the gullible into following him.

A babble of voices rose. “What the hell are you talking about?” one demanded.

Korbal lifted his graying head in an angry gesture. “Somehow Arthur destroyed them all, while leaving the rest of us untouched.”

Mutters of protest and disbelief. “What?
Why?
”

Celestine frowned. He was suckering them, he had to be. And yet…perhaps he wasn't.

“A sneak attack, then?”

“A spell?”

“He lies! Korbal always lies.”

“Go then,” the priest snapped. “Go and die when Arthur's witches work their magic again. Die unable to defend yourself, between one breath and the next, while you are murdered from a dimension away.”

The shouts subsided to a sullen murmur until another man spoke. “If you know something, priest, spit it out.”

“We determined that all those who died had drunk from the second grail,” Korbal announced in that beautiful, deceptive voice. “Those who drank from my grail lived, and so did those turned by the third grail. But the children of the second grail have been wiped from the face of the earth.”

“He's lying!”

“No.” Now a woman spoke. “We ran with Harry Kent's group. The same thing happened to us. Exactly at 11:32
P.M
. on March tenth, Harry and sixty of our cult mates burst into magical flame and disappeared.”

“Oh, bullshit!”

“Korbal's subverted her.”

“No,” a man shouted over the murmurs of disbelief. “She speaks the truth. I can sense it.”

There was another wave of sound. Korbal gestured, and his voice thundered, magically amplified. “I believe that one of Arthur's witches has created a spell to destroy the grails—along with all the vampires who were created by them.”

“But if that's the case…”

“…We have no defense,” Korbal finished. “You'd be dead before you knew what hit you. Our only chance is to band together to defend our grail.”

“I knew it—he wants to gain control of us all!”

The priest shrugged his black-robed shoulders. “Perhaps. Or perhaps not. Can you run the risk either way?”

“And perhaps we'll tell you to go to hell!”

“You certainly have that option,” he said. “But consider—I have the grail. My forces have been greatly depleted by the spell. If I can't defend the grail from Arthur's next attack, we will all die—including those of you who turn your backs on me now.”

“And what if we take the grail from you, Korbal?”

He made a dismissive gesture of one long, elegant hand. “Then you will have to defend it against Arthur—without the assistance of my warriors.”

A simmering silence fell as the group considered the obvious implications. Join forces with Korbal and defend the grail, or separate and risk being overwhelmed by Arthur and his men.

Luckily, it wasn't an issue Celestine had to worry about. She'd drunk from the third grail, but she had no idea where it was and couldn't do anything about it one way or another. Her only interest in Korbal's cup was using it to create a vampire army of her own.

She frowned. Unfortunately, this lot would be even less likely to let the grail out of their sight now that they knew their collective lives hung on its possession. And considering how many of them there were, Celestine's chance of taking the grail and keeping it were faint indeed.

Unless…Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. It sounded as if Arthur would be searching for the grail, too, and he'd likely bring an army with him when he came after it.

Now
that
had real possibilities.

A plan taking shape in her mind, Celestine turned toward the doorway. “Come on, Reynolds,” she murmured, and slipped out. In the corridor outside, she hesitated a moment, trying to decide which way to go. Then, feeling the mental sizzle from Korbal's grail, she turned left and descended a flight of curving stairs. The werewolf's claws clicked after her on the gleaming stone.

They went down four floors—magical, no doubt; the warehouse had never extended that far underground before. Celestine's fingers brushed over the marble as she descended, tracing across the carved shapes of demons, killing and fornicating with hapless humans.

At last they reached what she sensed was the proper level. But when they stepped out into the corridor beyond the door, Reynolds cursed. “How the hell are we going to get past them?”

No less than ten armed vampires stood in the corridor, plainly guarding a doorway. That, no doubt, was where the grail was hidden.

“They'd be idiots not to guard it, Keith—it's precious. Which is why I brought you.” She turned toward the werewolf, gave him her best honeyed purr. “You're going to provide me with a distraction.”

“What have you got in mind?” Even cloaked and invisible as they were, Celestine could sense his anticipation.

She told him.

Then she waited as he crept toward the robed guards, invisible and silent. At least until she dropped the spell around him.

He flashed into view, more than seven feet of werewolf. Just to make sure they got the point, he roared like a lion, a blast of sound that made the guards jump.

Before they could recover, Reynolds dove forward, ripping his claws across one of the guards'throats. He toppled in a fountain of blood, dead before he hit the ground.

The others shouted in confusion, drawing their swords. Too late. The werewolf attacked like a cat among pigeons, and the fight began in earnest.

Celestine knew she
had only seconds to act before the congregation upstairs heard the sounds of combat. Invisible, she slipped past the battling men, dodging sword thrusts and energy blasts, to aim a spell at the grail in its chamber. It wasn't the one she'd intended, but it would have to do.

She felt the magic take effect, then whirled to cast a magical doorway. The werewolf was still locked in combat with the guards. Footsteps clattered on the stairs—more of Korbal's men coming to join the fight.

“Reynolds!” she shouted, “Come on!” She dove through the vortex, the werewolf at her heels. The minute they were through, Celestine spun, planning to cast a spell that would erase her magical trail.

But even as she completed the complicated enchantment and collapsed her gate, a second portal opened. A magical blast lanced from it, tearing apart her invisibility spell.

“There you are, you little bitch!” A guard with a pentagram tattooed on his bald skull leaped through the portal. Four of his fellow cultists followed him, swords in hand, armor gleaming. “You're going to die for that.”

Reynolds howled a battle cry and charged them, as Celestine gathered her own magic. Apparently the rest of the guards was staying behind to guard the grail.

Good thing, too. They were going to have their hands full as it was.

 

Faith was still
driving around brooding at ten thirty when she got the call from dispatch.

“Tayanita, Clarkston 2-4?” Her unit number was 24.

She picked up the handset and keyed it. “Clarkston 2-4, Tayanita.”

“Elderly caller reports somebody's in the woods behind her house, fighting and setting off fireworks. She's afraid they're going to burn down her house. Two-nine-nine Andrews Lane.”

“Clarkston 2-4, en route.” Faith put the handset back in its clip on the side of the radio and hit the gas. She didn't bother with lights and sirens, since it was hardly an emergency call.
Weird time of the year for fireworks, though.
Probably kids. That kind of thing usually was.

Since setting off fireworks was against city ordinance, she'd just go confiscate them and run the kids off. Once she got done dealing with that, it would probably be time to head back to the department for shift change.

Afterward, I'll drop by the jail for an head count,
Faith decided.
Make sure none of them end up dead in the morning.

 

The house at
299 Andrews Lane was located on the outskirts of her patrol zone, next door to a heavily wooded lot. As Faith pulled up in front of the neat white farmhouse, a flash of red light went off in the depths of the trees, followed by a loud crack.

She frowned. Didn't really sound like fireworks, but it wasn't gunfire, either.

Faith pulled over and parked, then started to radio dispatch that she'd arrived. Before she could even pick up the handset, Rambo went out of his mind, barking hysterically right in her ear.

“'Bo, be quiet!” she snapped, glaring over her shoulder at the furious animal. “What's wrong with you?”

The dog usually wasn't a barker, but he refused to shut up this time. After trying and failing to hush him, Faith finally yelled, “Clarkston 2-4, 10-8 at 299 Andrews Lane!”

She could barely hear the dispatcher's reply. “Ten-Four, Clarkston 2-4.”

Disgusted, Faith tossed the handset down, swung open the car door, and got out, ignoring Rambo's deep-throated protests.

Grabbing her hat from the seat, she put it on and collected her heavy flashlight from its charger. Accompanied by the K-9's despairing barks, she flicked on the flash and started toward the woods.

Blue light flared in the woods, followed by a hollow boom. She frowned and picked up her pace. That definitely didn't sound like fireworks.

 

Seething with frustration,
Jim watched another magical blast light up the woods as Faith strode blindly toward disaster.

A light show that intense had to mean they'd stumbled onto the vampire, who was doing battle with something just as powerful as she was. Which meant the woman Jim loved was about to get her pretty head handed to her.

And here he was without opposable thumbs to open the flipping car door.

Luckily the windows of K-9 units were tinted; Faith wouldn't have been able to see in even if it wasn't the dead of night. He called the magic and waited as it spilled over him in a wave of burning energy.

A moment later, he was human again, crouched in the rear of the car. Unfortunately, he'd already noticed they'd taken the interior handles off the rear doors. The only way out was the front, which meant he had to get through the metal gate between the seats.

Cursing his partner and the vampire equally, Jim dragged the gate open and started trying to worm his way between the car's front seats. To his horror, he realized his shoulders wouldn't fit through the gate's narrow opening, no matter how he twisted.

Hell.

He glanced through the window. Faith had already vanished into the woods.

He had to get to her. Fast.

Jim seriously considered Turning into the Dire Wolf and ripping a car door off, but he wasn't sure the back compartment was big enough. He didn't know what would happen if he tried to Change in a space that was too small for his seven-foot-six-inch Dire Wolf body, and he didn't want to find out.

Growling, he transformed back into shepherd form and began trying to work his way through the gate. It was a painfully tight fit. Hooking his forepaws over the seat, he dug his rear toes into the carpet and pushed with all his strength. As he struggled, Jim glared at the car's digital clock.

Another minute ticked by.

 

Cursing under her
breath, Faith skirted a briar bush her flashlight picked out. It was pitch black under the trees, and she couldn't see a damn thing. She wished the light was better, because it sounded as if people were trying to kill each other out here.

It was painfully clear from the sound effects that this was not just a couple of kids tossing fireworks in the dark. Voices chanted, grunted, and swore, and heavy bodies crashed around in the brush just ahead. Colored flashes lit up the trees, punctuated by rolling booms.

All of which sounded like Faith's cue to call for backup. She lifted the shoulder mike of her belt radio. “Tayanita, Clarkston 2-4 requesting assistance at 299 Andrews Lane. Sounds like several males and at least one female in an altercation in the woods. Weapons unknown.” She paused, debating whether to wait for her backup to arrive or go on in and try to mediate.

A man screamed.

Hell with it. “Sounds like somebody's hurt. I'm going to proceed.”

Without waiting to hear the reply, she clipped the mike back on her shoulder and pushed through the brush, ignoring the unseen branches that slapped her in the face. As she moved, she drew her weapon.

The crawling sensation on the back of her neck told her she was going to need it.

 

The bars dug
savagely into Jim's ribs, but he kept struggling with every ounce of his considerable strength. He had to get to Faith. Luckily, magical creature that he was, he was stronger than a normal dog. The bars began to bend, and he popped through at last, tumbling into the passenger seat.

Still no opposable thumbs. He had to transform again.

This time the magic burned when it came, an acid reminder of the risk he was running. If a werewolf tried to change form too many times in too short a period, he ran the risk of the magic escaping his control. He'd burn like Steve had, consumed by his own power.

Human again, Jim jerked the door open and threw himself from the car. He almost fell on his face as his depleted body protested the changes he'd forced on it.

Jim caught himself, realizing with a stab of fear he was pushing far too close to the edge. He couldn't fight the vampire and her pet werewolf as a human, but if he tried to transform again, the magic might turn on him.

Then he remembered the shimmer of sunlight on Faith's skin, the flash of her smile. If the rogue got to Faith, he'd rip her apart.

Teeth gritted, Jim called the power for the fourth time—and screamed as pain seared his cells. For a terrifying instant, he thought his magic had gone bad.

But at last his body began to grow again as energy from the Mageverse flooded into it, stretching upward and outward as fur rolled across his skin in an itching wave.

When the transformation ended, his knees gave under him, dumping him onto the pavement beside the car. Helpless, blind, and shaking with pain, Jim crouched there, fighting not to vomit.

Get your ass in gear, London. Faith is out there alone.

Reeling to his full seven-and-a-half feet of Dire Wolf height, Jim stumbled toward the woods.

He had to get to Faith. Saving her was all that mattered.

 

Standing behind the
dubious cover of a pine tree, Faith wondered if somebody had slipped her an LSD mickey.

A few feet away, a woman crouched, tight leather pants hugging her long legs, her breasts barely concealed by a red silk top. But what held Faith's attention was her hands, which glowed a ghostly blue as if she'd dipped them in something phosphorescent. The otherworldly shimmer threw strange shadows over her pretty heart-shaped face. Her long black hair whipped around her head, as though blown by a wind Faith couldn't feel.

It was the same woman Faith had seen talking to Tony Shay at the jail.

A body lay at her feet, twisted in a pose of agony like a burn victim, though there was no sign of any fire in the clearing. In the light from the woman's glowing hands, Faith saw two more corpses, both covered in the dark, wet gleam of blood.

Guess Cruise hadn't been high when he'd babbled about witches after all,
Faith thought.
Now what the hell do I do?

The woman was faced off against a tall, muscular man dressed in scarlet armor. He, too, had glowing hands, not to mention an upside down pentagram tattooed on his shaved head. It shone bright red.

So did his eyes.

“Did you really think you could just sneak into our temple and steal our grail?” He laughed, the sound ringing with contempt. The glow intensified. “Sorry, you're not that good. And now that Davidson's taken care of the werewolf, I'm going to make sure you never have the chance to get better.”

“'Fraid not, lamb chop.” Something black bounded from the woods to slam into the armored man. He bellowed in surprise and went down under his attacker's weight.

“I heal quick.” The newcomer laughed, the sound chilling as he reared over the fallen man. “A lot quicker than Davidson, anyway.”

“Fucker!” Blue light blazed, accompanied by a sonic boom that shook the trees and made Faith duck. When it winked out, she was left completely night-blind.

“Like I told you before, magic doesn't work on me, asshole.”

The robed man howled in agony. Another salvo of flashing explosions.

Dammit, where was her backup? Faith hesitated, knowing she shouldn't rush in without at least a dozen cops at her back.

Unfortunately, it sounded as if the robed man was being ripped apart just like his fellows, so she didn't have that luxury.

Like her daddy always said, you didn't stand around with your thumb up your butt when somebody was dying.

Heart pounding, Faith stepped out from behind the tree and leveled her gun at the trio as another flash illuminated them. The armored man was down on the ground, rolling around with the black thing on top of him. “Clarkston Police Department!” Faith shouted. “Everybody get away from everybody else—now!” Even as the words left her mouth, she thought,
This is really dumb.

In a stunning display of strength, the armored figure heaved his attacker through the air, straight toward Faith. She ducked aside as he hit the ground with a curse and snarl, skidding across the leaves until he managed to dig in and roll to his feet, towering over her like a giant.

Damn, he has to be over seven feet tall,
she thought. Incredulous, she backed way, flicking her flashlight full into his face. “What the hell?” she gasped.

Flinging up a hand to shield his eyes, he snarled. He had a mouthful of teeth every bit as long and sharp as Rambo's. “Get that light out of my face!” he roared, his voice so deep and guttural it didn't sound human.

He looked even less so. His head was elongated, forming a long wolf muzzle, his ears rising to tufted triangular points. His huge hands were tipped with curving knife-point nails, while his body was covered in a shaggy coat of fur.

Why is this asshole wearing a dog suit?
Faith wondered, her sense of unreality increasing.

Not that it mattered. “Back off!” She pointed a gun toward that threatening muzzle.

From the corner of one eye, she saw the armored man reel to his feet and square off with the woman again. They snarled curses and started hurling what looked like ball lightning at each other. Every blast stopped short, splashing through the air as if hitting invisible barriers.

Dog Face took another step toward her, the claws that tipped his furry hands glittering in the strobing light. Despite logic, her gut told her those weren't gloves. “You really should have stayed out of this, Weston.”

What she should have done is wait for backup. She was in way over her head. She bared her teeth at him anyway. “If you take one more step, I'll shoot you dead.”

Dog Face grinned, exposing terrifying fangs that looked all too real. “Go ahead. I won't die.” He took another step.

“Okay, that's it,” Faith growled. “I've had about as much of this mumbo jumbo crap as I can take.”

She fired.

He jerked as the bullet thudded into his chest, but he didn't go down.
He must be wearing a bulletproof vest under that suit,
she thought. His fangs flashed again in a chilling grin. “Ouch.”