Master of Darkness (4 page)

Essus privately thought his own flaming plumage was much more impressive, particularly when one considered his tail, which almost brushed the floor when he sat on his padded steel perch.

He took great pride in his tail.

“They’re gonna gate over as soon as Tristan and his lady see to the bodies and consult Arthur,” the cat continued. She had a definite Southern accent, Georgia audible in its drawling vowels and dropped gs. “I think they’re really waitin’ for sunset here, though. Otherwise Tristan would pass out soon as he stepped through the gate.” Danu sniffed. “Vampires and that Daysleep a’ theirs.”

She padded over to the contract Conal had left unsigned while he considered its implications. “I wish the kids had that kind of power. It’d be nice if they could just walk through dimensional doorways whenever they wanted to come home. No airports. No customs.” Her curling lip revealed the tip of one fang. “No cat carriers.”

Pausing, Danu glanced over the Portalnet contract, grunted, and plopped her furry rump down on its top sheet. “Tell Conal to go over the fine print on this thing with a jeweler’s loupe. I don’t like the beady little eyes on that Portalnet CEO. Reminds me of a rat looking for a loose chunk of Gouda. We don’t want him thinking Conal’s his own personal Brie.”

Lifting her left hind leg, she proceeded to lazily wash her backside with a long pink tongue.

“Must you?” Essus flicked his tail feathers and turned his head away; he had no desire to see her nether regions. “And get off that desk. You know Conal hates it when you shed on his papers. All those wretched cat hairs.”

Danu looked from her backside and sniffed. “Hmph. I wonder who leaves long red feathers everywhere? Could it be a canary with delusions of grandeur?”

Ignoring the insult, Essus pushed off from his perch to fly a quick circuit of the office, wing tips brushing the leather spines of Conal’s books. He landed lightly on his perch again, now facing the semicircular window that took up half the room.

The streets of Atlanta spread out like a private kingdom thirty stories below, a stunning sunset painting the skyscrapers in golden light.

“For the record, Conal is fully aware of Carson Greendale’s cheese-eating tendencies,” he told the cat. “Greendale isn’t nearly as smart as he thinks he is. On the other hand, he does have ten million subscribers across three states.”

Danu rumbled something that might have been a purr. “Well, I suppose that makes up for the beady eyes.”

“Besides, Conal will snap his fat rat neck if Greendale gets out of line—figuratively, of course.” Stretching his great wings wide, Essus shook his powerful shoulders before settling his feathers neatly again. A red pinfeather drifted downward. He ignored it, deciding he’d talk the boy into taking him out for a flight. All this talk of rats was making him hungry. “And get off that desk before Conal has to take a Dustbuster to it.”

Danu gave him a cool look from pale sapphire eyes. “That’s why we have a cleanin’ crew. I’m only givin’ ’em job security.” She gave her furry butt a considering look and lowered her leg. Flopping back with boneless grace, she stretched to her full length and rolled around on the contract, no doubt to make her opinion clear to Conal.

Apparently satisfied with the quantity of shed hair, Danu sat up and folded her paws neatly beneath her body until she resembled a football of white fur. Only her tail tip moved, flicking in restless twitches. “She told me there’s gonna be trouble, Essus. We may have to fight.”

“You’re not the only one who talks to Her. I know exactly what’s coming.” The phoenix eagle flexed his dagger-sharp talons on the perch. “It should be most entertaining.”

Danu rumbled a growl. “Assumin’ we live through it.”

* * *

Concentrating on the
image Finvarra’s magic had created in her mind, Miranda spun a blast of power into a dimensional gate. Branwyn was the first through, Fin riding one shoulder. Her precious camera occupied the other; Belle had agreed not to erase the video so Branwyn could show it to Conal.

Belle, Justice, and the knight followed. They didn’t draw their weapons—quite—but they were ready for any potential ambush. Justice had returned to human form, on the grounds that a seven-foot Dire Wolf was a bit too much of a threat, considering they needed Donovan’s cooperation.

Once everyone was safely across, Miranda stepped through herself and let the gate collapse.

They stood at one end of a cavernous oval gym lined with top-end weight machines and expensive treadmills. One wall was dominated by rows of monitors, all playing programming from every cable news station, as well as their broadcast counterparts. A larger central flat screen displayed an earnest anchor speaking over the winged DCN logo.

“Ah!” a female voice shouted, drawing their attention to a fencing strip at the opposite end of the room just as a slender figure threw herself into an elegant lunge. Her blade met her opponent’s with the scraping rattle of steel on steel.

The big man immediately went on the offensive, driving her backward with a series of furious attacks. She retreated with quick, sure steps, her body balanced for attack or defense as she parried with precise flicks of her foil. Her weapon licked out in search of the man’s chest. Blade met blade in fierce metallic beats.

“Not bad,” Tristan murmured beside Miranda, watching with professional interest. “She’s got good speed, but he’s one hell of a lot stronger. Not to mention damned big.”

“Yeah, he’s a bit of a bull.” Branwyn absently stroked Fin’s scaled head. “And he’s got one hell of a reach. You think he’s too far away to hit you—and then he flies into that long, long lunge and nails you anyway.”

“You know, I don’t think I’d mind getting nailed by that guy.” Miranda smiled in wicked appreciation. “He does have a really nice . . . lunge.”

She glanced back, meaning to share a feminine grin with Belle. Instead she encountered a flash of anger in Justice’s narrowed ebony eyes. He glanced away, a muscle flexing in his jaw.

Miranda rocked back on her heels, jolted by the confused stew of her own reactions: anger at his jealousy when they weren’t even dating; an abused woman’s fear of an angry man’s retaliation . . .

. . . And a wave of purely female satisfaction.

Strangely, it was the satisfaction that was strongest.
Do I
want
him to be jealous of me?

Maybe she did. Warlock had never been jealous of her mother, mostly because he’d never really given a damn about Joelle one way or the other. Her mother, on the other hand, had loved the sorcerer almost as much as she’d feared him.

At least Justice feels something for me beyond that infuriating sense of duty.

Miranda frowned. Infuriating? His sense of duty kept her alive.

Besides, he’s an Alpha werewolf.

That thought would have sent her into full emotional retreat a month ago. Now it barely registered, as if it was more habit than reality. Still, Justice was definitely an Alpha . . .

“
Allez!
” With that traditional French fencer battle cry, the man lunged, broad chest precisely centered over his powerful thighs, his body extending with perfect form and furious strength. His opponent missed the parry, and the plastic tip of his foil hit her chest so hard, the blade bent like a bow.

“Touché.” The woman tapped her chest, acknowledging the point.

“That makes it four to five.” Conal Donovan straightened and dragged off his protective mesh fencing mask, revealing a darkly handsome face gleaming with sweat. He gave his sister a smile. “And you made me work for it.”

“Thanks.” The woman took off her own mask, revealing shoulder-length hair dyed so vivid a violet, it almost glowed.

“Love the hair, sis!” Branwyn called, before adding to the others, “She likes to make damn sure everyone can tell us apart.”

“That’s because people keep trying to kill you,” Fin grumbled, poking his scaly muzzle out of her hair.

“Bran!” Aislyn’s mask and foil hit the floor with clattering thumps. Racing across the gym, she flung herself into her twin’s arms. Miranda realized Branwyn was right; she wouldn’t have been able to tell the two apart if not for that outrageous hair.

Aislyn drew back, her smile blinding in its radiant joy. “I thought you were in Pakistan, playing hide-and-seek with those Sword of Allah jerks.”

“I was. I ran into some Magekind . . . friends.” Branwyn released her to walk into her brother’s open arms. “They gated us all to Atlanta. They’ve got something they need to talk to you about, Conal.”

“Oh?” The big Sidhe eyed the foursome warily as he gave Branwyn a hard hug. Then, as if removing her from harm’s way, he pushed her gently aside.

Conal Donovan was an inch or so taller than Justice, and his padded fencing jacket made him look even broader. The traditional white knickers should have looked silly on a twenty-first-century male, but they only accented the power of his strong legs.

He’d tied his black hair back in a thick tail that swayed as he studied his guests. Miranda suspected he wore it long to camouflage his pointed ears. The sense of Alpha masculinity that surrounded him was so thick, he could have been Direkind. “What’s this about?”

“We’re looking for information, and we hope you can help,” Tristan told him, his own smile edged in warning:
Don’t start anything or we’ll finish it.

Branwyn performed hasty introductions. Miranda tensed as Conal’s brilliant eyes narrowed. Like his sisters, he didn’t radiate the kind of raw mystical power she’d come to associate with the Sidhe she’d met in Avalon. Not surprising, since Branwyn had admitted she and her siblings were half-human. Still, there was an air of danger around him that told her Conal would make a very bad enemy.

“So what brings a Knight of the Round Table and one of Arthur’s most powerful witches to my door?” Conal walked over to a wall shelf and grabbed one of the white towels stacked there. As he wiped the sweat from his face, his easy smile didn’t get anywhere near his eyes. His irises were the same striking amethyst as his sisters’, but on him, the color looked a bit alien—and forbidding as hell.

Tristan watched him right back. “We’re looking for someone called the Mother of Fairies. Your sister suggested we ask you about that.”

Conal’s gaze shot to Branwyn’s face. Only for an instant, but something in his expression made the reporter flinch ever so slightly. Miranda tensed, wondering if he “disciplined” his sister in the Chosen sense of the word.

“Before you chew me out, I want you to see this.” Branwyn hurried to the nearest flat screen. Miranda relaxed; despite that wince, she didn’t sound afraid of her brother. “I shot this video in Mirpur an hour ago.” The reporter started plugging her camera’s video and audio cables into the monitor’s input jacks.

“I gather you’re still working on the terrorism piece.” Conal joined her at the monitor and leaned one shoulder against the wall as he prepared to watch.

“Yeah.” With the others gathering around, Branwyn pulled out a small remote and pointed it at the camera to cue her video. “I’ve been shadowing a Magekind vampire named Kadir al Hamad for the past couple of weeks. He was undercover with the Sword of Allah . . .”

“What?” Tristan straightened as if somebody had goosed him with a Taser. “Do you have any idea what those bastards would have done to you if you’d been caught?
Both
of you?”

“She knows, Vlad.” Finvarra leaped onto a nearby treadmill’s safety rail. Wrapping his tail around the bar, he sat back on his haunches, forepaws folded. Given their long, agile toes, they looked more like hands than paws. “Why do you think she takes the chances she does? She’s not a fecking eejit.”

“Too damn many people in the Middle East see those terrorist bastards as heroes.” Branwyn’s jaw rolled as if she ground her teeth, and her brilliant Sidhe eyes narrowed. “I’m going to show them what their ‘heroes’ are like when they don’t know a camera’s around.”

“While I make sure the gobshites don’t see us or the camera.” Fin’s mouth curled into a grin that bared needle teeth. “Magic is a handy thing.”

It had better be
, Miranda thought.
Or we’re all screwed.

FOUR

“You do have
a way with a spell, Fin.” Branwyn walked over to give the lizard’s scaly head a stroke. He closed his eyes in a delight that was almost feline. She looked over at Justice, Miranda, Belle, and Tristan, her full lips tightening. “Watching those bastards gloat about killing Moslems who don’t believe exactly the same thing they do . . . The jokes they tell about the innocents they blow to pieces . . .” She shook her head. “‘Seventy-two virgins’ my ass. It’s got nothing to do with religion. It’s all about power.”

“The virgin thing never made sense to me anyway.” Tristan waggled his blond brows in an obvious attempt to lighten the mood. “Do you know how much trouble even one virgin is? Give me a woman with a little experience.” He exchanged a wicked smile with Belle.

Justice frowned at Branwyn, his protective instincts evidently aroused. “You do realize when this story of yours hits the air, the Sword of Allah is going to come after you.”

“They can try. I’ve a talent for keepin’ her alive.” Finvarra twitched his frilled tail.

“You’d better.” Conal contemplated his sister as if he didn’t particularly like what he saw. “I’m seriously considering hiring a bodyguard anyway.”

Justice snorted. “Bodyguard, hell. What you need is Superman. Get somebody bulletproof between her and that death wish.”

“I do not have a death wish,” Branwyn told him with icy dignity.

Miranda frowned as Justice gave the Sidhe the same you-need-protection glare he so often gave her.
What’s he doing? He’s
my
bodyguard, dammit . . .

Realization struck her, stinging like a slap.
Am I jealous? Of an Alpha Werewolf? Oh, hell, no. I’m not that stupid. If he wants to chase fairies, let him
.

“. . . The world is overpopulated with assholes,” Branwyn was saying. “I’m just trying to document them. One pucker at a time.”

Justice’s grin was distinctly feral. “I find nine-mil slugs work pretty well.”

“I prefer to do my shooting with a camera. Less mess afterward. Speaking of cameras . . .” She hit play. “As I said, I was trailing Kadir to a meeting with his cell . . .”

They watched as the Pakistani agent took a right at a four-way intersection surrounded by tall, blocky buildings—a hotel, a couple of restaurants with signs written in flowing Arabic script, one or two impressive-looking villas. It was the middle of the night, and other than a lone pickup rumbling by, there was no traffic at all. Kadir strode down the dark street with a vampire’s fearless stride, only to pause in mid-step, head lifting, dark gaze searching the shadows. The microphone picked up an odd sliding rustle, followed by a long, menacing hiss.

The camera’s view spun sickeningly to an alley between a hotel and a restaurant. A massive shape moved in the darkness, moonlight glinting on steel. Something blue glowed in the darkness, and hooves rang on the pavement, striking sparks.

The cobra shot from the alley like a runaway train, hissing, eyes burning red against the black gleam of its scales. Its body was easily three feet in diameter; there was no way to tell how long it was. It flashed toward Kadir, scales raking over the pavement with a gritty rasp. Its jaws gaped wide, fangs the length of a man’s forearm catching the moonlight.

“Holy God,” Justice murmured in horror. “That fucking thing is huge.”

“And a hell of a lot faster than you’d think,” Tristan told him.

Kadir leaped aside, avoiding the snake with a bullfighter’s grace as he swung his AK-47 off his shoulder. He fired in a series of thundering bursts that raked the huge snake’s length as it plowed past.

The Beast’s scales flared blue, sending Kadir’s bullets ricocheting harmlessly. The snake whipped around and reared over the vampire, its hood spreading wide, the cream scales of its endless belly shining like porcelain.

Kadir opened up on it again, this time aiming for its eyes. Something blue shone between them, an oval light, possibly some kind of gemstone, embedded right in the center of its skull. Light flared from the stone, and the slugs ricocheted off into the night.

The vampire danced back, ducking the flying bullets. Glaring up at the towering snake, he spat something in his native Potwari that was obviously a disgusted curse.

Hooves thundered on pavement, a backbeat for a long, chilling howl. Kadir spun, dark eyes widening as he aimed his weapon at the newest threat.

An enormous centaur exploded from the alley, all muscular power and lethal intent. The thing looked as though someone had crossed a Clydesdale with a demon from a video game. The torso fused with the horse body didn’t look human—it was too broad, all exaggerated slabs of muscle covered in jutting plate armor that made it appear even more alien. The creature’s armored gauntlets were tipped in dagger claws, and it carried a battle-axe that looked as if it could fell a California redwood.

Adding to the menacing effect, the Beast’s armor was engraved with runes cut into the thick steel. Long spikes jutted from the creature’s armored chest, forelegs, and dinner plate–sized hooves, ready to impale anyone who got too close.

The centaur’s helm had no visor, presumably to accommodate that wolf muzzle. His canines were so long, they protruded from his upper and lower jaws like tusks even when his mouth was closed. Orange eyes glowed from the beast’s lupine head, with another blue gem embedded between them. Pointed ears lay flat against its skull as it snarled, lips lifting to display those vicious teeth.

“Evil-looking bastard.” Conal frowned, shooting a worried look at his sister. He plainly didn’t like the thought of Branwyn getting so close to either monster.

“And in his case, looks are not deceiving,” she told him. Aislyn moved over to loop a comforting arm around her waist and give her a quick hug. “I felt like I was trapped in a nightmare. Even though none of them could see me, I was scared out of my mind.”

“You had reason to be.” Justice eyed Conal as if to make sure her brother got the point. “You could have been trampled or crushed without them knowing you were even there.”

And once again, Miranda felt a prickle of pure green jealousy. She ground her teeth and tried to ignore it.

Kadir opened fire, but flares of blue energy bounced his bullets into the dark. The centaur charged, axe lifted as it howled out a challenge.

The AK-47 clicked on an empty magazine. Kadir grabbed the rifle by its no-doubt burning barrel and swung its heavy stock at the onrushing Beast. The centaur reared, and the swing slammed into its armored ribs, only to rebound harmlessly. That enormous axe descended in a blur of bright steel.

The Pakistani vampire swore and leaped aside, barely avoiding the lethal blade.

Kadir had just drawn the rifle back for another try when he saw the snake rear to strike. He threw himself into a roll that barely avoided the reptile’s plunging dive. Its head alone was damn near the length of his entire body.

“He did know how to fight,” Conal mused, watching with brooding pity. “But there’s no way he could take both those monsters. Not unarmed.” He looked at Tristan. “Why the hell didn’t he have one of those magic swords you types carry instead of that useless rifle?”

Tristan shrugged. “Kadir was armed for combat in Mirpur City. He’d expected to fight men, not monsters.”

The centaur’s massive hooves swung over the vampire’s head, preparing to stomp Kadir into jelly. The Pakistani leaped in a bound no mortal could have matched, avoiding the plunging hooves. He hit the ground rolling, made it to his feet, spotted the snake lifting its hooded head, and jumped ten feet straight up . . .

Too late. Before he could tuck his legs out of its path, the snake’s fangs caught his left thigh, punching deep to pump deadly venom into the muscle. Kadir screamed as his body whipped through the air, dangling from the Beast’s mouth. Clamping down, the reptile began chewing, driving still more venom into the vampire. Cursing, Kadir swung his rifle in a clumsy arc at the thing’s head.

The snake reared high into the air—and dropped him. He fell fifteen feet to hit the pavement hard, right on his head and shoulders. Obviously stunned, barely conscious, he lay in a heap as the snake slithered around his body, opened its jaws, and swooped down to engulf his legs. It could have swallowed his head first, but that would have meant a faster kill as the vampire suffocated. The monster plainly wanted Kadir to suffer.

And he did, shrieking in agony as the snake began swallowing him in a series of lunging gulps.

Eyes helplessly locked on the video, Miranda made an involuntary sound of pain. Justice moved up behind her, not quite touching. She leaned into him, accepting the gesture of comfort.
Wish we weren’t wearing armor
.

And then she thought,
What the hell am I doing?

Miranda straightened with a jerk. She thought she heard Justice sigh, but when she looked back, his handsome face was expressionless.

On the screen, Daliya leaped through a dimensional gate, wearing full armor, a sword in her hand. Kadir screamed again, and her head jerked toward the sound, her dark eyes going wide and desperate.

She shrieked something in Potwari and charged the snake, her weapon blazing with magic as she started trying to hack the monster in two so she could free her mate. More gates sparked open around them as the Knights of the Round Table and the most powerful witches in Avalon arrived, summoned by Daliya when she’d sensed her husband’s danger.

Too late.

Branwyn clicked the remote, stopping the video as the vampires converged on the snake, still in the act of swallowing Kadir. “And that’s as much of it as I can stand to watch.”

* * *

In the end,
Tristan told Conal, he was the one who took Kadir’s head. “Daliya begged me,” the knight explained, his voice gruff with pity. “Most of her husband was down the snake’s throat at that point, and she said she could feel the venom dissolving his muscle tissue. He was paralyzed by then, but vampires are pretty fucking tough, and he just wouldn’t die. She couldn’t stand to feel him suffering any longer.”

“We tried everything we could think of, but we couldn’t get him out of that snake.” Belle scrubbed her hands over her face. Her eyes were red. “Even Excalibur bounced right off those damned scales. And our blasts only made the Beast stronger.”

“Then the centaur killed that child, and Arthur went after him,” Tristan said. “While the two Beasts were distracted, I saved the only part of Kadir I could. The monsters finally gated off to wherever the hell they go. Belle and I carried Daliya and Kadir’s head into the alley while Arthur led the cleanup crew putting out the fires and healing the wounded. The ones they could save, anyway.”

His expression brooding, the knight stared at the monitor. The video was frozen on a close-up of the Pakistani witch’s horrified face. “Daliya started babbling about mothers and fairies and somebody called the Huntsman . . .”

“No, it was the Hunter Prince,” Miranda corrected. She’d memorized Daliya’s prophecy, concentrating on every word as the witch spoke it. With that kind of magic, everything could turn on phrasing.

Tristan nodded. “That’s right, it was the Hunter Prince. Not that any of it made much sense, even after I listened to her recite the thing half a dozen times.”

“The Mother,” Branwyn put in. “She was definitely talking about the Mother, Conal.” She pointed the remote at the camera, fast-forwarding through the carnage. “I shot this after Daliya went down.”

The video jumped to a close-up of the Maja’s bloody, shock-dazed face. Her voice sounded almost dreamy as she chanted in English, “. . . and the crows will feast. Seek the Mother of Fairies as she folds enchanted steel into blades she fills with the souls of lost gods. She waits in her forge for the hero wolf to come for Merlin’s Blade. Then will the Hunter Prince be free—then will he rule in bloody vengeance or bend his knee to his spirit’s feral king. But mark me well—it will take the daughter of evil and a master of darkness to lead the night world into the light. If they do fail, humanity will drown in blood under the white wolf’s heel, and the crows will feast. Seek the Mother of Fairies at her . . .”

“She kept saying the same thing over and over,” Branwyn said. “Like the vision was on loop or something.”

“I agree with Bran.” Aislyn frowned at the screen, one hand rubbing her sister’s bowed back in comforting circles. “She’s definitely talking about the Mother.”

Conal paused so long, Miranda knew he agreed with the twins. “Maybe she did see the Mother,” he admitted finally, “but that doesn’t mean the Mother is going to want a Knight of the Round Table showing up at her door. This isn’t our fight.”

“So you’re just going to stand around and do nothing, even though this Mother of yours may have the key to defeating Warlock?” Tristan glared. “Thanks a fuckin’ heap, Conal.”

“Meanwhile, humans are going to die in droves,” Justice pointed out. “Fifteen Magekind agents have fallen, and so have more than a dozen werewolves. How long do you think we can fight a war involving this kind of magic without somebody shooting cell phone video none of us wants on FOX?”

“Let us talk to her.” Miranda moved closer to Conal, hoping to get through his stubborn resistance. “Let us at least try. We’re running out of options.”

“Look, I don’t want Warlock running things any more than you do, but you still don’t want to show up at the Mother’s forge unannounced.” Conal rubbed a hand back and forth across his square jaw. The long tail of his hair swayed with the movement. “That’s a good way to get extremely dead.”

Belle eyed him. “So what do you suggest?”

He sighed and threw up his hands in a gesture of disgusted surrender. “I’ll call her and explain the situation.” Jerking open the Velcro fastenings of his fencing jacket, Conal shrugged out of the protective garment and tossed it across a nearby weight bench. The sweat-damp white T-shirt he’d worn beneath it clung to his powerful chest. “Then it’s up to her. I . . .”

The door to the gym banged open. The twins jumped. Miranda spun, reaching for her magic, aware of Justice, Tristan, Belle, and Conal tensing to fight.

“The wards!” a woman called in a voice as Southern as pecan pie. “Somethin’s probin’ the wards!”