Master of Darkness (7 page)

Instead, Warlock was going to skin him like a rabbit for his failure, one flaming whip stroke at a time.

Unless he managed to come back with something useful.

So he flicked his wolf ears forward and listened hard, keeping his magical shield wrapped as close as a blanket on an icy night.

So the Sidhe commanded the Slut and the werewolf to meet her at her forge. Wherever the hell that was; Vance had hoped she’d actually mention a location, but she was apparently a bit too paranoid for that.

Huh. So this goddess intended to stick her nose into Warlock’s business. The General wouldn’t like that. Not at all.

And Warlock being Warlock, he’d find a way to make the Sidhe goddess pay.

* * *

Arthur Pendragon was
pissed.

The Once and Future King glowered down at the iPad screen, watching the video of Daliya delivering her prophecy. He obviously didn’t like what he saw.

He was not a particularly tall man, though his muscled build gave the impression he was bigger than he was. A black goatee framed the angry line of his mouth, and his dark eyes were narrowed in his broad, square-jawed face. His hair curled to his broad shoulders, currently clad in a Batman T-shirt.

Arthur did like to fly his geek flag.

Justice forked up a bite of the thick steak and chewed, eyes half-closed in pleasure. Guinevere was one hell of a cook. Which was a good thing, since he was starving. Between Shifting so many times and fighting that damned Beast, he could have eaten a buffalo.

Ass first.

When Tristan had contacted Arthur to brief him on the night’s events, he’d ordered them all to gather at the Pendragon home. Gwen being Gwen, she’d promptly whipped up dinner.

Now Justice, Miranda, Belle, Morgana, and their hostess were demolishing rib eyes, salads, and crusty brown bread, still steaming gently from the oven.

Arthur and Tristan had already killed most of a bottle of Gwen’s donated blood; apparently Justice wasn’t the only one who was hungry.

“What the flying fuck does all that mean?” Arthur growled, pushing away from the table with a shove. He rose and began to pace the dining room. “Who the hell is this Hunter Prince? What has he got to do with this Merlin’s Blade? Is it another Excalibur?”

Tristan poured himself another glass. “‘The Hunter Prince’ could refer to Warlock.”

“No, because it says ‘then will the Hunter Prince be free,’” Belle reminded him. “Warlock’s obviously way too free right now.”

“God knows I’d love to put the bastard in a cage,” Arthur muttered.

“Then there’s the bit about ‘his spirit’s feral king.’” Justice cut another bite of his steak with a single hard stroke of his knife. “Sounds like this king is the one who’ll keep the Hunter Prince from ruling in bloody vengeance. Since bloody vengeance does not sound like fun to me, we’re going to need the king. Question is, how do we find him before midnight tomorrow, when Miranda and I are supposed to meet with Maeve?”

“Maybe
you’re
the feral king,” Morgana suggested. She looked more than a little like her half-brother, Arthur, with the same aquiline nose and broad cheekbones, though the blunt strength of his features was softened into beauty by her more delicate bone structure. For once she was dressed casually—her tastes usually ran to suits with very short skirts in primary colors. Tonight she wore a silky scarlet top with a deep V neckline framing her bountiful cleavage. Her black jeans were tight enough to hug the curves of her hips. Scarlet stiletto heels made her long legs look even longer, giving her the look of a pop star instead of the most powerful witch in Avalon.

Morgana’s gaze flicked to Justice, measuring the width of his shoulders with obvious approval. She smiled at him with lips painted the precise red of her high heels. “You’re obviously the hero wolf.”

Justice cleared his throat and looked away. “Which brings up a good point.” He glanced at Miranda, sitting beside him at the table, and blinked once in surprise. She was glaring at Morgana, her gaze hot with warning.
What the hell is that about?

Miranda looked at him, realized he’d caught her snarling, and glanced quickly away, a flush rising to her cheeks.

He dragged his attention back to the topic at hand. “Why give the Blade to me instead of Arthur? I’m just an unemployed werewolf. And I’m sure as hell not a ‘master of darkness.’”

“I, on the other hand,” Miranda said, raising her glass of Riesling as if in a mocking toast, “am apparently the daughter of evil. Go, me.” She drained the wine in one long swallow.

“Well, you’ve got to admit ‘evil’ is a pretty good description of Warlock,” Justice pointed out.

“What does Grim say about all this?” Belle asked Arthur.

Merlin’s grimoire was an enchanted book, a magical cross between the Library of Congress and a Cray supercomputer. He also talked, with an impressive intelligence that made him an invaluable resource when it came to any subject, no matter how esoteric.

“Not much. Grim’s been damned weird through this whole werewolf thing.” Arthur pivoted to pace another circuit of the room. “Apparently Merlin ordered him not to tell us a damned thing about the wolves, on the grounds that if we knew about them, we might take them out to keep them from interfering with whatever ‘evil plot’ I might have in mind.” He shook his head in disbelief. “All these years, and he never mentioned them. Even with everything Warlock’s done, all he’ll say is that Merlin ‘made arrangements,’ whatever the hell that means.”

“Maybe this Mother of Fairies is part of those arrangements,” Gwen pointed out as she walked in with a plate of brownies. She put the platter down in the center of the table as the smell of chocolate filled the air. Everyone capable of eating grabbed one. She looked at her husband. “So don’t mention Warlock at all. Ask him about Maeve and the Donovans, not to mention their little talking zoo. What are all these Sidhe doing on Mortal Earth? And what’s with this Merlin’s Blade? Why have we never heard of it?”

“It’s obviously got some kind of magic attached to it,” Morgana said thoughtfully. “Especially if it’s the key to killing Warlock.”

Miranda tore a chunk of brown bread off the loaf and began to spread butter on it, frowning. “That part about folding enchanted steel into blades and filling them with the souls of lost gods . . .” She took a bite, chewed thoughtfully, and swallowed. “Could this Hunter Prince be
inside
Merlin’s Blade?”

“Of course.” Arthur pivoted to stare at her, one dark brow lifted in interest. “Kel was trapped in Gawain’s sword for fifteen centuries. They only got him out a couple of years ago.”

“Which would explain the part about freeing this prince.” Morgana contemplated the depths of her glass a moment. “On the other hand, if he’s in the blade and we free him, we may end up in a worse mess than we’re in now.”

“And if that’s not a chilling thought, I don’t know what is,” Arthur agreed. He gave Justice a tight, humorless smile. “It sounds like you’re going to have to control this Hunter Prince if we don’t want him ‘ruling in bloody vengeance.’”

Justice damn near choked on his steak. “Arthur, I’m just an ex-cop. What the fuck am I supposed to do against a god, or whatever the hell he is? The only magic I can do is turning into a werewolf.”

“You’re also immune to magic,” Miranda pointed out thoughtfully. “Even if he is a god, he’s going to have a hard time doing anything to you.”

“I wish we could send a witch with these two to visit this forge,” Morgana said, leaning back in her chair. “Not to mention a couple vampire knights. Even up the odds a bit.”

“Maeve told me she didn’t want Magekind accompanying the wolves,” Tristan told her.

“And considering the power I sensed in that woman, we don’t want to piss her off. She’d make a very bad enemy.” Belle bit into a steaming brownie and moaned in delight. “God, Gwen, these are good. I want the recipe.”

“Only if you tell me how to make that lemon torte you served at the last Majae dinner. Talk about an orgasm on a plate . . .” She looked at her husband and grinned. “Well, maybe not quite an orgasm, but it was pretty damned good.”

As the conversation swung to food, Justice pushed back from the table. Thinking about what he might face with Merlin’s Blade had killed his appetite.

If they do fail, humanity will drown in blood under the white wolf’s heel, and the crows will feast.

No pressure, though. Fuck.

* * *

Miranda shot another
look at Justice from the corner of one eye as they walked back to her cottage. He looked so grim, she knew he was thinking about Maeve’s coming test. Her gaze traced the straight line of his nose and the muscle flexing in his broad jaw, skipped to the curve of his lower lip and lingered. She was far too aware of the bulge of his pectorals against the soft cotton of the T-shirt she’d conjured for him.

She wanted to lay her hands on that hard satin flesh and feel his heart thudding hard under her fingers. She wanted to see his cock jut from his tight abdomen in a length of rosy lust, thick and veined, its round mushroom cap dewed with a gemstone drop of arousal.

Need clenched her belly as yearning flooded her blood. It had been months since she’d made love, and that had been to the most skinny, hapless human male she could find. Her fear had demanded a harmless partner, but her Dire Wolf body craved Alpha male strength.

Justice was nobody’s idea of harmless, but he was definitely Alpha. Strong, decisive, fearless.

Big.

There was raw power in all that hard muscle, greater than she could claim even in Dire Wolf form.

He could hurt me if he wanted to
, her fear whispered.
He could lay me open with his claws just the way Gerald did Mom.

Images of that last lethal argument shot through Miranda’s mind. Her stepfather’s clawed hand knocking Joelle’s small body flying. The horrific crunch as her mother hit the wall and slid to the floor, her head canted to the side like a sunflower on a broken stem.

Miranda’s consciousness flooded with the memory of Gerald’s snarling face as he charged, intent on ending her rebellion once and for all, smug in his certainty that she’d be easy prey.

She remembered the solid weight of the conjured sword filling her hand, the heavy jolt as it rammed into her stepfather’s chest. Remembered watching the vicious life bleed from his eyes.

Gerald’s gone
, Miranda told herself.
He can’t hurt me again.
She was no longer the victim Warlock had raised her to be. She’d proven her stubborn strength, first against a would-be rapist sent by Warlock, then again when she’d killed Gerald.

Justice is a hell of a lot bigger than Gerald
, her treacherous fear whispered.
He knows what to do in a fight. If he wanted to hurt me . . .

But he doesn’t
, she told herself firmly.
For God’s sake, he risked getting
eaten
to save me. That’s not the kind of thing an abuser does
.

But you’ve never defied him
, the fear breathed.
Just wait until you disobey. The claws’ll come out then. You’ll discover he’s just another Alpha, no more a hero than Gerald. Or Warlock, for all the ballads about his courage.

Alphas kill. And Justice is Alpha
.

But as Miranda wrestled years of engrained paranoia, her nostrils flared, drinking in the rich masculinity of his scent. Her gaze slipped down to the tight, working muscles of his ass, before tracking up his strong torso to round biceps easily the size of her head.

Her Dire Wolf body didn’t give a damn about her fear. It only knew Justice called to her, male to female, cock to cunt, raw and blunt and fierce with elemental strength. Justice was everything her body craved—as he’d proven with that luscious, toe-curling kiss.

If
her fear would let her have him, Alpha male dominance and all.

SEVEN

“What if I
fuck up?”

Jolting in surprise, Miranda stared at Justice. It was the first time he’d spoken on the walk back. They’d almost reached her neat little two-story stone cottage, its stained glass windows glowing in the dim predawn light. “What?”

He headed across the neatly trimmed yard, his strides long, his dark gaze fixed on the distance. “What if I fail Maeve’s test? What if she decides I don’t deserve this magic blade?”

She frowned, trying to switch mental gears from dithering about his possibly hostile strength. “You’re not going to fail Maeve’s test.”

“How do you know that?” He paused beneath the spreading arms of a magnolia and turned to face her, his gaze haunted. “We don’t even know what kind of test it’s going to be. I damned near memorized that prophecy, and I still can’t figure out what the hell it’s talking about.”

“You’re strong, Justice.” Miranda met his gaze without flinching. Whatever her doubts about his capacity for violence, she had confidence in his strength. “Whether it’s Maeve or this Hunter Prince, you can handle whatever they throw at you.”

He stared down at her for a crackling instant. Miranda felt the impact of his desperate gaze all the way to her toes.

She saw his self-doubt became abrupt, burning need. Big hands shot out and closed around her upper arms, hauling her onto her toes. His mouth covered hers, devouring, hot, and deliciously slick.

Oh, my God, his lips are every bit as soft as I remember.

And then she couldn’t think anything at all.

His body crushed into hers without the armor to keep them apart. Broad, firm muscle flexed under soft cotton, arms wrapping around her in a powerful grip that dragged her close and drowned her in hot male animal need. His tongue stroked between her lips, drugging her with the taste of masculine hunger and Dire Wolf magic.

The blend of wild wolf heat and pure male heat hit her brain like a shot of Kentucky bourbon in strong black coffee. It jolted and dizzied, making the world swim and stealing her will to resist.

As if sensing that weakness, he swooped down and hooked one hand behind her knees, gathering her into his arms as if she weighed no more than a child. Carrying her toward the cottage, Justice stared down into her eyes, gaze hot with hungry need. When his foot hit the front step, she sent a wave of magic ahead of them. The door banged open and he swept her inside like something out of a fairy tale.

Miranda had quit believing in fairy tales when she was four years old—the day she’d realized her magical daddy was more devil dog than Prince Charming. But God, there was a different kind of magic in Justice’s skillful mouth and strong, steady grip, and she let herself believe.

For the moment.

* * *

Justice kissed Miranda,
losing himself in the velvety warmth of her lips, the curl and flick of her wet little tongue, her teeth tugging his lip in hungry demand. Her body felt warm in the cradle of his arms, deliciously soft in all the perfect places, firm and strong in others. Her scent flooded his head, sensual musk and the fresh green tang of deep forest. All of it spelled Direkind female to his growling libido.

His sexual need had grown stronger, darker, since he’d become a werewolf three years ago, and Miranda brought that hunger to quivering attention. But then, she could have aroused a plaster saint in a church niche with those soft, soft lips . . .

He wasn’t sure he’d survive Maeve’s test tomorrow. He wanted Miranda
now
.

Justice tore himself away from her mouth just long enough to scan the house for a likely place to seduce her. He knew damned well that if he waited too long, she’d start thinking about all the reasons this was a bad idea. He needed his hands and mouth on her
now
if he meant to keep them there.

Off to the left of the foyer lay the living room, with its fireplace and the semicircular conversation pit that curved around it. He carried her into the room and down the steps into the pit, where jewel-tone pillows lay in a tempting heap.

Lowering her into that soft, inviting nest, he shuddered at the heat flooding his cock. “God, I want you.” He ached to see that pretty body spread for him in long-legged, exquisite nudity. “I’ve been craving you for weeks.”

But as he reached for the hem of her T-shirt, he met her gaze. And froze.

She watched him as she lay sprawled across the pillows, her copper hair spilling in bright curls around her head. Her chest rose and fell in the quick rhythms of arousal, yet a trace of fear glittered in her magical eyes.

She’s afraid of me?
God, why?
He would never hurt any woman, much less her. Hell, he’d almost ended up dino-chow for her.

I don’t know what you’re thinking, sweetheart, but I’m damned if you’re going to think it for long.

Justice rose to his feet, grabbed the hem of his black T-shirt, and dragged it off over his head. Her eyes widened, the shadow of fear vanishing into surprised arousal. The tip of her pink tongue flicked over her lips.

He concealed a smile of satisfaction. During his human days, he’d logged a lot of hours running and lifting weights, but not out of the usual gym-rat vanity. For a cop, building strength and muscle was a survival strategy. If you got into a chase or a fight with some asshole, you wanted to make damn sure you won. Becoming a werewolf had only added to the size and density of the muscle he’d worked for years to build.

Judging from her dilating eyes, Miranda approved of the view.

His cock bucked against the fly of his jeans. Justice reached for his belt, unbuckling it with a metallic jangle. The zipper of his jeans whispered, erotically loud to his wolf senses.

Toeing off his running shoes, he caught the waistbands of both jeans and cotton boxers, to drag them down his thighs in one ruthless motion. Stepping free of the tangle of fabric, he kicked them away and straightened. His erection jutted in an unapologetic demonstration of his ferocious lust.

Then he simply stood there, letting her look as a bead of sweat ran down his spine.

By stripping first, he’d put all the power in her hands. Justice was good at reading people—another cop skill—and he knew if he didn’t give Miranda this moment of control, she’d never trust him.

Jesus, the men she knew before me must have been real bastards
.

* * *

Miranda stared at
him in helpless, aroused amazement. Alphas didn’t
do
this—didn’t display themselves to a woman in silent offering, letting her make the choice. They seduced, they demanded, they overwhelmed with sheer erotic skill. Just as Justice had been doing from the minute he’d grabbed her shoulders.

When he’d put her down on the pillows, she’d figured she was in for a dominance fuck designed to put her in her place: that of a female who knew who her master was, and obeyed accordingly. That realization had blasted an icy flash of fear through her veins.

But now he stood there, magnificent in his nudity, and waited. Waited to find out if she wanted him.

As if she could do anything else. Justice was armored in delicious male muscle from wide shoulders to tight waist, down long runner’s legs to the big feet he’d planted wide. Yet his build wasn’t overdone, like some steroid-shooting professional gorilla. Justice had a knife-fighter’s body, the perfect balance between mass, agility, and speed. Yet despite his obvious potential for aggression, his powerful hands hung open and easy, not balled in threatening fists. And his cock . . .

Sweet Mother Mary.

It thrust from his furred groin, lust giving it a slight upward angle despite its considerable length, rosy and thick from the heart-shaped head to the broad base and heavy balls. She felt a rush of heat deep in her belly as she imagined him pumping it in and out of her with all the power of that muscular ass.

Miranda licked her lips and lifted her eyes from that meaty shaft. And got caught in his hungry black gaze as he stared at her as if she was everything he’d ever wanted in a woman.

Nothing like the Alpha Warlock had sent to breed her. That one’s stare had reduced her to the hole between her thighs. He’d meant to rape her. Threatened to beat her mother if she resisted.

So she’d killed him because Joelle Drake had been beaten enough. Not that it had done any good. Her mother was dead in less than a week. And having killed her murdering stepfather, Miranda had been forced to go on the run.

Two nights later in some one-stoplight town, she’d picked up a twenty-year-old human in a bar, just to make sure her first time wasn’t at the hands of one of Warlock’s thugs. The human had been only four years younger than she was, but he’d seemed a boy to her. Yet he’d been sweet and surprisingly tender despite his clumsy inexperience, and Miranda had decided on the spot to stick to human lovers. She’d sworn then that no werewolf would ever occupy her bed.

But here was Justice, looking at her with those dark, hot, patient eyes. And waiting.

Miranda caught the hem of her T-shirt and pulled it off over her head.

As she tossed the shirt aside, he caught his breath, freezing as he stared at the round curves of her breasts cupped in her bra’s black lace. The wolf heat in Justice’s eyes should have made her feel like a mouse trapped under a cat’s paw. Instead she felt powerful—and more profoundly female than she’d ever been in her life.

The front clasp sprang open under her fingers, and Miranda shrugged the bra off with a roll of her shoulders.

His tongue flicked over his full lower lip.

She dragged her boots off and threw them one by one across the room. They landed on the hardwood floor with a double thump and skidding clatter.

Justice’s gaze remained locked on hers. Waiting.

Miranda tugged off her socks and sent them flying over the semicircular couch. Her heart hammered. Her zipper hissed. His powerful shoulders coiled. She took her time pulling off her jeans, adding some gratuitous hip wiggle just to make a muscle twitch in his square jaw. The jeans sailed after the socks. Miranda rolled to her feet, watching him watch her as she slowly slid the thin black silk panties down her thighs. Spinning it out, making them both wait.

She straightened, toed the panties aside, and stepped up to him, as naked as he was. Justice still didn’t move, though those big hands had coiled into fists, as if he was fighting the need to grab and take.

He was six-three, maybe six-four, tall enough that she had to tilt her head to meet his gaze. The wolf inside him flickered deep in his eyes, its ferocity caged by iron control.

That control gave her the courage to touch his chest, run her fingers over the curves and hollows of firm muscle under warm, tanned skin. His dark chest hair felt as soft and fine as fur. His heart thumped against her fingertips in a drumbeat of sexual need.

God, he was big. Even bigger than her stepfather . . .

Gerald towered over her in Dire Wolf form, his clawed hand drawn back, preparing to kill her the same way he’d killed her mother . . .

The memory disappeared back into the depths of her mind like a hit-and-run eighteen-wheeler, leaving Miranda dazed in its wake.
What the fuck am I doing? Justice is an Alpha Dire Wolf, just like Gerald. He . . .

Justice lowered his head. Before she could obey a howling instinct to jerk away, his mouth touched hers, tender, soft, a bare brush of lip on lip.

Somehow, she found herself kissing him back.

Justice didn’t grab her, didn’t shove himself against her to make her aware of how he dwarfed her with all that muscle. Only his lips touched hers, the contact tender, questioning, reassuring. He’d carefully tamped his hunger down, though she could smell it in his scent, a dark male perfume growing stronger with every second.

Inside her soul, her werewolf nature stilled, protective rage draining.
Justice won’t hurt me.

A thought flashed through Miranda’s mind, hard and sharp as a blade:
I can let Warlock and his thugs make a sexual cripple out of me, or I can prove I’m not a victim.

She opened her mouth and let Justice in.

His tongue swirled around hers in sweet temptation, silently inviting her to play. She pursued it back into his mouth, letting his mint-and-male taste flood her brain and drown her ghosts. Passion began to heat her blood like a pot slowly coming to a boil.

Warm fingers discovered the stiff peak of one breast and traced a tempting circle over the sensitive nipple. Pleasure flowed through her, lazy as a creek of poured honey. And just as sweet.

Miranda leaned into Justice with a soft, helpless little moan. And tried not to think about all the reasons this was a really bad idea.

* * *

Miranda’s breast filled
his hand like a sun-warmed peach, round and velvet-soft. Her nipple thrust into his fingers as her body swayed against his, tempting, long firm thighs brushing his as she kissed him back, licking and tasting.
Sweet. God, so sweet.

His wolf wanted to pin her down and ride her hard, bucking into her as she knelt on all fours, submissive to his male beast, yet as juicy and slick as that peach.

But she still smelled of fear. The faint acrid tang of it lay under the sweet musk of need like polluting smoke. If he yielded to his wolf’s instinct to dominate, the fear would build and build until it choked her desire to nothing.

So Justice collared his wolf and ignored its growls, his fingers careful as he worked to build need into passion. He stroked and teased her nipples into stiff demand with one hand even as the other drifted along the fine curves of her ribs, down the long, sweet dip of her waist to the rise of one hip. Tracing the shifting muscles in her round runner’s ass with his nostrils flared wide, drawing in her scent, tasting it in his mouth, gauging the transformation of desire into lust.

Miranda’s lust was what he wanted. Craved. Hot, animal, mindless, purified of fear and doubt so he could shoot her into orgasm like a bottle rocket into the night.

He drew back to read her hunger. A spark burst blue in the depths of her eyes, magic freed by heat. “Do you want to lie down?” he asked softly.