Master of Darkness (9 page)

“Pushing you into using your powers so he could punish you.” His teeth ground together in rage, the sound grittily audible to her Dire Wolf hearing.

“Yeah. When I finally got tired of jumping after the doll, I tossed a spell at his hand. It wasn’t much of a spell, mind you—just something to make his fingers go numb so he’d drop the doll. He blasted me. I mean,
blasted
me. With a fireball, the way you’d hit someone in battle.”

“He fried a four-year-old child?” His arms tightened protectively around her, as if by unconscious instinct. “A little girl?
His
little girl?”

“I was never really his little girl, Justice. If I had been, he couldn’t have done something like that.”

“Good point.” There was that protective growl again.

“I’ve never forgotten what it felt like when that blast hit my face.” Lost in scarring memories, she ran soapy fingers absently over the strong tanned forearm around her waist. “My hair went up like a torch. I turned and tried to run, but he hit me with another spell that put the fire out. I was in so much pain, I just kept running.”

“Oh, God.” Justice sounded sick.

Miranda barely noticed, lost in brutal memory. “He grabbed me. God, the touch of his hands was agonizing. I looked down and saw some of my skin fall off. He’d cooked me like a chicken.”

Justice began to swear, an impressive rolling blast of profanity that made her blink in surprise. She’d never even heard some of those words.

Finally he ran down enough to ask, “What did he do then?”

Miranda frowned. “I don’t remember. I woke up in my bed at home. The pain was gone. I ran to the mirror to look at my hair—I loved my hair, and I knew it had burned away. I’d smelled it. But every hair was back, perfect, like nothing ever happened. I’m pretty damned sure he gave me third-degree burns, but he’d healed me completely. You’d never have known what he did to me.”

“What did your mother say when you told her?”

Miranda laughed, the sound ugly even to her own ears. “That I shouldn’t have tried to get the doll back. She told me Warlock was an Alpha, and when an Alpha gave you an order, you did what he told you to do. Or you’d pay.”

“All Alphas are not like that.” Justice’s voice sounded as cold as dry ice, temper steaming like vapor from every word.

Miranda twisted her head to look warily up at him. His handsome face was set in hard lines, though the arms he’d wrapped around her were deliberately gentle. “I know, Bill. I’m starting to see that.”

* * *

Justice lay staring
up into the darkness, Miranda cuddled against him, one arm draped over the width of his chest, deliciously warm and smelling of werewolf and lilac bubble bath. He must have made some progress in convincing her he wasn’t just another vicious Alpha, or she wouldn’t have trusted him enough to fall asleep in his arms with the boneless innocence of a child.

Except he’d never met any child who’d suffered as much abuse as she had, because such a child would have died. A dozen times over.

What had Warlock’s vicious treatment done to her mind? Especially considering he’d gone right on abusing her into adulthood.

It wasn’t a comfortable thought. Any cop knew you couldn’t turn your back on a criminal domestic violence victim. They’d call 911, you’d show up, see the bruises, the black eyes, the blood. You’d start to handcuff the bastard who had done all that—and his victim would promptly hit you with the nearest cast iron frying pan.

Or worse.

Justice was living proof you couldn’t trust a CDV victim. He wouldn’t even be a werewolf if he hadn’t tried to save the wrong woman.

* * *

It was June
3, 2009. He was a lieutenant with the Greendale County Sheriff’s Office, the same department where his grandfather had served two terms as sheriff and his father had gone down in the line of duty.

When he was twelve years old, his father had told him,
“Kid, your name is Justice. And don’t you ever forget it.”

He hadn’t.

So when 911 Dispatch radioed reports of a woman screaming at 425 Magnolia Avenue, Justice had responded to the call. That kind of thing was normally Patrol’s job, and he was a detective, but all the patrol units were tied up with a multi-vehicle accident. Which made him the only cop available.

Besides, he’d just spent the last sixteen hours working a homicide; a husband had cut his wife’s throat.
If I can prevent another woman ending up dead, it’ll be worth a little extra overtime.
Unlike the scene of the murder—a double-wide out in the middle of nowhere—425 Magnolia Avenue turned out to be nothing less than a mansion. Not the kind of place you’d expect a man to terrorize his wife.

When Justice walked up to the front door, he noticed that its glass oval inset was etched with a stylized wolf head. He’d had no idea werewolves even existed then, or he’d have recognized the symbol of a Chosen household.

The Chosen were werewolf aristocracy who could trace their lineage back to the original twelve warriors Merlin magically transformed into the first Dire Wolves.

Chosen males demanded complete submission from their mates, and they liked to enforce their dominance the hard way. Since the women could heal damned near any injury just by Shifting, the men figured they could do whatever they wanted.

Justice hadn’t known any of that. Not that he’d have cared, once he heard the pain and terror in the woman’s scream. He’d been on the verge of kicking in the door when the couple’s teenaged son finally opened it. He was questioning the kid when the boy’s father barged in. “Who the hell are you,” a male voice interrupted, “and what are you doing in my house?”

Justice pivoted, his hand going to his gun. He didn’t draw it—quite. “I’m the police, sir. Who are you?”

“Christian Andrew Price.” The man tilted his head so he could look down his nose at Justice. Quite a trick, considering he was three inches shorter. “I know you aren’t getting ready to draw a weapon on me in my own home.”

We’ll see, asshole. “Where’s your wife, sir?”

“Who are you again?”

Justice tapped the gold badge on his belt. “Lieutenant William Justice, Greendale Sheriff’s Office.”

Price smiled thinly. “Oh, yes. I donated to the sheriff’s campaign.”

“So did I.” He took a single menacing step closer. “Where’s your wife, Mr. Price? I heard her scream.”

Price curled a contemptuous lip. “Carol screams quite frequently.” He was a pale aristocrat of a man—blond, thin, and elegant in chinos and a sky-blue silk shirt open to reveal a wisp of chest hair. “She’s a bit high-strung.”

“Funny how people get high-strung when other people hit them.”
And you’re about to find out just how it feels, asshole
. “If I don’t see your wife by the count of three, I’m going to assume something’s happened to her. In which case I’m going to handcuff your ass, throw you in my patrol car, and go looking for her myself. One . . .”

“My wife is none of your damned business!”

“This badge says otherwise. Two. Thr—”

“Carol, get out here, you clumsy cow!”

The woman who stepped around the corner would have been delicately pretty, if not for the vicious cuts that raked across her face. The top slice ran from her temple to the corner of one green eye, while three others slashed her cheek right to her nose and the corner of her mouth. The bottom cut laid the length of her jaw open all the way to her chin. Blood streamed from the wounds to mat her shoulder-length chestnut hair and soak her pink Polo shirt. Her neat white pants were splattered with crimson flecks.

Shit,
Justice thought in horror,
that’s going to scar like a bitch. What the hell did he use to attack her, Freddie Krueger’s claws?

She smiled at Justice through the gore. One side of her lip sagged oddly, as if the cuts had damaged nerves. “Hello, Lieutenant. I’m afraid you’ve caught us at a bad time.” There was a curious light in her eyes, an odd blend of triumph and revenge. Something that said, “I’m going to show him for what he is.”

“Mom!” The boy stared at her in shocked horror. “Why in the hell didn’t you Shift?”

“Dammit, Carol!” her husband spat, taking a threatening step forward. “I’m going to—”

“That’s enough, sir!” Grabbing Price by one wrist, Justice swept behind him, jerking the bastard’s arm back and around to jam it painfully high against one shoulder blade. Teeth bared, he used the arm bar to slam Price face-first into the wall so hard, the watercolors shook with the impact, their elegant silver frames rattling.

Price yelped in startled pain. “That hurts! Let go, you . . .”

“No.” Maintaining the arm bar with practiced skill, Justice used his free hand to pull his handcuffs from the leather case on his belt. “You’re under arrest on charges of criminal domestic violence, high and aggravated. Which means you’re going to jail, and your wife is going to the emergency room. If you’re lucky, a plastic surgeon will be able to save her face.”

“Don’t be absurd!” Price snapped, and rammed back against his grip, breaking free with effortless strength.

Astonished, Justice stumbled and damn near fell on his ass. Breaking free of that kind of hold took a hell of a lot of strength, far more than a skinny little bastard like Price should have been able to exert against a man three inches taller.

“The little bitch is fine.” Price glared at his wife, his lips peeled off his teeth. “All she has to do is Shift and her ugly face will be as good as new. At least until I slice her open again for bringing a human into Chosen business!”

Oh, great, the bastard’s psychotic
, Justice thought, and drew his gun. Swinging the weapon up into a two-handed Weaver stance, he aimed it squarely between Price’s eyes. “You’re not doing a damn thing except going to jail. Turn around and brace your hands against the wall, feet apart.”

The blond rocked back in offended astonishment. “I’ll do no such thing! You have no authority to . . .”

“I’ve got a badge and a gun, asshole. That gives me all the authority I need.” Justice took three steps forward, until the nine-mil almost touched Price’s thick blond eyebrows. “Lean both hands on that wall and stand with your feet apart. I will not tell you again.”

“This is really not necessary.” Carol wrung her hands, her distress obvious even through the mask of blood. “This isn’t what I had in mind. I don’t want you to arrest him. Just make him leave me alone!”

NINE

“Lady,” Justice had
growled at the woman in frustration and rage, “the only way to make an abuser leave you alone is to leave his ass and make sure he doesn’t know where you’re going, Which is what I strongly advise you to do. Get your kid to pack your shit while you’re in the hospital and this creep is in jail. Then hop a flight to anywhere, and don’t come back. Have your lawyer serve the divorce papers, and stay the fuck away from this lunatic.”

She stared at him in shocked astonishment. “I can’t divorce Christian! The Chosen don’t do that.”

Great, she was as crazy as Price. This is why I hate domestics. “Then I give it a month before I’ll be working your murder.” He glared into Price’s furious eyes. They actually seemed to glow with sparks of insanity. “It won’t exactly be a whodunit.”

Carol lifted her chin. “Christian won’t hurt me.”

Justice kept his gun aimed directly at Price’s skull. “Check the mirror, sweetheart. He already has.”

“Carol, you stupid slut, look what you’ve gotten us into!” Price exploded. “You’ve exposed us, you fool! When this human makes his report and the media gets involved . . .”

Green eyes narrowed. “He won’t be making a report. I’ll fix this, Christian. You’ll see.”

And Carol Price became a monster.

Light sparked around her as if she’d detonated hidden fireworks. Her body contorted, muscle and bone twisting beneath her flesh as her head shot toward the ceiling, dark fur rolling to cover every inch of her body.

Sheer reflex made Justice jerk his weapon toward her. In the instant it took to switch his aim from Price to his victim, Carol grew from barely five-foot-six to over seven feet tall. Her delicate female features transformed into a wolf’s tapered muzzle and pointed ears, as her elegant manicure sharpened into three-inch claws. Her fur was the same rich chestnut as her hair, short and fine over most of her body, thickening into a long mane that surrounded her head and formed a ruff over her round breasts.

Justice wondered numbly where her clothes had gone.

“You . . . What did you . . . ?” He felt as if someone had hit him hard, right in the side of the head, disconnecting his dazed thoughts like a derailed toy train. “How did you do that?”

“I’m sorry about this,” the monster told him in a deep, rumbling voice. “But you really shouldn’t have tried to arrest Christian. The Chosen don’t go to jail.”

She lunged at him. He fired, but she ducked with impossible speed, wrenched the gun out of his hands, and bit his wrist with the speed of a striking copperhead.

Justice screamed as knife-blade fangs sliced into his skin. Blue sparks flashed around her jaws.

Hallucinating. He had to be hallucinating.
What the fuck did they drug me with? Gas? I didn’t drink anything
 . . .

Fire shot up his arms in blazing agony. Yelling, he jerked away just as she released him.

He’d have fallen flat on his ass, but Carol caught his elbow, steadying him. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant,” she told
him, regret in her glowing orange eyes. “I truly am. But now you’re either one of us, or you’re dead. Either way, you won’t be taking Christian to jail. And you won’t be making a report.”

* * *

Bleeding, Merlin’s Curse
blazing through his veins in waves of agony, Justice could only watch as Carol’s husband turned into a monster too. She’d fled, yelping, Price raging at her heels. The two Dire Wolves shot out the back door into the moonlit woods beyond.

The couple’s teenage son, Peter, helped Justice make that first agonizing Shift. Otherwise the magic probably would have killed him.

Later, Justice returned to the Price home, driven by some stupid need to make sure Carol had survived. Her cheek unmarked by so much as a scar, she’d thanked him politely for his concern.

And shut the door firmly in his face.

He hadn’t filed a report.

That wasn’t the last time he’d dealt with the Chosen, either. After the Council of Clans appointed him wolf sheriff, Justice often dealt with aristocrats in one way or another. He’d soon found most of them were just as bugfuck crazy as Carol Price and her psychotic husband.

The only exception was Elena Livingstone Rollings, his ally on the Council of Clans. Elena was married to a cop, Lucas Rollings, who’d also become a werewolf after being bitten in the line of duty.

After Justice resigned from the Greendale County department, Elena had lobbied hard for his appointment as wolf sheriff. He hadn’t been all that sure he wanted the job, but she and Lucas convinced him that his law enforcement experience would make him an asset.

“Kid, your name is Justice. And don’t you ever forget it.”

Maybe Dad had been joking when he said that, and the twelve-year-old Justice just hadn’t realized it. It did sound a bit cheesy in retrospect. Yet those words had lodged in his brain like a cocklebur, and he couldn’t seem to dig them out.

Maybe he didn’t want to.

Justice curled tighter around Miranda’s sleeping warmth and closed his eyes, trying to go back to sleep.

Until a chilling thought made his eyes snap wide.

When we go up against Warlock, will Miranda turn on me like that? And if she does, what the hell am I going to do?

* * *

A shrill scream
of raw terror jolted Justice from sleep. Miranda jerked out of his arms and practically clawed her way from the bed. A sword appeared in her hand in an explosion of azure sparks.

Instinctively, Justice rolled after her, hitting the floor in a coiled crouch, scanning the room for whatever had frightened her. He was unarmed, not to mention buck naked, but he didn’t give a damn. Something had scared her, hurt her . . .

Only there was nobody there.

“Miranda, what did you. . . .” He glanced at her and broke off, ice creeping along his veins.

Miranda’s gaze was locked on
him
, her face twisted with fury and fear as she drew back her sword for a killing stroke.

Aimed squarely at his neck.

Oh, fuck. She’s having a nightmare, and she has no idea who I am
.

He’d read somewhere that you shouldn’t grab a sleepwalker—she’d attack. You were supposed to call her name and speak calmly . . .
Yeah, right. Speak calmly to the naked woman with a freaking broadsword in her hand.
And unlike Miranda, he couldn’t just conjure weapons out of thin air.

“Miranda, it’s me. It’s Justice.” He retreated, desperately scanning the room for something to use as a shield. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m your bodyguard, remember?”
Among other things.

Glowing eyes blinked as fury gave way to confusion. Then, thank God, to hesitant recognition. “Justice?”

He blew out a relieved breath and gave her a smile that was probably a bit too bright. “That’s me, darlin’. You awake now?”

“Bill,” she gasped, the conjured blade vanishing in a burst of sparks that winked out as they tumbled to the floor. “Oh, God, Bill, I could have killed you!”

“Must have been one hell of a nightmare.”

“It was.” Miranda dropped onto the bed as if her knees had given way. “I was dreaming about Mom’s death. Again.” Bracing her elbows on her knees, she buried her face in her hands. He tried not to watch her bare, pretty breasts sway. “When I woke up and smelled werewolf, felt your arm around me, I thought . . . Oh, hell, I don’t know what I thought. That you were Gerald, that you’d just . . .”

“It’s all right, sweetheart. It was only a dream.” Dropping down beside her, he looped an arm across her bare, smooth shoulders and drew her close.

Miranda leaned into him with a sob. “He killed her, Bill. He finally killed her. I knew it was coming—hell,
she
knew it was coming, but she wouldn’t leave him. I tried, God, I
tried
to get her to go, but she just wouldn’t.
“Chosen women don’t leave their husbands.”
Miranda looked up at him. Her eyes were red, tears rolling silently down her cheeks. He wondered if she’d ever allowed herself to grieve.

Justice drew her head against his chest and cradled her in his arms. “Yeah. The Chosen are like that. Brainwashed all to hell.”

Miranda took a heaving breath, half-laughter, half-sob. “Joelle definitely was. She’d lecture me about a woman’s duty and honor and all that horseshit.” Conjuring a tissue, she buried her face in it. The next words were muffled, as if she hated to admit the truth even to herself. “Sometimes I just wanted to shake her.”

“I know.” He kissed the top of her shining hair.

“Why wouldn’t she go, Bill?” A fat tear hit his naked thigh and slid downward, leaving a cool trail that gleamed in the moonlight. Her skin felt hot against his chest. “Why wouldn’t Mom leave that bastard? She never loved him. He was a complete jerk. He married her and pretended I was his daughter only because Warlock ordered him to. My father rewarded his obedience with construction contracts, business deals—he made sure Gerald got all kinds of gravy.”

“Yeah, I heard Drake was connected.” He’d been investigating the Drake murder case before the Council of Clans fired him for refusing to go along with Warlock’s declaration of war.

Miranda straightened out of his hold, wiping her eyes. “Just hours before Gerald killed my mother, Belle offered to get us out. She said she’d take us to Avalon. We’d have been safe, dammit. Joelle said no.
Why?
”

That last word had the ring of a child’s betrayed wail, stabbing him right to the heart.

Justice sighed, rubbing one hand absently up and down her back. “It was probably fear, Miranda. Fear of being alone. Fear of starting over. Fear the female Chosen would turn on her; that crowd can be pretty vicious. Fear Gerald would hunt her down and kill her. And he probably would have. Chosen Alphas are touchy about slights to their pride, and a runaway wife is one hell of a slight. Implies you can’t control your own household.”

“I killed him.” The words seemed to hang nakedly in the air, stripped of all emotion except profound weariness.

“Good.”

Miranda blinked at him in surprise, as if she’d expected condemnation. Justice caught a glimpse of the agonized guilt she probably didn’t even realize she felt.

Gerald might have been an abusive bastard who’d murdered her mother, but she’d also known him her entire life. Called him “father,” celebrated holidays and birthdays with him, shared meals, seen him in moments he was happy and sad.

Maybe there’d even been times when he
hadn’t
acted like a complete douche bag.

Justice knew from personal experience that killing anyone, even a murderous stranger, put a burden on the soul. How much worse would it have been to kill a family member, no matter how much he may have had it coming?

So he met her gaze and told her the truth.
“
Gerald would have killed you, Miranda. You actually
saw
him break his wife’s neck. Even Chosen Alphas aren’t allowed to go that far. When I was wolf sheriff, I charged aristocrats with murder in situations exactly like that.”

He grimaced, remembering some of the more miserably frustrating trials. “True, getting a conviction was a bitch and a half, since they usually bought off the jury . . .”

“Yeah, that sounds like something Gerald would have done.” Miranda’s sodden tissue disappeared, replaced by an entire box of Kleenex. Pulling out a fresh handful, she wiped her reddened eyes and sniffled.

“Of course, because he could have been put to death.” The Direkind didn’t have prisons. Depending on the crime, the Council of Clans either imposed a fine or ordered you beheaded. There was no intermediate sentence. No appeal process, either. The headsman’s axe fell at dawn the day after sentencing. Over the three years he’d been wolf sheriff, Justice had swung that blade four times, always on bastards who truly deserved it.

Gerald damned well should have been one of them. Knowing the Direkind judicial system, however, Justice figured he’d have found a corruptible juror and beaten the charge. “But even if he’d gotten off, the social ostracism would have been merciless. No more lucrative Chosen construction jobs. No more membership in that gentlemen’s club, playing poker with the upper crust and drinking expensive Scotch served by pretty young werewolves.” Justice scooped her into his lap, settling her more comfortably against his chest. “So yeah, he’d have killed you. I’m just glad you got him first.”

“He drew back his hand with his claws extended.” Miranda gazed into the distance, as if reliving that night. “His eyes were completely empty. It was like looking into a shark’s. There was nothing human home.” She wrapped both arms around herself and shivered. “I knew he was going to tear out my throat, so I conjured a sword and killed him first. Then I cut off his head, just to make sure he was really gone.”

Justice sighed. “Miranda, it doesn’t sound like he gave you a choice.”

“I could have gated away.” She turned in his lap to search his face with anxious eyes. “I had the power to do that even then. Gerald wouldn’t have been able to follow me.”

“Then he’d have gone to Warlock, who would have sent his assassins after you. You’d be running from all of them now.” Justice stroked her hair until her body began to lose its defensive stiffness.

“Look, if you’re waiting for me to tell you you’re a sinner for killing that bastard, you’re barking up the wrong tree.” He gave her a smile. “If you’ll pardon the expression.”

“Aren’t you worried about sleeping with a killer?” Miranda tried out a flippant smile, but the anxiety behind it peeked through her eyes.

Justice snorted. “I hate to tell you this, but you’re about as frightening as Miss Piggy.”

Miranda laughed, a little giggle of surprise and relief. Her amber eyes lightened as though the pain and fear had dropped away.

Just like that, Justice was abruptly aware he had a lapful of beautiful, naked woman who was no longer sobbing. One breast pressed against his chest, soft as a rabbit’s fur, while the other displayed a tempting pink nipple drawn into a tight bud. Her ass felt just firm enough resting on his thighs, and her long, long legs draped over his, thighs slim and strong as a dancer’s, her slender, endless calves sweeping down into pretty feet.