Master of Shadows (27 page)

Another tear traced a slow, shining path down his face. “I’m going to kill that fucker.”

“I’ll help.”

He laughed, soft and rough. “Considering his powers, I’ll need all the help I can get.”

“Tristan,” Belle began, before breaking off again, not sure how to put what she had to say without making his pain worse.

Tris stroked his knuckles slowly down her cheek. “Yes?” he prompted, when she said nothing else.

“I think the Beast is doing more than simply feeding on the magic of those he kills. I think he’s taking on the abilities of his victims. That’s how he left traces of Magekind magic at the scene.”

Tristan considered the idea, frowning. “If you’re right, he could have absorbed Bors’s ability as a swordsman.” He thought it through before shaking his head. “Doesn’t matter. I’m still going to kill him, no matter how good he is with a blade.”

“Yes.” She cupped her fingers around his hand where it lay on the sheets. He turned it palm up and wrapped his fingers around hers. It felt good to hold his hand. Such a simple gesture, yet it said so much. Basking in the sensation, she brushed her lips over his mouth in a soft kiss. His arms slid around her, and he rolled over onto his back, pulling her against his side. With a sigh, she cuddled into him, the top of her head nestling under his chin.

“Thank you.”

Belle wrapped one arm around his narrow waist. “What for?”

He shrugged. “Being here.”

Belle smiled and snuggled against him. A moment later, the sun came up and his arms went limp around her as he lost consciousness.

It wasn’t long before she joined him.

Belle opened her
eyes to the glowing image of a unicorn, its golden horn lifted, its emerald eyes wicked. They reminded her of Tristan’s.

She’d become adept at reading the light that poured through the stained-glass windows of her bedroom. Now she estimated that it was probably noon.

Belle stretched lazily, enjoying the waterfall of rainbow light pouring in. The windows weren’t just pretty, they were a necessity. The bright colors filtered the sunlight so it wouldn’t harm her vampire guests.

Like Tristan. He lay utterly still as his body drank in the magic of the Mageverse, an energy he needed every bit as much as he did blood. A vampire could die if he stayed away from the Mageverse for too long.

Tristan’s blond lashes feathered his cheeks like thick gold fans, and his sensual lips were parted, as if waiting for a kiss.

God, she was tempted.

He looked as deceptively innocent as a boy in sleep, though there was nothing boyish about the hard, masculine angles of his face. His hair tumbled across her pillow in bright skeins that shimmered in the light from the unicorn window.

He could have been the one to die last night instead of Bors. As skilled and powerful as he was, even Tristan could fall to an assassin’s blade in the back.

He needed better armor. Something without the chinks and weaknesses Bors’s killer had exploited.

Belle rolled out of bed, conjured a cup of coffee and a muffin, and went to work.

 

She tried gauntlets
first. They needed to be strong enough to resist a Dire Wolf’s bite, yet light enough not to restrict mobility.

The armored glove she conjured incorporated sheets of titanium she folded and shaped with her magic into dense layers. Next she used her magic to create a disembodied Dire Wolf head that could bite with the same force as the creature they’d fought the day Emma died. A flick of her fingers, and the glowing avatar bit down on the gauntlet.

Crushing the glove like a beer can.

“Merde,”
Belle growled. She flung up her hands in disgust, and the failed glove vanished.

She tried four more designs as the afternoon went on, but all of them either failed the bite test or were too heavy to fight in.

This isn’t working,
she thought, pacing the bedroom in frustration.
And if I don’t solve the problem, Tristan’s next battle could be his last
.

Irritated, needing a break, Belle dressed and went out to her garden. The scent of roses and the tinkle of falling water never failed to soothe her frustration.

She began to pace as she struggled with the problem. There had to be some combination of magic and metal that would protect Tristan without keeping him from defending himself . . . A pair of huge winged shadows passed across the garden. Alarmed, Belle jerked her head up, then relaxed with a sigh.

It was only Kel flying with his wife, Nineva. Both were in dragon form, riding the thermals that rose from Avalon’s sun-heated cobblestone streets. He was a rich iridescent blue, while she blazed gold in the sun. Each was more than forty feet long from tapered nose to whipping tail tip.

They were magnificent.

Belle remembered watching Kel land, the way his iridescent scales rippled over the thick muscles of his shoulders and long, flexible neck . . .

Belle’s mouth fell open as the solution to the armor problem popped into her mind as if it had been waiting for the right moment to appear. She turned and hurried inside, detouring through the kitchen long enough to grab a blade from the set of chef’s knives.

For this, she was going to need blood.

 

Davon swung his
sword with a grunt of furious effort, his eyes narrow, sweat rolling down his muscular torso. He parried and spun, sending a bead of sweat flying. His heart hammered in his chest, and his breathing rasped in desperate heaves of his chest.

He’d started working the moment the sun set and dragged him from the blessed oblivion of the Daysleep. Davon had promptly dressed in a pair of loose cotton shorts, picked up his sword, and padded barefoot into the sitting area. He’d already moved the couch and chairs into the other room to give himself space to work.

Now he ticked through every sword move he’d been taught, every parry, every attack, every retreat, until his muscled ached and a stitch cramped his side.

Not enough.
Not nearly enough. He wasn’t shaking yet. He had to wear himself out until he couldn’t think.

Thought had become Davon’s enemy.

He leaped into full extension, driving his sword through the imaginary heart of his opponent, then slashed, taking his foe’s . . .

Head.

Nausea twisted his stomach into a sour knot as guilt slapped him like a hard palm.

He’d murdered Jimmy Sheridan. He’d slipped up behind a seventeen-year-old boy who was playing a video game and hacked his head off his shoulders. Never mind that he believed Arthur had told him the boy was a vicious serial-killing pedophile.
He’d decapitated a child.

The memory kept playing in his head in a nightmarish loop.
The
thunk
of the sword hitting bone, sending Jimmy’s head rolling off his shoulders, to spray blood like a garden hose, painting the walls scarlet, splashing Davon’s face. . . .
Now the boy’s parents and brother were left with an aching hole blasted in their lives where a handsome young man used to be. All his intelligence, all his potential. All gone.

The head rolled, spraying blood. It splashed across his face, hot and sickening. He’d staggered into the bathroom to throw up.

He’d slipped up behind Jimmy, unable to look into the boy’s eyes and kill him. He’d swung the sword, felt the
thunk
of steel biting bone. Jimmy’s head rolled, splashing blood across his face as it painted the walls.

I swore to save lives. I killed an innocent
.

Davon shuddered. He’d been caught in the same vicious mental loop since he’d learned the boy hadn’t been a serial killer. The only thing that helped even slightly was working out until he so thoroughly exhausted his body that he was beyond thought. Even then, if he let the thought of Jimmy in, it instantly triggered another cycle. And the memory would roll over and over again like an endless, looping nightmare.

He should go back to the healer Arthur had ordered him to see, but Petra made him feel
too
good. Almost as if he’d never murdered the boy at all. That wasn’t right either. He was a murderer, whether he’d intended to be one or not. He should pay some kind of price. After all, the boy’s blameless family was suffering, and they’d done nothing whatsoever to deserve it.

The trouble was, this . . . obsession he’d developed was growing dangerous. He knew he was clinically depressed to the point of being suicidal. If Davon had discovered a patient this bad off in his emergency room days, he would have hospitalized him for his own good.

“Davon? Well, hello there.” The woman spoke in a rich female purr, the kind that would have brought Davon’s senses on alert before Jimmy.

He looked around without much interest and saw Sabryn, who had stopped out in the hallway to peer in at him. Her mouth, slicked with bronze gloss, curled into a seductive smile.

“Hello, Sabryn.” He gave her a curt nod and waited for her to go away.

Instead she prowled into the room like an oversized cat. “Have you heard the latest?”

Like he gave a shit about gossip. But his mother had raised him to be a polite Southern gentleman, so he forced a smile. “I’ve been sticking close to home.”

“One of the werewolves killed Sir Bors. You know, the Knight of the Round Table?”

Davon hadn’t been an agent long, but already he knew the importance the knights had in Avalon. He tried to make himself care, but the thought barely pushed its way through the mental fog that surrounded him. “That’s terrible.”

“Arthur was furious. He called the leader of the werewolves and ripped him a new one. Do you know the man still demanded that he turn you over? Arthur told him to fuck off. The wolf said there’d be war if Avalon didn’t—”

“Wait—what?” Davon frowned, trying to focus through the bloody mental loop playing in his head.

“Didn’t you know? The werewolves are threatening to declare war on Avalon if Arthur doesn’t turn you over for trial immediately, but Arthur says you’re just as much a victim as Jimmy Sheridan, and the wolves can go to hell.”

“Are they serious?”

“Oh, yeah.” Sabryn eyed him. “A lot of people are going to die for you, Davon. I hope you’re worth it.”

Davon stared at Sabryn in horror. It seemed he couldn’t breathe, as if all the air in the room had turned to lead. He shoved past the woman and reeled down the hall, desperate to get outside, find some fresh air before he passed out.

 

Sabryn watched the
young Magus shove open a door and escape into the night. She winced. Probably should have kept her mouth shut, but when she’d walked past and seen Davon working out, all big, thoughtless rookie, she’d remembered Bors. Bors, who’d been kind to her. Thought of all the other agents who’d probably end up dead because of Davon.

It figured he’d be one of Belle’s pampered boys.

If Sabryn was honest—and she was many things, but dishonest wasn’t one of them—the thought of sticking it to Belle through one of her pets was irresistible. True, it was petty and beneath her, but Belle had humiliated her. Worse, she’d shamed her in front of Morgana.

And she’d stolen Tristan right out from under Sabryn’s nose. That stung.

Besides, there was no permanent damage done. The rookie would probably run crying to Mommy, and Belle would have to spend all night calming him down and convincing him that nobody blamed him for the mess with the werewolves.

And they didn’t. If Davon hadn’t provided the excuse, someone else would have. That was just the way people were when they were intent on going to war.

People were bastards.

 

Tristan woke to
find himself hanging upright, supported in midair by a column of golden sparks. He was also naked from the waist down.

Bewildered, he glanced around. He was still in Belle’s bedroom, which was reassuring, since that was where he’d fallen asleep.

His arms were spread wide, clad in the most remarkable armor he’d ever seen. It was formed of countless tiny scales, each about the size and shape of a fingernail. When he moved, the scales flexed, shimmering silver. Each scale had edges of brilliant scarlet, so that bright crimson rippled across his body with every flex of his muscles.

“Belle?” She had to be around here somewhere.

A long fingertip stroked over the curve of his ass in a trailing little tickle.

And there she is.
“Belle, darlin’, what the hell are you doing?”

“Shhhh,” she breathed, and the finger drew a rune over his butt with something wet. Belle hummed, the notes seeming to wrap around his body. He felt something move on his skin.

Craning his head to look over his shoulder, Tristan saw a wave of scales materializing in the wake of her moving finger, armor growing like something organic everywhere she touched him. He moved, stretching out his arms, testing the fit as best he could, pinned like this. It was lighter and more flexible than any armor he’d ever worn. Tris grinned, eager to try it out in combat, see if it was as perfect as it seemed.

Still humming, she circled him, sliding one delicate forefinger along his thigh, whatever paint she was using radiating those amazing scales. Belle was completely naked. Her eyes were wide and glowing, and he realized she was in the kind of deep trance Majae used to work major magic.

This was going to be one hell of a suit of magic armor when she got it finished.

Tristan frowned, realizing Belle held a knife. What was she . . .

Humming, she lifted the blade and drew it down her right breast, inflicting a shallow cut. Transferring the knife to her left hand, she ran a finger down the cut, then used the bloody digit to paint a rune of protection over his groin. Again, scales bloomed.