Master of Shadows (31 page)

“Don’t kid yourself,” Justice told her. “They’ll find another excuse. Smoke and Eva provided the council with concrete proof of Warlock’s existence
and
the fact that he’s an evil son of a bitch, and they still threatened war. I’d bet you dollars to dog chews the fucking wizard’s bought half the damned council off, and the other half is too witless to do anything but follow where they lead. Except for Elena Rollings, and one vote is just not enough.”

“I’m not letting them have Davon regardless of their threats,” Arthur said. “I know the man is eaten up with guilt, but that comes with the job. He’s going to have to get over it. Warlock mind-fucked him, and I refuse to let the bastard get him executed on top of it.”

He swept an eye over the crowd and started picking out vampires with thrusts of one gloved finger. “Gawain, Galahad, Lance, Reece, you go with Petra and recover our idiot doctor . . .”

“And me,” Belle said as the men stepped closer.

“Forget it. You’ve done your bit for the day,” Arthur told her, without even glancing around. He looked at his waiting agents. “Now, I want you to—”

“He’s one of my boys, Arthur.” Her delicate jaw set in a way Tristan recognized all too well. “Besides, I think I can talk him into coming back without being dragged kicking and screaming.”

“Merlin’s balls, woman . . .” Arthur began hotly.

Guinevere leaned in. From the look in her eyes, Tristan suspected she was talking to him in their Truebond.

He broke off in mid-rant and sighed. “Dammit, Gwen. All right, Belle, you can go. Tristan, go with them. And don’t get bitten by anybody. I’m tired of holding funerals.”

The werewolf’s clawed
hand wrapped around Davon’s entire head the way his own could encircle an infant’s. Except
his
fingers didn’t have three-inch claws.

“I want to kill you,” Stephen Sheridan whispered, his breath hot and rank, his eyes yellow with lupine rage.

“Yeah, I can see that,” Davon said.

The Council of Clans had moved him to Howard Sheridan’s church while they decided what to do. Apparently Jimmy’s father was a pastor. Why that somehow made it all worse, Davon didn’t know.

The one-story brick building had stained-glass windows and the traditional pointed white steeple. The white wooden sign out front read: HOLY RAPTURE BAPTIST CHURCH.

It reminded Davon of the church his family had attended when he was a child. His backside had occupied a pew every time the doors opened, which was usually at least twice a week.

Now the members of the Council of Clans huddled together at one side of the soaring sanctuary, arguing in low voices as they tried to decide how to handle the situation.

Stephen Sheridan looked over at Carl Rosen and licked his chops. “Let me bite him,” he demanded in a rumbling growl. “If Justice told the truth, he’ll die just like his girlfriend.”

Davon looked up at the kid—a long, long way up. Stephen was more than seven feet tall, with dagger-length claws and teeth that would make a crocodile weep with envy.

He should probably be terrified, but all Davon felt was a kind of weary fatalism. “Go ahead.”

Stephen blinked. “What?”

He shrugged, despite the weight of the chains still wrapped tight around his arms. He’d long since lost the feeling in them. “You’re certainly entitled. If it helps, it will be a lot more painful than what I did to Jimmy. It’ll take me longer to die, too. He never even saw it coming.”

The kid tightened his clawed grip on his captive’s head. “You
don’t
talk about Jimmy!”

Davon shrugged. “Okay.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “But I’ll still think about him. I think about him all the time. I can’t stop thinking about him . . .”

The kid jerked back, letting go as if burned. Or as if he’d been unnerved by whatever he’d seen in Davon’s eyes . . .

“I would like to satisfy my curiosity, though.” Davon lifted his voice. “Hey, Tanner. Come here a minute.”

By all rights, Tanner shouldn’t have come anywhere near him, but they had an audience. A very large werewolf audience.

After Elena Rollings had convinced Reverend Sheridan to let them use his church—figuring the knights might hesitate to attack them there—every werewolf in the area showed up to watch. Now the pews were full of Direkind, staring and whispering. Even in Davon’s current fatalistic mood, it was unnerving to be the focus of so much concentrated hate.

Apparently, though, Tanner loved the crowd. He swaggered over to Davon. “What do you want, killer?”

“I’m curious, Tanner—how much did Warlock pay you to sell your vote for war?”

Tanner’s face went slack with shock, then flushed with furious rage. “You little . . .”

“Smell that?” Davon asked Stephen. “Guilt. I thought so.”

Tanner lunged for Davon’s throat, but Stephen stiff-armed him, knocking him back a pace. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Giving me another black eye, I’d imagine,” Davon said dryly. “He’s got a nasty temper. Thanks for the save.”

Stephen studied Davon’s bruised face. Something dangerous glittered in his yellow werewolf gaze. “Was that before or after they chained you up?”

Davon shrugged. “After.”

Howard Sheridan rose from the front pew. “You
hit
a chained prisoner?”

“He had it coming.” Tanner rolled to his feet and tilted up his chin in defiance. “He mouthed off to me.”

Andrews looked around at them and glowered. “Tanner, shut the fuck up.”

Sheridan stiffened. “I’ll thank you to remember this is a church.”

Andrews opened his mouth, registered the watching crowd, and thought better of whatever he was going to say. “Of course, Reverend. Forgive me.”

“Weasel,” Davon muttered under his breath.

“You’re not kidding,” Stephen whispered back. “What a pair of jerks.” The boy hesitated, before adding thoughtfully, “And you were right—Tanner did smell guilty.”

Davon concealed his smile of satisfaction with an effort. He might be a dead man, but maybe the seeds he’d planted could prevent the war Warlock was so determined to bring about.

That had to be worth something. Didn’t it?

 

Miranda contemplated the
expanse of floor she needed to mop and sighed, greatly tempted to just cast a cleaning spell over the whole kitchen so she could go home.

Yeah, and you’d get a visit from Daddy Dearest fifteen minutes later
. She’d far rather do it the hard way than face Warlock’s savage temper. Again.

Sighing, Miranda headed for the corner where the wheeled mop bucket waited. She pushed it over to the stainless steel utility sink, grabbed the faucet spray attachment, cranked the hot water on high, and began filling the bucket
.

She was just reaching for the bottle of cleanser when she thought she heard a cry coming from the restaurant’s dining room.

Miranda frowned. “Hannah?” Her fellow waitress was closing out the front counter register. Concerned, she turned off the thundering water.

“Goddammit,” a male voice roared, “I said hand over the money unless you want a bullet in the brain!”

“I’m trying! The key won’t . . .”

“Fuck it.”
Boom.

The sound of the echoing gunshot hit Miranda like an electric shock. She transformed before she even realized she was calling her magic, fur racing over her skin, bones and muscles jerking painfully with the change.

She spun and ran on soft, silent paws, darting through the kitchen toward the swinging door into the dining room. Sliding to a cautious stop, Miranda pushed the door silently open.

The short counter with its cash register stood facing Flo’s front door. Which was a damned good thing, because that meant she could come up behind the two armed robbers who stood with their backs to her as they struggled to open the register.

Hannah lay on the floor at the men’s feet, her breathing harsh with agony and effort. Blood pooled on the floor around her as she stared blindly at the ceiling.

Dying. She was dying.

Miranda’s thoughts flew to Hannah’s two children, who would probably be sent to live with that abusive bastard Eddie if she died.

Oh, hell no.
No way was Miranda going to let that happen. Not to Hannah, gentle Hannah, who adored her children and blueberry pie and watching
SpongeBob SquarePants
with the kids.

Miranda stepped up behind the two robbers, grabbed each man’s head in a hand, and slammed their skulls together before they even realized she was there. She dumped the unconscious duo on the floor and shifted into human form.

Two transformations so close together were agonizingly painful, but she gritted her teeth and ignored the muscle spasms. All she cared about was saving Hannah.

Miranda dropped to her knees beside her friend, swallowing hard at the bloody hole in the woman’s chest. “Hannah? Hannah, can you hear me?”

“Randi? Is that . . . you? Thought I saw . . . monster.” The pool of blood around her torso was getting wider, and the hole in her chest produced a sucking, bubbling sound.
Oh, not good. Not good at all
.

“No monsters here, doll.” Miranda spread her hands and prepared to cast the healing spell.

And hesitated.
If I do this, Warlock will know
. Healing a gunshot wound this bad was major magic, and it would take time. She’d be lucky if she finished before her father’s assassins showed up to kill her.

And they would. She’d run away after killing not only her stepfather but also the werewolf Warlock had sent to rape and impregnate her. That was the kind of defiance the wizard would consider punishable by death.

Well, tough,
Miranda thought grimly.
I’m not letting Hannah die
. Taking a deep breath, she let her magic roll from her hands to cover her friend in a glowing wave of sparks.

 

The shimmering blue
whiplash wrapped around Dice’s torso, sending hot-white agony jangling through his body like an electric shock.

“Failure is not acceptable, dog!” Warlock snarled. “When I send you on a mission, I expect you to accomplish it! Instead, all you’ve given me is failure!”

He decided he had nothing to lose and dared to protest. “Arthur and a whole pack of knights were on the way. I couldn’t fight that many.”

“Then you should have killed Justice before they arrived!” the wizard thundered. “You . . .” He broke off, his eyes widening slightly as if listening to someone Dice couldn’t hear.

“Well, well, well.” Warlock smiled slowly. “My darling daughter. I knew if I waited long enough, you’d use your powers.”

What? Dice blinked.
Daughter?
Warlock had a daughter?
Who’d he rape?

“It seems you have an opportunity to redeem yourself, boy. Go kill my daughter for me.” He smiled in a chilling revelation of long white teeth. “And make it as painful as you can for as long as she lasts.”

 

When the cavalry
arrived, Davon opened his mouth to curse. Then he remembered Reverend Sheridan and swallowed the juicy phrase, contenting himself with a frustrated glare.

A veritable parade of armored Magekind agents charged through a dimensional gate into the sanctuary, swords and shields in their hands.

Yelping in dismay, the werewolves started shifting to Direwolf form. Magical detonations rolled over the sanctuary as panicked werewolves jumped up from the pews.

“Davon!” Belle leaped onto the stage and strode over to him.

Cocooned in chains, he watched her with resignation. The witch made one of those dramatic sweeping gestures, and the steel links rained around his feet, each abruptly disconnected from the others.

“What have these bastards done to you?” Belle frowned up at his bruised face and touched his swollen eye with a delicate finger.

He felt the tingling heat of a spell, and the pain faded from his battered face. More importantly, feeling flooded back into his numb arms. “Thanks, Belle,” he growled. Then he moved her gently out of his path and strode toward his target, who still dithered on the stage as the knights streamed into the sanctuary. Tanner’s eyes were wide with panic as he watched the armored fighters.

“Let me guess,” Davon growled. “You’re all for war until somebody actually expects
you
to do the fighting.”

Tanner wheeled at the sound of his voice—right into Davon’s truly beautiful right cross that laid him flat on his back.

The doctor shook his stinging fist. He’d scraped his knuckles, but it was worth it. “All right, you lot!” he roared, the fury in him suddenly overflowing its emotional dam. “Listen up!” He turned toward Belle and Tristan, who’d joined her on the stage. “And that includes you two.”

The rest of the knights spread out, a wary wall of armor, crouching behind lifted shields. His gaze slipped past them to the werewolves, most of whom had already changed. The females knelt, their arms curled protectively around crying children. The males stood over them, obviously determined to defend their families to the death.

The sight of all those kids only added to Davon’s frustrated rage. “Now, what the
hell
do you people think you’re doing?” he asked the werewolves. “You brought your children to this? Are you out of your minds?”

“We didn’t know the knights would come!” one woman cried, her voice surprisingly deep and growling. Even so, it quavered.

“You knew I’d been accused of murder!” He shook his head. “Well, fortunately for you, there’s not going to be a fight. The Magekind do not put innocents in the line of fire.”

“Davon, you’re in enough trouble,” Tristan barked, annoyed. “Would you shut the fuck up?”

“You’re in a church, Sir Tristan!” Davon snapped back. And damn, it felt good. He looked out over the crowd as several people escaped out the sanctuary’s rear doors. Nobody moved to stop them. He ignored them. “Merlin gave you people a gift, even if you do call it a curse. It’s an honor to carry his magic . . .”