Master of Smoke (22 page)

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Authors: Angela Knight

BOOK: Master of Smoke
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Two of the other women looked sour at the introductions, while three stared as coldly as the plump woman. One looked nervous, and the young woman next to her showed no emotion at all. Judging by the particular shade of red hair they shared, they were mother and daughter.
It was the girl who brought Belle’s instincts to quivering attention. She was pretty in a long-boned, angular way, tall and slim, yet with a certain wiry strength in the line of her shoulders. Her eyes were a clear, bright amber that verged on gold, markedly different from her mother’s emerald green. Definitely not a combination you saw in humans without benefit of hair dye and contacts. Belle was willing to bet the odd coloring was genuine in this girl. But what really riveted her attention was the power that swirled around the girl in a cloud that was almost visible.
Magic surrounded all the women, of course, but it was Dire Wolf magic, deep and blue and cool, not the busy dancing gold of the Magekind. Any spell cast on one of the Direkind seemed to roll right off like water on a raincoat.
This girl’s magic sizzled and popped like oil on a hot griddle. Its sheer steaming heat made Belle instantly wary. If she proved as hostile as the glares they were getting from everyone else, Belle and Tristan were in serious trouble.
On the other hand, this girl was a werewolf who obviously used magic. Warlock was a werewolf who used magic. Maybe she knew something about Warlock. Finding out was definitely worth the risk of a magical brawl in the middle of a werewolf tea party.
Merlin help them all.
Introductions complete, Joan ushered Tristan and Belle to a love seat, a piece of irony that was not lost on Belle.
As their hostess rang for more tea, Belle put a hand on Tristan’s brawny knee. He started and shot her a what-the-hell-are-you-doing look. She gave him a get-over-yourself eyebrow lift and silently cast a communication spell.
“Do you see that girl?”
“Little hard to miss her. She’s lit up like the Eiffel Tower on New Year’s Day
.
”
“It strikes me she might know something about Warlock. Do what you do best, Tristan
.
”
One corner of his firm lips quirked upward as if he imagined she meant something a hell of a lot more complimentary than what she had in mind.
“And what would that be?”
“Annoy the hell out of everybody while I see if I can establish communication
.
”
“As my lady commands
.
”
The thought sounded distinctly dry.
He didn’t waste any time. Joan was still preparing their tea when Tristan announced, “We’re here investigating the disappearance of one of our people, a shapeshifter named Smoke.”
“And why do you imagine we would know anything about this ... person?” Calista Norman was a gray-haired woman who was thin to the point of desiccation, with a horsey face and an expression that suggested she’d been sucking on the lemon in her tea. A diamond broach the size of a saucer adorned the lapel of her steel gray Donna Karan suit, suggesting more money than taste, and her shoes were Prada.
“Because he was fighting a werewolf the last time he was seen.”
“There are many werewolves.” This from the plump matron who’d spoken first, whom Joan had introduced as Theresa Carington. Her blue eyes were hard and narrow in her soft, dimpled face. “We certainly do not know them all.”
“This one is distinctive. He’s a sorcerer.”
Calista Norman sniffed. “Dire Wolves can’t use magic. Not beyond transforming.” She lifted her teacup to her lips.
“This one does. His name is Warlock.”
The teacup froze.
Theresa Carington didn’t even blink. “Warlock is a myth.”
“So is Arthur Pendragon,” Tristan shot back. “So am I. Ask any human.”
Calista had recovered enough to snort. “Humans are ignorant. We are not. And we tell you Warlock exists only in legends told to gullible children.”
Belle tuned out the rest of the argument in favor of watching the girl Joan had identified as Miranda Drake. She sat quietly next to her mother, who watched Tristan as if she was waiting for him to detonate a suicide vest.
Yet the girl seemed indifferent to it all. Defeated, for all her power, staring hopelessly into her teacup.
Belle decided to risk a communication spell.
“Miranda?”
Amber eyes flicked to hers, widening in surprise.
“Umm. Yes?”
Despite her evident hesitation, her magical reply rang like a great gong in Belle’s mind.
Merlin’s Cup, the child has power.
“How is it that you can use magic when other Dire Wolves can’t?”
The girl regarded Belle warily, before flicking a glance at her mother. Joelle Drake was still fixated on Tristan.
“I’m not your typical Dire Wolf
.
”
“Neither is Warlock. What can you tell me about him?”
“These women are lying,”
Miranda said promptly.
“Warlock exists, he’s extremely powerful, and he’s insane. He probably murdered your friend. Warlock doesn’t tolerate any opposition, and he’s extremely paranoid.”
Naked hate burned in her amber eyes.
“I gather you know him personall
y
?”
The girl snorted.
“You might say that. He’s definitely got plans for me.”
Belle frowned.
“Are you in danger?”
“As I said, he doesn’t tolerate opposition. And I don’t intend to cooperate.”
Belle sat forward.
“We can get you away from him, Miranda. We can help you escape to Avalon. The Magekind would protect you.”
The girl’s hollow eyes widened.
“You would do that?”
“Yes.”
Miranda’s gaze flicked sideways to her mother’s tense face, then to the surrounding Dire Wolves.
“This isn’t the place to discuss it. Is there a way for me to contact you?”
Cell phones did not reach into the Mageverse, of course, but there were ways around that.
“I can give you a spelled gemstone.”
Eagerness flashed across her face.
“Yes! That would be perfect.”
Belle had a number of such stones prepared in case she needed to give one to a lover. She carried several in her bag, along with various other magical odds and ends. Slipping a hand into her purse, she found one of the gems and willed it into Belle’s grasp. The girl’s fingers tightened convulsively as a smile of sheer relief broke across her face.
“What are you doing?” Her mother stiffened as if goosed with a cattle prod, staring from Miranda to Belle. Her eyes narrowed on her daughter’s face. “Are you
communicating
with them?”
“Mom, what are you talking about?” In contrast to her mother’s fury, Miranda looked no more than mildly annoyed. You’d never know she was lying through her teeth. “I’ve been sitting here not saying a word.”
“Don’t lie to me!” Joelle sprang to her feet, glaring at Belle, fear and rage in her eyes. “You’ve cast some kind of spell on my child. Stop it!”
“I’m not a child. I haven’t been a child in years.” Miranda rose to glower at her mother. “For God’s sake, I’m twenty-four years old!”
The woman’s attention fell on the fingers of Miranda’s left hand, closed protectively around the spelled gemstone. “What’s that? Did they give you something?” She extended an imperious palm, her lips tight with fear and anger. “Hand it over, Miranda. Now!!”
“Joelle, calm down.” Joan stepped around the coffee table as the other women rose and fled from their respective couches like flushed quail. The five ladies huddled at the other end of the room, eyeing the furious werewolf with nervous disapproval. “Remember, these people are my guests. They serve Merlin, the same as we do.”
“They’re fools, and so are you if you think they can protect you.” growled Joelle, her voice dropping with every syllable as magic swirled furiously around her.
“Joelle,” Joan began, alarmed, but the protest came too late. Miranda’s mother was already transforming.
Fur spilled over Joelle Drake’s contorting body as she grew in a magical rush until she towered over her daughter. Almost seven feet tall, she had a long, wolflike muzzle and sharply pointed ears. Her thighs curved, densely muscled, as if she stood on a dog’s hind legs, and her hands were tipped with sharp, two-inch claws. Her short, fine coat and shoulder-length mane were the same shining copper red as Miranda’s hair. “Do you want him to kill you? Give me that!” She grabbed Miranda’s wrist and pried her fingers open.
“Dammit, Mother, that hurts!” Miranda yelped as her mother’s talons sliced her skin. Joelle ingored her, plucking the stone away to toss it across the room. It hit the ground and bounced with a rattling
click click click.
“That’s enough!” Tristan roared, bounding to his feet to push between the two. He glared fearlessly up at the towering Dire Wolf. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
Belle shot to her feet, magic glittering around her hands as she prepared to conjure armor around them both. A flick of her fingers summoned the fallen gemstone into her palm.
“You have no idea what you’re interfering with,” the werewolf spat at him. “You’ll get us all killed.”
“This is no affair of yours,” Calista added, glaring from Tristan to Belle as if they were the ones menacing Miranda. “That girl is Chosen. Tend to your own.”
“I am. I’m a Knight of the Round Table,” Tristan snapped. “It’s my duty to ensure no one is abused while I’m around.” He turned toward Miranda. “What do you want to do, kid? Say the word, and Belle will gate us to Avalon.”
Under cover of the argument, Belle spelled the gem back into the girl’s hand. She looked startled and gripped it tight again.
“No!” Lips peeled back from her teeth as Joelle lifted her clawed hands and curled them in a blatantly menacing gesture. She took a step toward the knight. “You have no right to interfere in family business. She’s my daughter, and you are not taking her anywhere!”
Without taking his eyes off the Dire Wolf, Tristan extended his right hand toward Belle. She promptly conjured his sword into his palm, then spun his armor around him with a swirl of power. Tristan gave her a nod of thanks without looking away from the Dire Wolf. “Your daughter is an adult. She has a right to make her own choices.”
“She’s Chosen.” Theresa Carrington drew herself to her full height and tilted her round chin. “Her duty is to her father, and her mother has a responsibility to enforce his will. You’re interfering where you’re not wanted.”
“Mrs. Carrington, I hate to break it to you, but this isn’t the nineteenth century anymore,” Belle growled, sending the massive coffee table skidding out of the way with a flick of power. She strode over to stand at Tristan’s side. “Say the word, Miranda, and we’ll get you out of here.”
“You can’t!” The werewolf’s ears flattened as she turned a pleading look on her daughter. “You know what he’ll do!”
Miranda stared up at her towering mother, and the defiance bled away from the set of her shoulders. “Yes, I know exactly what he’d do.” She turned to Belle and pressed the communication gem into the witch’s hand. “I appreciate the offer, but I can’t leave my mother. Her husband would kill her. And that’s not a figure of speech.”
“Miranda!” Calista sounded scandalized. “We don’t share our business with outsiders!”
“Her husband? Not your father?” Suddenly two plus two clicked together in Belle’s mind. “Warlock
is
your father, isn’t he?”
Joelle grabbed her daughter’s shoulder and pushed her toward the door. “We have to go, Miranda.”
“We can protect you.” Tristan started after them in that fluid swordsman’s stride. “Both of you, even against Warlock.”
“There is no Warlock!” Calista’s voice rose, going shrill and insistent. “He’s just a legend! Tell them, Miranda!”
They all ignored her. “Let’s go,” Joelle insisted. “This isn’t safe for either of us. If Gerald gets wind of it ...”
“Mrs. Drake, let us transport you both to Avalon,” Tristan interrupted. “No one will be able to attack you through the city’s wards.”
“And trigger a war?” Joelle snapped. “Do you really want a war with the Direkind? Personally, I don’t need that much blood on my conscience, so no, I’m not going anywhere with you.” She turned a demanding gaze on her daughter. “Warlock would declare war on Avalon to get you back. You can’t go with them either.”
“You’re right.” The girl’s mouth twisted as her shoulders slumped. “I can’t leave her. Thanks, but—I just can’t.” And as Belle and Tristan watched helplessly, she let her mother hustle her out the door.
TWELVE
In the dream, three dragons surrounded the human child: a brawny gold and a pair of blues, one sleek and well fed, the other wiry as a snakedog with small, cruel eyes. They weren’t particularly big dragons, being not long out of the egg themselves, but they towered over the little boy as they surrounded him. Smoke thought him no more than ten or so, his build slim, with enormous brown eyes that dominated his elfin face under a disordered thatch of dark hair. He smelled of terror, but he held himself erect, chin up and defiant as he faced his tormentors.

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