Master of Shadows Page 12

  “I think you’re going to hurt her because I’ve got eyes.” She shifted close, almost within kissing distance, though from the glint in her gaze and the flash of her teeth, kissing was not what was on her mind. “And I’ve seen what you’ve done to other friends of mine. I don’t like it. Neither does Morgana.”

  Ahhh. He’d wondered who’d put her up to this. Figured it would be the Ice Bitch.

  Sabryn took a deep breath, and he watched raw seduction slip over her beautiful face like a mask. “You and I can have a very good time together, Tristan. And neither of us will get hurt, because neither of us has a heart to break. Think about it.”

  She turned with a roll of that remarkable ass and walked away. Tristan frowned, watching her stroll off. Was she right? Was Belle in danger of falling for him?

  And why did the thought warm him?

  Couldn’t be. He was a cold-blooded bastard—not only a killer, but sarcastic, nasty and just plain rude. Why the hell would Belle Coeur, who was none of those things, fall in love with him?

  The most you could say for him was that he did Arthur Pendragon’s dirty work so Arthur didn’t have to. And Arthur, for some unknown reason, seemed to view him as a friend.

  It was far more likely Tristan would fall for Belle. And that would just be embarrassing.

  Maybe he should take Sabryn up on her offer. She’d make a fantastic Maja partner. She had power to burn, she feared absolutely nothing, and as she’d said, she had no heart to break. Which meant she lacked that delicious warmth that so attracted him to Belle.

  Everyone would be safe. Including him.

  Belle strolled along the long stone balcony that ran around the Great Hall. Golden light, low and soft enough for vampire night vision, flooded down from ironwork lamps festooned with fanciful metal shapes. Hooking an arm around one cool post, she leaned against the low stone wall, stared out over the garden, and brooded.

  Topiary knights jousted from leafy horseback or flirted with elegant green ladies. White roses and night-blooming jasmine perfumed the air. She could hear the laughter and music floating from the building. Moonlight poured down like bright fairy wine, shimmering over every leaf, petal, and branch.

  It was all so romantic she could just spit.

  God knew where Tristan was. She should go look for him, dance a little, improve her acid mood. Instead Belle kept thinking about Arthur and his threats.

  But really, what the fuck was he going to do? Fire her? That ship had sailed when Belle drank from Merlin’s Grail. Being Magekind wasn’t a job you could be fired from.

  True, Arthur was perfectly capable of maintaining discipline by kicking knightly ass—he’d done it more than once. But she was a lady, and he would never touch a lady. He might make her feel like an utter flaming bitch, but he wouldn’t touch her.

  Actually, Belle might prefer getting her butt kicked to suffering the royal temper. Not that she’d ever personally endured an Arthurian tongue-lashing, but she’d heard Morgana’s accounts. Admittedly, every one of those dressings-down had been richly deserved. Morgana could be high-handed, duplicitous, and ruthless in the pursuit of whatever she considered just goals.

  Belle loved her anyway.

  Nobody, but nobody, called her the Whore of Avalon in Morgana’s presence, even in jest. The Liege of the Maja had always been her defender and her friend.

  “There you are.” Morgana’s smoky voice purred from the darkness.

  Speak of the devil.

  She glided from the shadows, sleek as a cat in the black velvet gown that rode her curves like loving male hands, a silver belt swinging from her lush hips. Belle gave her friend a smile. “Hello there, darling.”

  “Hello, yourself.” Morgana leaned a hip on the stone wall and studied her. “You look glum.”

  “Well, this is a funeral.”

  “True, but I get the impression it’s more than that.”

  “Arthur just informed me that I’d better not break the delicate heart of his best friend, on pain of the royal wrath. Have you ever noticed he forgets he’s not king anymore?”

  Morgana snorted. “My dear, don’t let his protestations fool you. He’s still king. He just has delusions of democracy.”

  Just as Morgana had been elected to lead the Majae as liege, Arthur was Liege of the Magi. There’d been others over the years, generally whenever Arthur got sick of the job. But he was always reelected whenever he bothered to run.

  They didn’t call Arthur the Once and Future King for nothing.

  Belle told her friend about the tongue-lashing she’d just endured. “I have no idea what he was talking about,” she finished, frustrated. “He seems convinced that Tristan is still mortally wounded by whatever Isolde did, never mind that it was fifteen centuries ago . . .”

  “And when did you kill your first blood-mad Latent?”

  Belle went still. “That was a bit low of the belt, ’Gana.”

  Morgana sighed, tilting her head. Her dark curls rolled like foam from her shoulders to her ass. “I know, darling. I’m sorry for it. But I think you’ve made a mistake, and I feel the need to warn you.”

  Belle dropped her forehead against the lamp post and moaned in mock pain. “Not you, too.”

  “When you start hearing the same thing from multiple people, perhaps you should listen.”

  “Multiple people are not always right. There were no WMDs in Iraq. God knows we looked for them.”

  “Tristan is a lot more dangerous than a WMD.”

  “Oh, come on. Not even Tristan is a weapon of mass destruction.”

  “Perhaps not, but he could certainly destroy you.”

  “Now you’re being melodramatic.”

  Morgana drummed her fingers on the parapet. “I sent Sabryn to offer him her services as partner. I had to order her. Even Sabryn was reluctant to poke her hand in that buzz saw.”

  Belle felt her face go icy, then blazing hot with sheer rage. “Sabryn has never been reluctant to stick anything of hers anywhere. At all.”

  Morgana blinked at her in slow, pretended shock. “My dear, that sounded almost catty. Are you all right?”

  Belle bared her teeth. “Considering that my best friend just knifed me in the back, I’m just dandy.”

  Morgana studied her, genuine concern in her eyes. “He’s going to hurt you, Belle.”

  “So you thought you’d beat him to it by sending Sabryn after him?” Belle was conscious of her own breathing. Too fast. She made a deliberate effort to slow it down, to fake a calm she was very far from feeling.

  “He’s crippled, Belle. You don’t remember what he was like then . . .”

  “Largely because I wasn’t even born. Which is saying something, considering how fucking old I am.”

  “. . . But I do remember. Tristan was vicious, Belle. He was dangerous. It was more than a century before he drank from anything but a bottle, because all the Majae were afraid of him.”

  “That was then. This is fifteen centuries later. He got over it.”

  “We have very long memories, Belle. We never really get over anything, because we never forget. It’s part of the Gift.”

  Belle folded her arms and glowered. “I can’t believe you sent Sabryn.”

  “And I was right,” Morgana said, her gaze steady with that infuriating confidence. “If he wasn’t beginning to get to you, it wouldn’t hurt you like this.”

  “That’s utter bullshit. But even if I were falling for him, it’s still none of your business.”

  “Tristan’s going to drop you for Sabryn, Belle. He’ll do it to protect himself, because no matter how many centuries have passed, he remains that wounded beast everyone feared.” She lifted her chin. “Eventually, you’ll realize I’ve saved you a lot of pain.”

  Belle had heard just about enough. “Are you going deaf, Morgana? My pain is none of your damned business!”

  “But it is, because you’re my dearest friend. And I’m right.”

  “That’s the thing about you that
charms everyone so—you’re never wrong.”

  Belle turned on her heel and stalked back into the hall. She was going to find Tristan.

  And fuck his brains out.

  Tristan poured blood into a crystal goblet. The enchanted bottle had a name written on it in flourishing, beautiful calligraphy. The ink was pink. He didn’t recognize the name, but it must be one of the new Maja recruits. No one any older would write her name in pink, for God’s sake. What was she, sixteen?

  His first sip confirmed that theory. She tasted new. It wasn’t just power, since plenty of new Majae had power to burn. Her blood lacked that ineffable richness and depth that years gave to the magic in a witch’s blood.

  Belle had that. He would never mistake her blood for anyone else’s. And to drink it from her throat . . .

  He hardened.

  The instant lust was astonishing in its intensity. Hot, feral, a burning rush that made him crave her, made him long to search her out and drag her off right now. Like some kind of barbarian instead of a Knight of the Round Table.

  Not that anybody had ever accused him of being the beau ideal.

  “Tristan.” The purr made his eyebrows rise even as his cock twitched in randy anticipation. He turned to find Belle watching him with eyes that held an almost feverish glitter. “I don’t know about you, but I’ve had about enough of this.” She spoke in that slurred French accent she used whenever she was really turned on.

  Oh, yes. He dipped her a bow out of sheer spinal reflex. “As you wish.”

  “Oh, I wish.” She stepped to his side and twined an arm through his in a distinctly possessive gesture.

  He looked down at their linked arms as his heart sank. She’s gotten wind of Sabryn.

  Well, fuck. How was he supposed to handle this? His general technique for dealing with jealous women—as he’d had to do more than once over the years—was to lift a frigid eyebrow and defy the woman in question to express a claim on him. Generally, if she had the temerity to start such a statement, she’d stutter to a stop pretty damned fast under his chilly stare. He did not, thank you, belong to anybody. Not since Isolde.

  But this was Belle. Belle was not some random bit of tail. She was his partner, not just a wand for hire he used for transportation and the occasional spell. She’d fought beside him like one of his brother knights, only without the trash talk, Monty Python jokes, and belching contests.

  She was also highly pissed about Sabryn. He could see it in those stormy eyes. Worse, he could tell she was hurt. The anger he could deal with, but he had no clue what to do about the pain. Apologize? But he hadn’t done anything, hadn’t approached Sabryn, hadn’t even accepted her offer. He was damned if he’d apologize for something he hadn’t done.

  So he wouldn’t say anything. Wait for her to bring it up. Which was probably not the best thing to do, but damned if he had any other ideas.

  He braced himself for the storm.

  Except there wasn’t one. Instead, she chattered as they left the Great Hall and headed back toward her house. What the fuck? Belle doesn’t chatter. But there she was, inundating him in bright gossip about people he barely knew and didn’t give a damn about, until he wished she’d just let him have it about Sabryn. Get it over with.

  He actually began to twitch.

  Tristan looked so coolly expressionless Belle wanted to scream. Are you dumping me for Sabryn?

  Damned if she’d ask.

  Belle was too bloody old to act sixteen, but she also couldn’t seem to help herself. She was mad enough to chew nails and spit daggers.

  All right. Maybe he did intend to dump her. She had no claim on him. Not that she wanted one on the infuriating bastard, despite the way the moonlight silvered his blond hair and edged his hard profile in light. He was still a raging asshole ninety percent of the time.

  And Belle was going to give him a fuck he’d never forget. No matter what pleasures Sabryn trotted out from her impressive repertoire of kink.

  As they entered the house’s front gate, Belle flashed him a smile that blazed so hot, it cracked his icy composure. For just a blink, she glimpsed outright panic in his green eyes.

  You’d better be scared. Belle upped the heat in that lethal seducer’s smile. “I’ve got something to show you.” The words emerged in her best velvet French purr, the one that had been known to make men hard all by itself.

  To her feline satisfaction, he swallowed.

  Belle drew him around to the rear of the house, sure-footed in the moonlight as she sent a tide of magic ahead of them. Preparing the scene, the way she’d done so many times with so many men.

  When they entered the garden, the tiny pool was already warm and steaming. A stream tumbled down the side of the rough gray stone fountain that thrust from the center of the water like a tiny cliff face. Roses and votive candles floated on the water’s gently swirling surface, sending up golden light and sweet scents. Mounds of honeysuckle surrounded the pool’s stone lip, spilling tendrils of pale white blooms to float on the water. The scent was so sweet it would have been overwhelming, had it not been for the herbs she’d planted here and there to add pungent green notes. The result was as precisely balanced as any Parisian perfume.

  Tristan stopped to study the garden with admiration. “The poor bastards don’t stand a chance, do they?”

  “By the time I bring them here, they don’t want one.” Belle gestured, a deliberately lyrical wave of the fingers. A mist formed around her body, white and glowing in the moonlight. When it melted away, she stood naked.

  Tristan’s pupils expanded, his lips parting. “Ah.”

  She tilted her head. “I’m in the mood for a swim. Would you care to join me?”

  He recovered enough to give her a rake’s hooded stare. “How could I refuse?”

  She stripped him with an offhand wave of magic. Rather than watch the revelation of his handsome body, Belle made herself turn away and stroll down the stone steps into the water.

  He didn’t come after her. Involuntarily, she glanced around, and found him standing on the lip of the pool.

  Despite her steaming anger, Belle caught her breath. Tristan’s warrior’s shoulders were painted in the light and shadow that poured down his torso, revealing the scars he’d won before he’d drunk from Merlin’s cup.

  This was no steroid-plumped gym rat. His body had been forged in combat, built for speed and agility, without the bulk that would have gotten in the way of a sword swing or the weight that would have slowed him down. He was distilled masculinity, so pure she could taste the testosterone on her tongue.

  Tristan started down the stairs, one slow step at a time, head lifted, all arrogant male animal. His gaze locked on hers, dark with hunger, defying her to look away.

  Belle had lost count of the men she’d seduced, but suddenly she’d never felt so naked.

  Stepping down onto the pool’s floor, he reached for her. She went into his arms, catching her breath at the heat of his big body pressing against her much smaller one. Then his mouth covered hers, and she moaned between his lips.

  No. I’m supposed to be in control.

  Belle bit his lower lip, carefully, ruthlessly, teeth tugging, her tongue sweeping in for a hot lick that swirled between his teeth. She touched him, hands sliding slowly down his torso, pausing to explore, trace the rise of muscle, the dips and ridges of scars, the taut points of his small male nipples. She heard him inhale, once, sharply, the sound loud in her sensitized hearing. So she bit his chin in a press of teeth, a kiss and suckle. His head tilted back, and she found his pulse and pressed her mouth against it. Bit down, the pressure carefully calibrated just short of pain, a tiny, demanding nip.

  His hands found her breasts. The heat of his fingers stopped her breath. He began to play with her nipples, tugging, twisting, teasing little flips and flicks that sent sweet scarlet pleasure feathering up her spine.

  Tristan knew just how to touch a woman. He weighed her breasts in his hands, purred like some huge cat ag
ainst her ear. “Silk.” That one rough word in his deep growl was more erotic than another man’s poetry. His tongue swept into her ear in a quick, teasing lick. It made her shiver.

  So Belle kissed him in challenge, biting and suckling, increasing the pressure with every move of her mouth until he growled in response. His cock lay against her belly, thick as a club. Somehow she resisted the urge to touch it, to taste it, to climb up his body and ride it like a stallion.

  But she wanted to.

  Belle felt slick and swollen, ravenous for cock as she hadn’t been in far too long. She, who could play a man’s body like a minstrel’s lute, forgot all her clever songs and heard only the raging beat of her own pulse.

  Pushing him backward, she guided him against the minicliff. There were jutting projections there for a man’s feet, and he found them, just as she’d known he would.

  Tristan braced his back against the rocks, in the bouncing path of the water, and waited. His cock thrust above the pool’s churning surface, thick and flushed. Belle grasped him, bent with the deliberate grace of a geisha, tilted the shaft upward. And sucked him in.

  He gasped, and she smiled around his cock in triumph.

  The sensation of Belle’s mouth on his cock was so intense, Tristan shuddered in hard, racking delight. She suckled him so fiercely, her cheeks hollowed as her tongue laved the exquisitely sensitive head. He let his head fall back and gasped. The fountain’s blood-warm stream poured down on his head and rolled along his chest, adding to the stunning sensuality of the moment.

  God, she knows how to drive a man insane.

  Belle cupped his balls tenderly as she gripped his cock, pumping her fist up and down the thick shaft as she licked and nibbled and sucked. Hot lust and bright pleasure blinded him, and he curled his fists in her hair. His hips rocked helplessly.

  Tristan looked down, wanting to watch her. The water splashed over Belle’s face as she sucked him, drops rolling down her shoulders and dancing over cheekbones. She drew his big shaft deeper in an effortless swoop, right to the balls. The sight seared him like a red-hot blade, a delight so intense it was almost painful.