Master of Smoke Read online

“She’s got company,” Belle observed, as he parked the canary yellow Porsche 911 behind a charcoal gray BMW, one of a number of very expensive cars parked along the tree-lined street. “Should we come back later?”

  “Nope. Prime opportunity to meet new werewolves and listen to them lie through their pointy white teeth.”

  Belle eyed him with disfavor as they got out of the car. Moonlight skated along her high cheekbones and the pure line of her nose, then explored the hint of cleavage revealed by her cream lace blouse. He was beginning to give serious thought to seducing her. “You’re a cynic, Tristan.”

  He shrugged. “People lie. Some are hiding something, some don’t want to get involved, and some just for shits and giggles. The trick is to figure out who’s lying for a reason, and then dig at them until you can pry out a truth or two.” Luckily, he’d been listening to lies for so long, he’d gotten good at classifying them. He now considered himself a gourmet of prevarication.

  “But Arthur said Joan Devon told them the truth. If we question her in front of other wolves, we’re not going to get anything out of her.”

  “No, but we can always come back to her later. And we might be able to shake something loose from one of the others.” They walked up the gracefully curving brick steps to the colonnaded porch. The mahogany door had a beveled glass insert depicting the family’s coat of arms: a wolf rampant over a pair of crossed swords.

  Tristan glanced at Belle, to find her rolling her eyes. They shared a snort at pretentious werewolves before he rang the doorbell.

  A blond woman answered the door dressed in what was obviously a uniform of black slacks and a white blouse. She carried that particular magical buzz Tristan associated with werewolves. “Yes?”

  “We’re here to see Joan Devon,” Tristan said, and used their true names rather than the identities he gave mortals. “Sir Tristan and La Belle Coeur.”

  “Oh!” The maid’s eyes widened, and she looked flustered as she realized he was a Knight of the Round Table. “Please come in.” She ushered them to a sitting room off the foyer, then hustled off.

  Maybe this wasn’t going to be as bad as he’d assumed.

  Nah. Anytime he even thought things might not be an utter disaster, a clusterfuck was a virtual certainty.

  “I thought she was going to ask for your autograph,” Belle murmured.

  “Hey, at least all that hero worship got us in the door,” Tristan pointed out. “Though—a Dire Wolf maid?”

  “Even werewolves need jobs.”

  They’d barely found seats in a pair of comfortable armchairs when a slim, middle-aged woman ghosted in. And ghost was definitely the word. She was so pale, even her skillful makeup couldn’t hide the circles under her big brown eyes. Tristan thought she might actually be pretty, if not for the emotional stake in her heart. It’s a bitch being collateral damage. She wore a stark black dress with a single string of pearls, and her dark hair was styled in a chignon.

  The woman offered her hand as Tristan and Belle stood to greet her. Her fingers felt brittle as sticks of ice in his hand. “I’m Joan Devon.” Her smile looked strained. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sir Tristan. And you, of course, La Belle Coeur.”

  “We regret disturbing you at such a painful time,” Belle told her, sympathy lighting her lovely eyes. “And we’re deeply sorry for your loss. Is there anything we can do?”

  “No, but thank you for offering.” She lifted one dark, elegant brow. “But I assume there’s something I can do for you.”

  “We’re searching for one of our people, a Sidhe shapeshifter,” Tristan explained. “He disappeared while he was trying to protect some mortal children. The kids told us he was fighting a huge white werewolf we believe was Warlock.”

  “Are you sure?” She frowned. “I’ve never heard of Warlock going into combat. He usually sends his Bastards when he wants someone killed.”

  “Bastards?” Belle asked with a quirk of the lip. A lip Tris was finding far too tempting these days ...

  Joan shrugged. “That’s what he calls his version of the Round Table. Twelve assassins.”

  “We,” Tristan said coolly, “are not assassins.”

  “No, but the Bastards definitely are. They’re greatly feared.”

  “Do you have any idea where to find Warlock or any of these Bastards?” The assassins would probably be a great source of information. Though getting them to talk would no doubt be a challenge.

  But then, Tristan enjoyed a challenge.

  She shook her head. “As I told Arthur, all I know about Warlock is what I overheard when my husband was discussing him with other members of the inner circle. Warlock considers women inferior, so I’ve never met him.”

  Though sexism had been the rule everywhere on mortal Earth until recently, it amazed Tristan that the Chosen practiced it. They had to know that Merlin and Nimue would hardly have approved.

  “We noticed there were other cars here,” Belle observed with that charming smile she did so well. The woman made an art form out of seduction. Even her own gender wasn’t immune: Joan smiled back. As for Tristan—well, he was only human. More or less. “Would it be all right if we talked to your other visitors?”

  Joan lost the smile. “They’re all women, so they know very little about Warlock. And they probably won’t tell you whatever they do know. The Chosen still regard the Magekind with suspicion.”

  “You’re probably right,” Belle said easily. “But we’d like to talk to them anyway.”

  She shrugged. “Come, then. But don’t be surprised if they’re hostile.”

  Tristan and Belle followed Joan into the elegant living room as the knight gave their surroundings his professional paranoid’s glower. Belle could almost hear him ticking off the findings: A sprawling fireplace had brass andirons that could be used as weapons. The coffee table and end tables were slabs of gleaming white marble veined in gold. A werewolf could probably lift the table and swing it like a battering ram, or break off the curving brass legs for sinister purposes. Art Deco bronzes of women danced here and there, long skirts swirling around them; Tris was probably imagining them used as blunt objects.

  Belle’s attention was diverted by the huge painting that hung, flanked by the bronzes, over the fireplace. It depicted George Devon Jr. sitting in a massive chair, more throne than anything else. His wife stood behind him with one hand on his shoulder as his two children leaned on either arm, the boy blond, the girl a redhead. Somehow Joan looked very alone surrounded by her family, her large, dark eyes filled with secrets and sadness.

  By contrast, her children and husband looked as if they knew themselves to be the center of the universe. Yet she was the only one of the four still alive.

  The real Joan spoke with a sweeping gesture at them that snapped Belle out of her preoccupation. “I’m pleased to introduce Lord Tristan, Knight of the Round Table, and Lady La Belle Coeur.”

  “We’ve come to convey the sympathies of the Magekind Court to Mrs. Devon,” Tristan said with a courtly bow. He did have pretty manners when it suited him.

  “Very kind,” said a round-faced lady in frosty tones, narrowing green eyes surrounded by too much makeup. “Considering you killed them.”

  “No, actually, they did not,” Joan said in a clear, cold voice. “And they are guests in my home. I would beg you to respect the hospitality I extend to all.” Without giving anyone a chance to respond, she began a complicated round of introductions Belle carefully committed to memory.

  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 diffe
rent 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 personally?”

  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.<
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  “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!”