Master of Smoke Read online

  There was a pause that went on entirely too long. Either he was thinking up a lie and wasn’t bright enough to do it fast, or he didn’t know. And she didn’t think he was dumb.

  Eva flashed him a look and had to drag her eyes back to the road. Her inner werewolf was drooling again. “That question is not supposed to require so much thought.”

  “I ... do not seem to know.”

  Oh, hell. She really hated amnesia plots in comics. Living one would be even worse. “What do you remember?”

  “You.”

  Something about the velvet purr in those words made her nipples tingle. Eva turned to stare at him again, then had to whip around when the car swerved, and drag it back onto the road. She was going to get pulled over for DUI if this kept up. “What else?”

  “My enemy.” TDN paused. “He has a great many teeth.”

  “No shit.”

  TDN looked at her, puzzled.

  “That means ... never mind. Do you know why he was after you, other than he thought you’d make tasty kibble?”

  The puzzlement intensified.

  “That means ... Oh, forget it. Why. Is. He. After. You?”

  “You do not have to enunciate like that. I am not stupid,” TDN said with vast dignity.

  “I know that!” The other bad part about That Time of the Year was that her temper went straight to hell.

  “I do not remember why he wishes to kill me.” He paused. “That is bad.”

  She opened her mouth to say “No shit,” then closed it again. “What would you like me to call you?”

  He looked at her, and his lips curved. “Whatever you want.” That was definitely a purr, deep and rumbly and ...

  “Cut it out!” Hearing the snarl in her own voice, she winced. “Sorry. This time of year, I get a little bitchy.”

  “Why?” He looked honesty interested.

  “I don’t know.” Eva took a deep breath. She had to tell him. He needed to know, and anyway, he was pretty damned weird himself. “It has something to do with me being a werewolf.”

  TDN turned to look at her. He didn’t seem in the least frightened. More interested, like she’d said she was a firefighter or a doctor or a comic book artist. “Like my enemy?”

  “Yeah, only I’m not going to eat you.”

  “Too bad.”

  “Please don’t.” He blinked, and Eva drew in a breath, wrestling her inner werewolf for control. Fluffy just loved to take over. “Look, like I said, this time of year is difficult for me. I get very ...” Horny. “... Short-tempered.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re like a two-year-old, you know that? You keep asking questions I don’t know the answer to.”

  His lips twitched. “I can see how that would be annoying. But how do I know which questions you cannot answer?”

  “Take a wild guess.” He was making Fluffy crazy, and Fluffy was making Eva incredibly bitchy. Okay, bitchier. “I’m sorry.”

  “I accept your apology.” He let several seconds slip by before adding slyly, “Would you like to make it up to me?”

  “Would you like to share this car with seven feet of pissed-off werewolf?”

  Honest to God, he seemed to consider the question. “I do not think so.”

  “Trust me, it wouldn’t be any fun. Fluffy has the anger management issues of the Hulk.”

  “Who is ...?”

  “Never mind, comic book reference.”

  He looked confused. Even that looked good on him. “Fluffy?”

  “Oh. No, that’s not from a comic book. That’s what I call my werewolf.”

  TDN blinked. “You have a different name for your werewolf?”

  “Well ... yeah.”

  “Fluffy?”

  “It kind of fits.”

  “I sincerely doubt that, if you look anything like my enemy.”

  “Well, she’s definitely not as big as that guy.”

  “Why do you talk about your werewolf form as though it’s someone else?”

  “Because she is. Kind of.” Eva sighed. “It’s a little hard to explain.”

  “Apparently.”

  “Let’s just ... drop that subject. What do you want me to call you?”

  He looked as if he was considering saying something outrageous.

  “Give me a serious answer, dammit.” She really needed to dial back the bitch. “Please.”

  “I have no idea. What would you like to call me?”

  Clark? Bruce? Peter? And what did it say about her that all the names that sprang to mind belonged to comic book characters? I am such a geekizoid.

  Maybe David. She couldn’t think of a comic book character named David. And he did look like something sculpted by Michelangelo—big, hard, and very, very naked. “How about David?”

  He gave it some thought and a regal nod. “That will do.”

  “Glad you approve.”

  The Drayton Apartments were a cluster of six beige three-story buildings surrounded by azalea bushes and Bradford pear trees, all of which were currently in gorgeous bloom. Its residents included college students, new families saving for a first house, and one or two assholes.

  And a werewolf.

  Eva parked in her assigned spot in front of Building Five. “Wait here. I’m going to go get you something to wear up the stairs.” Before he could ask—and she knew he would—she explained, “Kids live here, too. I don’t want one of them to look out a window and see you walking around nekkid.”

  David frowned, but before he could question her further, she opened the car door and bolted up the wooden stairs.

  Eva lived in a two-bedroom on the second floor. Fortunately, her ex-boyfriend Joel had left behind a pair of ratty jeans and ancient running shoes he’d never returned to collect. He was a couple of inches shorter than David, but with any luck, the pants would fit. Probably not well, but they just needed something to cover that gorgeous ass until they could buy something better.

  Though Fluffy liked his gorgeous ass just the way it was—buck naked so she could eye it lovingly. And drool a little. She’d especially been looking forward to watching him walk up the stairs. Preferably in slow motion with George Michael crooning “I Want Your Sex” in the background.

  Fluffy had never grasped the concept of shame.

  Eva found the jeans and shoes in the back of a closet and rounded out the set with an oversized Comix Cave T-shirt she often slept in.

  She trotted downstairs with her prizes and handed them through the passenger window. David shot her a lifted eyebrow and started trying to squeeze his big body into the clothes. Eva turned her back and directed her gaze elsewhere.

  Fluffy gave her a disappointed mental grumble.

  Finally the car door opened. Eva turned as David got out to stand oddly hunched. “They do not fit,” he gritted.

  Frowning, she looked down the length of his body. As she’d expected, the hem of the jeans fell well short of his ankles, but Joel was a fairly muscular guy. The jeans were certainly very tight, but ...

  Oh.

  David glowered at her as he tugged at the crotch of his pants. The fabric clearly outlined three large, interesting shapes that looked more than a little squashed. “They are digging into my genitals.”

  She bit her lower lip to keep from snickering at his disgruntled expression. “I’m sorry. We’ll head to Wal-Mart in the morning and buy something that fits better. But you can’t go around naked. You’d scandalize the neighbors and get arrested.”

  He growled, sounding more like a very large, wet cat than anything human. Turning, he limped up the stairs. Apparently Joel’s shoes didn’t fit him all that well either.

  Eva clattered after him. She tried, she really did, but she just couldn’t keep herself from watching his ass in those skin-tight jeans. It was a view to make a nun hyperventilate.

  Fluffy started humming “I Want Your Sex.”

  The only thing David knew was that he wanted her. Otherwise his mind felt as blasted as a bombed-out buildin
g—nothing but dust and mental rubble. When he contemplated the aching gaps in his memory, panic rose. He didn’t care for panic.

  Much better to contemplate Eva’s lush little body. As they reached the top of the stairs, she slipped past him to unlock a door with a musical jangle of keys. He followed her into her home, admiring the roll of her tight little derriere.

  Tearing his gaze from her backside, David scanned the apartment, searching for exits and vulnerabilities. A glass door lay off to the right, across the small living room. He glowered at it in disapproval. His enemy would go through that like a bear ripping into a shrink-wrapped steak. Along one wall near the worrisome door sat a bright red couch crowded with fat yellow pillows. A bowl-shaped chair occupied the opposite corner, a red pillow in its bright yellow seat. A large black rectangle he somehow recognized as a flat-screen television hung from the facing wall.

  The remaining walls were covered with posters of people in heroic poses. Their clothing was very colorful, and so tight it showed every muscle. He frowned, staring at one. It appeared the man had no genitals at all, judging from the lack of bulges below the waist.

  Odd. Why would she have pictures of people who had suffered such a terrible injury?

  Statues of similar figures stood here and there on the coffee table and inside a tall, narrow display case. Both those pieces of furniture were made of oak, with clean, simple lines.

  He breathed deeply as he inspected. To his pleasure, the only male scent belonged to a young child who seemed to visit quite frequently.

  “Are you hungry?” Eva asked, walking into the kitchen area that was separated from the living room by a long island. His stomach growled, and she grinned. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  “Combat sharpens my appetite.” And not just for food, though he decided not to mention that. She didn’t seem to like double entendres. He followed her around the oak island into the small efficiency kitchen, drinking in her scent as he went. His eyes shuttered in pleasure.

  Sex. Distilled femininity, pure temptation. He really had to get her into bed.

  “Do you like lasagna?” She opened the freezer door and withdrew two packages wrapped in aluminum foil.

  “I have no idea, but I would be happy to eat it.”

  Eva laughed as she unwrapped the packages and put them in the microwave. “Enthusiasm. What more can a cook ask?”

  David studied her profile as she moved over to open a drawer beside the stove. Her face was delicate, but there was strength in the line of her nose and the stubborn angle of her jaw. Her eyes were large, a velvety brown so deep as to be almost black. Her hair was the color of dark chocolate, falling around her shoulders like a straight, gleaming curtain that framed her face in shorter wisps.

  The microwave pinged, and she took out the two containers. Picking up a spoon, she scooped their contents onto a couple of plates. He watched intently as she brushed past. She moved well, with a lithe athlete’s grace.

  And she smelled delightful—citrus and femininity, with the faintest hint of fur. And under it all, the rich, fizzing scent of magic.

  David realized he was purring and made a conscious effort to stop as he prowled after her to the kitchen table. Settling into a straight chair with red cushions, he watched her return to the refrigerator and pour drinks for them both.

  Absently, he picked up the fork she’d placed beside his plate and dug in as he watched her carry their drinks back to the table. The “lasagna” was delicious, tasting of tomatoes, spicy beef, and at least three different kinds of cheese. “This is very good.”

  “Thanks,” she said with a pleased smile as she put the glasses down. “I love to cook. Taking a bunch of ingredients and combining them to make something special—it’s a lot of fun.”

  He listened to her talk about cooking as he ate, watching her full lips shape words like kisses. Until he could stand it no longer. Grabbing the arm of her chair, David pulled her closer. Her eyes widened in surprise as he leaned forward and took that tempting mouth in a long, erotic plunge into heat. The moment he tasted her, he wanted more. She moaned softly against his lips. He reached across, scooped her up, and pulled her into his lap. She wrenched her mouth away. “Wait—we can’t ...”

  “We can,” he growled back, and swooped in for another kiss. To his satisfaction, she hesitated only a moment before she threaded her arms around his neck and started kissing him back.

  Which was when someone began pounding on the front door in desperate slaps. “Eva! Miss Roman! Help!”

  It was unmistakably the voice of a child.

  Warlock jolted awake with power singing arias in his veins and the Demigod’s memories howling in his brain. The storm of power and alien recall sent him staggering to his feet.

  Thousands of years. The cat had lived thousands and thousands of years.

  All that experience and power seared Warlock’s consciousness like a blowtorch. He could feel his mind cracking under the strain, and panic rose. It’s going to destroy me!

  He realized he had only seconds before his mind shattered. Reaching for his magic—it answered with a pounding fire-hose force—Warlock wove a spell to contain those alien memories. The spell took hold with blessed speed, sealing away the banshee shriek of the Demigod’s life. He’d be able to access it, but only if he chose to.

  He slumped in relief, knowing he’d come within seconds of destruction.

  And then a new thought sent his fear shooting into an even higher spike: Where is Smoke?

  Warlock stared around wildly, looking for his enemy. The last he’d seen of the cat, Smoke had been sealed in the force globe Warlock had created to drain his powers.

  Yet somehow, the godling had outsmarted him. Instead of fighting the drain, Smoke had rammed the full force of his memory and power right down Warlock’s throat, damn near frying him in the process.

  And now the cat was nowhere to be seen.

  Well, Warlock would just have to find him. Smoke had no power now, nor any of that incredible wealth of experience. It should be a simple thing to find and kill him.

  Warlock shifted to four-legged form, the better to track his prey. He picked up Smoke’s scent at once and began following it across the lawn to the edge of the trees that bounded the yard.

  Where it blended with the scent of another Dire Wolf.

  Who dared? He snapped his jaws in rage, wanting to rend the werewolf into rags of torn flesh. Instead he wrestled his fury back under control, reminding himself that his existence was a secret from all but a handful of trustworthy Chosen aristocrats. No doubt this idiot thought he was protecting some poor human from a rogue werewolf.

  No, not he. She. He could tell as much from her scent. His lips drew back from his teeth. The little bitch would pay dearly for her error.

  Nose to the ground, he followed the scent through the trees to the yard beyond. The trail stopped on the edge of the road. Throwing back his head, Warlock howled in frustrated rage. The idiot wolf had put Smoke in a car and driven away!

  Perhaps he could track them with his strengthened powers ... He cast a spell with a flick of his mind and sent it questing after the Demigod.

  Nothing.

  He snarled. The Direkind were resistant to all magic, even his. Spells slid off them like water beading on an oiled griddle. Only he and his descendants did not have that ability; otherwise they would not be able to work spells. If this she-wolf was too close to Smoke, the aura of her power would block Warlock’s magic.

  No matter. The moment she left Smoke alone, Warlock would be able to pick up his magical scent.

  And then Smoke was a dead Demigod.

  Eva jerked the apartment door open to reveal a small boy standing on the other side. He was shirtless and barefoot, dressed only in a pair of flannel pants covered in tiny white ducks. Flinging himself against her thighs, he wailed out something, crying so hard she couldn’t understand a word.

  Eva dropped to her knees and wrapped her arms around him, stroking the disordered w
hite-blond silk of his hair. “Terry! Calm down and tell me what’s wrong, honey.”

  “Mommy!” A bruise covered one entire side of his small face. His bastard father had hit him again. Eva was seriously considering catching Ronnie Gordon in the parking lot some moonless night and showing him what it felt like to get beaten up. “Mommy’s sick! Daddy hit her in the head, and now she’s on the floor, and she’s not movin’!”

  Oh, yeah. Ronnie definitely needed quality time with a certain werewolf. As Fluffy put it, “With great power comes a great responsibility for asshole education.” Swallowing her rage, Eva forced a smile for the little boy. “It’s all right, Terry. We’ll take care of your mother.”

  She started to rise. Terry’s big blue eyes fell on David, and he cringed against her legs. “Who’s that?”

  “He’s just a friend, baby.” Eva stroked Terry’s head and looked at her houseguest. “This is likely to get very messy. You should probably stay here.”

  “I’m coming with you.” David peeled his lips back from his teeth. “I will take care of this ‘man,’ ”—she could hear the sarcastic quotes—“... while you deal with the boy’s mother.”

  “Eva!” Terry tugged at her sleeve to regain her attention. “Please! Mommy needs you!”

  “All right.” She lifted the boy into her arms, then looked over her shoulder at David. “Just try not to start a fight in front of Terry.”

  David said nothing and followed, his hands balling into fists despite her instructions. A man who harmed his own mate deserved a beating—at the very least.

  Terry’s apartment was two doors down, a mirror image of Eva’s, except for the furnishings. Unlike her bright color scheme, everything in this one was some shade of brown—dark brown couch, brown leather easy chair, beige carpet. Instead of posters, the walls were decorated with photos, most of them of Terry at various ages.

  Shelly Gordon was sprawled in the floor by the kitchen table, surrounded by spilled food and the shards of a broken plate.