Authors: Angela Knight
Master of Smoke (21 page)
God, he moved fast. One minute he was doodling marshmallow shapes between her legs. The next he was on top of her, his cock in his hand, and then he was
in
her, deep and hard and thick and pumping, and she realized he was just as turned on as she was, and oh, Jesus, it was so good ...
in
her, deep and hard and thick and pumping, and she realized he was just as turned on as she was, and oh, Jesus, it was so good ...
ELEVEN
Eva gripped him
in swollen heat, incredibly tight, hooking her feet over his butt so she could meet his rolling thrusts. A spike of raw pleasure stabbed into David’s skull, and he threw back his head, riding the surge.
in swollen heat, incredibly tight, hooking her feet over his butt so she could meet his rolling thrusts. A spike of raw pleasure stabbed into David’s skull, and he threw back his head, riding the surge.
She cried out, sweet and high, and he had to watch her come. Her beautiful dark eyes looked drowned in delight as her lips parted on helpless moans, full and tempting. Her hair spilled over the bed in a tangle of gleaming curls, and her breasts bounced in time to his thrusts, lovely handfuls tipped in candy pink.
So lovely. So brave and vulnerable.
God, I love her
. The thought hit him like a bolt to the brain.
I just wish I could stay the hell away from her before I hurt her worse than Warlock.
Yet even though he knew he should stay away, every time they touched, he went up in flames.
. The thought hit him like a bolt to the brain.
I just wish I could stay the hell away from her before I hurt her worse than Warlock.
Yet even though he knew he should stay away, every time they touched, he went up in flames.
The flash of guilt vanished in a blaze of orgasm. She screamed even as he went over, and he watched those beautiful eyes go blind in climax.
David collapsed onto
the mattress and hauled her over on top of him. Struggling to get his breath, he savored the way she felt lying across him like a sweet-smelling scarf, silken hair tumbled across his skin, tangled with his own.
the mattress and hauled her over on top of him. Struggling to get his breath, he savored the way she felt lying across him like a sweet-smelling scarf, silken hair tumbled across his skin, tangled with his own.
“I’ve come up with a sidekick for Anaconda Man,” she murmured sleepily.
“Oh?”
“Her name is Noodle Woman. She’s not much of a sidekick. Just kinda lies there with her eyes rolled back in her head and a sated smile on her face. But she drives all the female super-villains crazy.”
He laughed, savoring the sound of her giggle.
Then a thought wiped the grin off his face.
How can I keep them from killing her? How can I keep from hurting her?
How can I keep them from killing her? How can I keep from hurting her?
“The car is
registered to Eva Naomi Roman,” the werewolf said. “She lives at 605 Millview Road, Building Five, Apartment E-8, Greendale, South Carolina. I checked the Dire Wolf rolls, but she’s not registered.”
registered to Eva Naomi Roman,” the werewolf said. “She lives at 605 Millview Road, Building Five, Apartment E-8, Greendale, South Carolina. I checked the Dire Wolf rolls, but she’s not registered.”
Warlock grunted in satisfaction. Joe Byrnes was the Bastards’ computer hacker. Five minutes after Warlock gave him the car tag number Danvers had called in, Byrnes had the desired information.
“She must be a Bitten rogue,” Warlock said thoughtfully. It was, of course, strictly forbidden to give a human the Bite without informing the local clan. It was too easy to create a rogue who had no knowledge of what it meant to be a Dire Wolf—and who was therefore a danger to everyone else. “She was probably one of Trey Devon’s victims. He always was an idiot. I’m not surprised he couldn’t control his Bite.” Trey had murdered women for years, until a Maja who was the sister of one of his victims tracked him down and killed him.
That Trey had slaughtered all those women meant nothing to Warlock, but he was deeply irritated that the case had attracted Arthur’s attention. The Magekind always slew their own mad rogues; the Direkind’s inability to do the same pricked his ego. Adding insult to injury, one of the Magekind had cleaned up his mess.
To make matters worse, Trey’s father had set out to avenge his son’s death, only to fail miserably despite Warlock’s assistance. Arthur’s son, Logan MacRoy, had survived all his assassination attempts. The only positive thing that had come out of the incident was Warlock’s acquisition of Smoke’s power.
Warlock considered the members of Geri team as they lined up in his throne room. They’d all transformed to face him—four big, capable wolves. Unfortunately, Skoll had been just as tough, just as capable, but they’d still fallen to Smoke’s merciless skill.
“We’re going to try something a little different this time,” Warlock told them.
The wolves moved closer to listen.
This, Tristan thought,
as he pulled up to Joan Devon’s sprawling brick McMansion,
is going to be one of those missions
. The kind where you rammed your head repeatedly against a brick wall with nothing to show for it except a bloody skull.
as he pulled up to Joan Devon’s sprawling brick McMansion,
is going to be one of those missions
. The kind where you rammed your head repeatedly against a brick wall with nothing to show for it except a bloody skull.
They’d been hunting Smoke and/or Warlock for the past few days with zero success. Tristan figured the cat was dead and buried in an unmarked grave somewhere. Which sucked, because he’d liked the fuzzy little bastard. Warlock—well, nobody knew nothing, which was a sure sign everybody was lying.
He was starting to hate werewolves. What the fuck had Merlin been thinking?
“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.
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.
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.
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