Authors: Angela Knight

Master of Smoke (43 page)

“Right, he’s ‘only a myth’—we’ve already heard that song and dance from every werewolf we’ve talked to.” Tristan drawled, waving a dismissive hand. “Only your legend damned near killed one of my best friends last month, so please believe us when we tell you he definitely exists. And he’s a psychopath, so if anybody is butchering seventeen-year-olds, it’s Warlock.”

“But ...” Justice stared at him, shaken out of his cool professionalism. “If Warlock really does exist, he’s as big a hero to my people as Arthur is to yours. Why would he kill that child?”

“Because he’s a son of a bitch,” Tristan snapped. “Why don’t you let us check the scene and see what we can find out? If he’s trying to frame Arthur, Belle will be able to work a spell to prove it.”

Justice took a deep breath and blew it out. “Fine. Come on then.”

The scent of
Belle Coeur was driving Tristan insane. Some of that cock-teasing smell was expensive perfume—probably French, knowing her. She smelled like jasmine and moonbeams . . .

Merlin’s Balls, what romantic tripe was that?
Great. She’s making me think stupid shit.

Then there was the scent of distilled sex, as rawly female as the swing of her ass and the sway of her breasts.

Tristan had spent the past month trying to dig Belle out of his skull. He’d worked out with Arthur, both with blade and hand-to-hand, until his skin streamed sweat and his legs shook.

Eventually even his best friend had enough. “You’re obsessed with that woman,” Arthur had said after listening to Tristan bitch about his partner one too many times. “She’s worked her way under your skin all the way to bone—and I hope she leads you a merry chase. Serves you right for all those women whose dreams you crushed, you stone-hearted bastard.”

Tristan had next tried women as the cure for Belle, banging every pretty young Maja he could seduce, the older ones being wise to his habits. Unfortunately, those green enough to be susceptible to his advances maddened him with their awed stares. He could say any rude thing he pleased, and all he’d get in return was a lip quiver that made him feel like a prick.

Belle didn’t quiver her lip. Belle gave as good as she got, toe-to-toe and snarl for snarl.

And his mind was supposed to be on the murdered boy, not on Belle’s admittedly luscious ass. How did she do this to him? He never had trouble keeping his mind on the job. Distraction got you killed in this line of work. Worse, it could get innocents killed. Like Belle ...

. . . And Merlin’s Balls, look at all the werewolves.

Tristan came to a stop in the center of the sidewalk, staring at the house at the end of the cul-de-sac. The brick colonial had a bigger yard than most of those on the block, with a long brick colonnaded porch, neatly trimmed hedges, and a yard shaded by cedars and oaks.

Under those trees, standing in groups, clustered around the open beds of pickup trucks, or sitting on lawn chairs, were dozens of werewolves. The smell of Direwolf magic rode the summer breeze, thick with the scent of fur and rage.

And beer.

Oh, great. The werewolves were getting plowed.

They were all still in human form, thank Merlin. The men were dressed for the weather in T-shirts and jeans or khakis, while most of the women wore sundresses or shorts as they clustered together on the porch, gathered protectively around a woman who sobbed fitfully in utter despair.

The boy’s mother, no doubt.

Every instinct Tristan had told him this was going to get nasty. For a split second, he considered asking Belle to conjure his armor and sword. Then he realized that the sight of an armored knight would only light the tinder under the werewolves’ rage. He simply couldn’t afford to do that, even if it meant being seriously underequipped if things went south.

So instead he fell back a pace behind Belle, guarding her back as Justice led them up the walk toward the front porch.

Until one of the men stepped directly into the Wolf Sheriff’s path. “What the hell are you doing bringing them here, Justice?” He glared at them past the other werewolf’s shoulder, his gaze scalding in its fury.

Tristan was instantly aware of being the focus of enough rage-filled eyes to light a bonfire. This was the stuff of which lynch mobs were made.

Belle’s voice rang out, cool and clear. “If one of the Magekind did kill that boy, I can work a spell to identify the source of the magic.”

“Question is, will you tell us who it is—or will you cover it up?” a male voice shouted.

She turned and scanned every face in the yard. The Direkind was immune to magic, but Belle had another kind of power in her eyes—the kind that made even furious men remember she was a woman. And decent men protected women. “I swore to serve mankind when I became a witch. Anyone who would kill a child—especially from behind with a coward’s stroke—deserves nothing but death. If it’s one of the Magekind, I’ll kill him myself.”

“What if it’s Arthur?” a hoarse voice shouted.

Tristan had had enough of hearing his friend maligned. “Arthur Pendragon is no child-killing coward. And any man who says so in my presence again had better be prepared to bleed!” The last word was a little too close to a battlefield roar, but damned if he’d back down.

Arthur might no longer be high king of Britain—he hated anyone calling him by that title—but he’d never be anything but king to Tristan. Even if Tristan would rather die than admit as much out loud. And he’d certainly never say as much to Arthur himself.

“Any more questions?” Tristan snapped.

Nobody said a damned word as the Wolf Sheriff led the Magekind toward the house. As they climbed the stairs, Tristan realized they had yet another gauntlet to run.

The werewolf women. They glared as the little group walked onto the porch, silent outrage in their eyes.

Finally one of them rose from the midst of the group. Her face shone in the dim moonlight, the tracks of tears glistening. Her nose ran, and she wiped it with a wadded tissue. “He was a good boy,” she croaked in a voice hoarse from crying. “He gave me roses every Mother’s Day since he started working. A dozen every single Mother’s Day. Maybe his grades could have been better, maybe I had to ride him about doing his homework. But he cut the lawn every other Saturday without being asked. Somebody hit the neighbor’s cat with a car last week, and he found it lying on the side of the road, all bloody and hurt. He took it to the vet himself and paid for it to be treated. He hates cats, but he said Bonnie—that’s the neighbor’s five-yearold—she loves that animal. And the cat made it because Jimmy took it to the vet.” She was crying so hard by the time she finished that Tristan could barely understand her last wailing words. “He didn’t deserve this!”

“I know, ma’am,” Belle said gently. “I’m so sorry this happened. We’ll find out who’s responsible.”

The kid’s mother gave them a look so pitiful, Tristan felt his own eyes sting. “That won’t bring him back.”

“No, I’m afraid it won’t.”

“Could you . . .” There was a sudden horrible hope in her eyes. “They say you Magekind are really powerful. Could you bring him ...”

“No,” Belle interrupted, her voice catching. “If I could, please believe me, I would.” She swallowed. “I had a daughter. I know how . . . I’m sorry. Sorry for your loss.”

Breaking off as if realizing she was on the verge of losing it completely, Belle whirled and headed for the house’s front door. Justice pulled it open for her, and she started inside—only to stop in the doorway, her body recoiling.

Tristan realized why as the smell of blood rolled out in a choking wave. The boy’s mother collapsed back in her chair and began to sob. The women around her joined in, voices a rising wail that made Tristan wish he was any other damned place at all.

Helpless. He hated feeling helpless.

Belle straightened her shoulders and walked into the house, her head high, her spine erect. The two men followed.

In the short foyer, Justice silently took the lead. Not that he had to. They could easily tell where the scene was from the bloody tracks on parquet floor.

When they stepped inside, it was every bit as bad as Tristan had known it would be. He was no stranger to the effects of a beheading, so he expected the blood spray. He’d expected the body, still sitting erect in the armchair.

What bothered him was the big screen television and the Xbox, which was still mindlessly running the kid’s video game. Two characters in armor, swinging swords, the sound of thunks and cries. “Christ.”

“Yeah,” Justice agreed. “But take a deep breath. Under the blood—isn’t that the smell of a Magus?”

Tristan frowned at him, but dropped to one knee and took an obedient breath right behind the armchair, where the killer must have stood.

He expected a generic scent, something Warlock had faked in an effort to trigger a war between Direkind and Magekind. Maybe even Arthur’s scent, since Warlock hated the Magus with an insane jealousy that could have led him to frame the man.

But as he breathed in, Tristan recognized a scent he didn’t expect. One he’d smelled just a few hours before.

Startled, he looked up at Belle, who was standing frozen at his side, her face pale as Wedgwood porcelain. “Merlin’s cup, Belle—it’s Davon Fredericks.”