Master of Darkness (18 page)

Justice paused as if a thought had just occurred to him. “Maybe not,” he murmured, before looking up at her with a wicked grin. “Then again, maybe we do. Let’s find out.” He gestured, opening a dimensional gate as easily as if he’d been doing it all his life.

“You do learn fast.” Miranda gazed through the portal, getting an impression of a large room so dimly lit, she couldn’t make out many details.

“I did some practicing while I waited for you. It helps that Morgana’s set the city wards to recognize me so they don’t knock me on my ass whenever I try to go through.” He drew his axe and stepped into the gate, leading the way as usual.

Miranda took a deep breath and followed, wondering what the hell Maeve had in mind this time.
But
if
Justice thinks I’m having sex
anywhere
Guinness is likely to walk in on us, he’s out of his furry werewolf mind
.

Stepping through the gate, she stopped, eyes widening as she stared around at their surroundings. “Damn. I mean . . .” Words failed her. “Damn.”

There might be a more sybaritic bathroom somewhere on Mageverse Earth, but if so, she’d never been invited there.

The room was huge, large enough for an Olympic-sized pool—which the sunken rose marble bath was damned near big enough to be. The walls were white marble, shot with veins of rose and carved with bas-relief images of gods, goddesses, and animals. Pillars supported the soaring dome ceiling high overhead. A fresco that could have been painted by Michelangelo himself depicted Sidhe warriors in battle. Plants surrounded the circular bath with an explosion of vivid blossoms, many so exotic, Miranda couldn’t identify them at all.

But what riveted her attention was the tiny dimensional gate, not much larger than her hand, set high in the wall, just above a nozzle gushing a spray of water. At the tub’s opposite side, a drainage catch carried away the overflow.

Despite the gate’s diminutive size, the alien magic it radiated seemed to pound at her awareness. “Does that gate . . .”

“Lead to the Elementalverse, like the one at the falls? Yeah.” He looked up at the wavering hole located some fifteen feet up the wall. “She said the gate was here before the house. Apparently, it’s why she built this place here to begin with. A system of pipes pumps the magic-infused water throughout the house. Apparently, this room is a hell of a long way underground. I gather it was some kind of cavern or something until she converted it.”

Miranda stared up at the opening. To her magical senses, it seemed to blaze with magic so intense she couldn’t feel anything else. “It feels even stronger than the falls.”

“It is.” Justice sat down on a padded marble bench and started unlacing his shoes. “She had to close the gate at the falls. Said the death magic spells there had polluted the pool to such an extent it had to be drained, or it would have started poisoning everything for miles around.” Pulling off his socks, he tucked them into his running shoes and stood to unzip his jeans. “Because that gate closed, more of the Elementalverse’s energy began flooding in through the one here.”

Miranda blinked. “Wait—she closed a gate that had existed thousands of years?”

He shrugged. “Seems that way. I really don’t think she had much choice.”

“Well, no, but the power that would have taken . . .” Miranda shook her head and eyed him. He’d taken his shirt off, and the breadth of his powerful chest made her heart beat a little faster. “And she wants us to bathe in it?”

Justice grinned. “I think she wants us to do more than that.” His smile faded, and he continued more seriously, “She told me she wants us to form a Spirit Link.”

Miranda stared. “You’re kidding.”

Justice stiffened. “Look, I know it’s a lot to ask, but Maeve told me . . .”

“No, I’m not objecting,” Miranda told him quickly. “I just think it’s odd because that’s why I got delayed at the Club. Gwen was trying to convince me to ask you to do the same thing.”

“But you didn’t want to.” He said the words in a tone of utter neutrality, no expression at all on his face.

“No—I mean, yeah, but not because I don’t want that kind of connection with you. She argued a Spirit Link would make it easier to break Warlock’s spell, but I told her I didn’t want to ask you to do something that could endanger your life.”

“It would also endanger yours.”

“Did you miss the part where I told you I love you—
how
many times now?” she demanded. “I just don’t want to die knowing that I’ve cost you your life.”

“And I don’t want to live without you.” Again, he sounded almost emotionless, but a deep breath revealed the acrid scent of rage and fear: his violent response to the thought of her death.

“I don’t want to live without you either,” Miranda said, stepping over to him and taking his hands. “But what if we have kids, and something happens? Who’d take care of them with both of us dead?”

He frowned so deeply, she realized he hadn’t even considered that angle. “Yeah, that’s a point. Thing is, Maeve said we need a Spirit Link, or neither one of us is going to survive . . . whatever the hell she’s seen coming.”

“And she didn’t say what that is?” Miranda released his hands and reached for the hem of her shirt.

He watched her pull it off, desire flaring hot in his eyes. “No, but apparently our hanging out under that spray for a good long while will definitely help. And we’re supposed to take our weapons with us.”

“Naked. In the water. With our blades.” She flashed him a grin. “Sounds kinky. Good thing magical steel doesn’t rust.”

“You know, I was right.” Miranda eyed Justice as they waded hand in hand into the gently steaming waist-deep bath. He had stripped down to the intricate leather straps of his axe harness. An impressive erection cut the water in front of him. She herself wore the athame’s strap wrapped around one bare thigh; like Justice, she’d had to strip before putting the sheath on again. “This
is
kinky.”

“Not yet.” He gave her a very wicked grin and pulled her into his arms. “But it’s going to be if I have anything to say about it.”

The kiss was slow, gentle, a teasing brush of lip on lip. He felt so damned good standing against her that Miranda found herself forgetting everything else.

Including the very nasty question of what exactly it was Maeve had scryed when she’d looked into that forge of hers.
I’m not thinking about that
, Miranda told herself firmly, focusing on the velvet texture of his lips against hers.

One callused thumb found her nipple and began to brush back and forth. Sensation jolted through her as though her every nerve vibrated like a plucked violin string. “God!”

He stopped, eyes widening with alarm. “What?”

“No, I mean . . .” Miranda wrapped one hand around his cock for a slow stroke.

“Jesus!” He jerked in astonishment. “The water . . .”

“Yeah. It
so
does.” She gave him another slooow stroke, mostly for the pleasure of feeling him quiver against her as the magically amplified sensation raged through his body.

“You’d . . . probably better hold off on that for a while,” Justice murmured, and swooped in for another kiss, stroking both nipples with wickedly clever fingers. Pulling, squeezing, he rotated the stiff points until she gasped, writhing in his arms.

His lips curved, and he murmured, “I wonder what would happen if I nibbled certain sensitive little bits?”

“Not sure I’d survive.” She threw back her head, shuddering, though a smile curved her mouth.

“Oh, let’s find out.” He swooped down and lifted her into his arms until he could reach a nipple with his mouth.

His tongue drew a hot figure eight, flicking over the erect pink tip with each pass. Every teasing circle sent electric pleasure buzzing right into her sex. Miranda crossed her ankles under his ass and hooked her fingers into the straps of his harness. Leaning back in his supporting arms, she let Justice do whatever he damn well chose as bright comets of delight shot across her closed eyelids.

God, he loved the way she tasted. Distilled femininity flooded his tongue, salt and woman with the faint undertone of fur. The skin of her long legs felt like silk as she gripped him. The pool’s magical water swirled around his thighs, teasing fingers rolling over his flesh, stoking his arousal as his cock bobbed in the current. The warm flow teased his balls, his shaft, the drum-tight flesh of his glans.

He lifted his head to admire Miranda as she lay back in his arms, her lovely eyes closed, her lips parted and dewed with water. Her full breasts danced in the current, droplets beading her tight, flushed nipples. Her wet hair streamed down her back and across the pale flesh of her breasts, fox fire darkened to bronze. Fine muscle worked in her tight waist as she clung to him, contours thrown into relief by her strong grip on his body.

He let his eyes slide out of focus until he could look at her with his magical senses.

And frowned as Warlock’s chains became visible, blue and glowing, so tight as they looped around and around her slender body that it was surprising she could work any magic at all. He could almost feel them feeding on her, diverting her power into Warlock’s spell.

Fuck you, you bastard. I’m going to kill that spell today if it’s the last damned thing I ever do
.

His gaze flicked up to the spray pouring past the dimensional gate. His eyes narrowed, and he started toward the rear wall and its tumbling supernatural shower. Cradled in his arms, Miranda opened her eyes to gaze up into his face, her expression pleasure-dazed. “What . . .”

“Hold your breath,” he told her.

Her eyes widening, she obeyed just as he stepped into the tumbling fall of water.

Magic slammed into them, pounding down on their heads with a force much greater than the water spray itself, so hard Justice’s knees almost gave. He fell forward, snapping one arm out, barely managing to catch them both on a braced palm in time to keep from rapping Miranda’s head on the marble wall.

She stiffened against him, staring up into his face with wide, startled eyes. As he stared down into them, they began to glow with magic, brighter and brighter, building into a brilliant amber blaze as her body absorbed the alien energies of the Elementalverse.

“Justice . . .” she whispered hoarsely.

“Yeah,” he gasped back. “Yeah.” He could feel Merlin’s Blade raining sparks down on his shoulders, each individual flash of energy stinging his skin, then shooting straight into his brain with an intoxicating power that made him shake.

Desire became blinding lust. He jerked her upright in his arms even as she started climbing him, her lips peeling off her teeth. He reached down, found his cock, and somehow got it pressed against her wet velvet lips as her legs tightened their grip. They both cried out in mingled shock and delight as she impaled herself in a rush of deliciously tight flesh over his aching cock.

He braced her back against the wall, wrapped both arms around her thighs, and began to drive against her. She met every fierce thrust, rolling her hips, her breasts bouncing.

As if from a great distance, he felt her athame spilling stinging sparks on the skin of his arm, though the little weapon had never rained energy as his so often did.

But all he really cared about was Miranda. Her eyes burned solid blue from corner to corner, so bright they cast shadows over his body. She stared up at him through those glowing eyes, her lips parted with her desperate, heaving gasps for air, her expression twisted with a delight so intense it seemed to verge on agony.

“Love you,” he gritted, as heat shot from his balls in the first fierce pulses of orgasm. “God, Miranda, I love you!”

“Loveyou . . . loveyouloveyou . . .” she panted back, the words fusing, growing louder with every repetition, building to a yowl.

Even as they came in screaming unison, the intensity of the magic built into a burn so bright, so viciously intense, Justice instantly realized it was too much. They’d incinerate themselves if this kept up. “Shift!” he roared at her. “Shift
now
!”

With that, he let the magic rip, tearing him from his human form even as Miranda simultaneously poured herself into the magic. Their bodies disappeared into a blinding glow.

Acting out of pure instinct, he reached for her, trying to create a Spirit Link.

And for a moment, they touched. Mind to mind, heart to heart.

He could
feel
Miranda: feel the wounded strength he’d always sensed in her, the courage she’d built resisting the will of a vicious killer from the time she was four. The strength that had refused to let Warlock break her, refused to bend to his evil despite all his power, despite all his centuries of magical skill. Despite everyone—including her own mother—who’d always insisted yielding to her father was her duty.

Most of all, though, Justice felt the way Miranda loved him. Loved him with a pure and shimmering power he’d never known anyone could ever feel for him. To her, he was her hero, her unflinching protector.

And
she
touched him. Touched his power, his darkness.

Touched his Wolf.

For a moment panic stabbed him.
What if it scares her? What if she stops loving me? What if I lose this before I even have time to have it?

“Idiot,”
she told him.
“I’ll never stop loving you. That’s not the kind of love we have.”

But even as they reached to seal their mental union, a savage presence thundered into their minds, alien and evil.
“No, Goddamn you!”
Warlock roared into their joined mind.
“I’ve worked for centuries for this day! I will not allow you to ruin it!”

EIGHTEEN

There, Warlock thought
in satisfaction as a ringing mental silence fell. The thundering power he’d sensed from his traitorous bitch of a daughter and her idiot lover had vanished.
Did I kill them?
He could no longer feel them at all. Maybe the death magic he’d sent knifing into their joined consciousness had slain them both.

Pleasant thought.

No matter what, he’d kept them from forming a Spirit Link. They’d have posed a very real threat to his plans had they managed to complete the psychic union. Miranda could have shown Justice how to use the full power of Merlin’s Blade, while the cop could have broken the containment spell Warlock had cast on Miranda as a child. Now, even assuming they’d survived, Justice would not have the skill to use Merlin’s Blade to its full potential. Meanwhile, Warlock’s spell would keep Miranda’s power contained.

Too bad his assassins had failed to kill the little bitch sooner.
Still, maybe she’s finally dead. Even if she’s not, she won’t be a problem after today.
Warlock swept his satisfied gaze over the ranks of warriors awaiting his next command.

Two thousand fanatical armored werewolves made an impressive sight. Especially with an additional five thousand foot soldiers—not as well trained or well-armed, perhaps, but more than enough to provide whatever cannon fodder he needed.

Pleased, Warlock studied the faces revealed by raised visors as they stood in neat columns in the narrow, wooded valley. To either side of him stood his Beast lieutenants, also in Dire Wolf form.

The Beasts and the Chosen Knights wore full armor, the magical steel gleaming bright enough to blind in the morning sunlight. The armor’s broad shoulder paldrons and long, swinging tassets made each knight appear even bigger and more formidable than usual.

That was saying something, considering each fighter’s seven-feet-plus of fur, fangs, and claws.

The ornate armor had been handed down from father to son for generations, its enchanted plate steel segments designed to magically alter to accommodate each new wearer.

Warlock had spent centuries building his Cult of the Chosen in preparation for this day, handpicking the most physically fit and aggressive Alphas in the Direkind aristocracy. He’d personally taught the first cultists the blade skills his army would one day need, when he eventually went to war on Arthur. After that, each generation trained the next.

He’d demanded superior strength, skill, and cunning from his worshippers, quietly eliminating any who did not make the grade, in ways that would appear accidental to the rest of the Direkind.

But the cultists had known. And just as he’d intended, the knowledge of the death that could await them had motivated them to still greater efforts to please.

The only thing they hadn’t done was rebel.

Warlock had carefully taught his Chosen to believe he was a god. As a result, they never blinked at anything he did, even as they fought to meet his exacting standards.

He’d been forced to kill only a handful of failures in recent years. Just as well, because there were barely enough in the Cult as it was. Arthur’s Magekind outnumbered his warriors, even with the additional foot soldiers he’d recruited to round out their numbers.

Luckily, he knew exactly how to get around that problem.

Now he only needed to ensure they were in the proper mood for the mission.

Warlock began to pace before his men, in long, deliberately theatrical strides. His black armor gleamed dully as he moved, flashes of silver catching the light of the rising sun. He’d given variations on this speech before, during the recruitment drive, and he’d perfected every gesture, every nuance of tone and word.

“Today we will avenge our people, my brothers,” Warlock began, his voice deliberately soft to force his men to listen even harder. “Today Arthur will pay for the murder of our three councilmen, along with the deaths of all the others who fell that day in August.”

Never mind that Warlock had known the werewolf councilmen would die, just as he’d planned on the martyrdom of the stupid Direkind civilians who’d been trampled in the panic. They’d deserved death for panicking in the face of Arthur’s knights.

Which was why he’d held back the bulk of his forces that day. He’d known it wouldn’t be the final battle. He’d only intended to test Arthur’s strength, perhaps steal the vampire’s precious Excalibur. In the end, however, his first Beast, Wayne “Dice” Warner, had failed to escape with the sword. Instead the big werewolf died at the hands of Tristan and his magic-using whore, Belle. His loss was the only one Warlock had really regretted that day.

Yet Warlock had not considered the battle a defeat, because he’d learned exactly what he’d needed to know.

This fight would be the end of the Magekind.

He had to suppress an inappropriate grin at the thought of his enemies’ dying screams, the shrieks of the Majae his werewolves would rape, the magical riches he’d loot. Excalibur, Merlin’s Grimoire, the Round Table itself . . . Ahhhhh, yes. He’d treasure the spoils of Avalon, and smile at the memory of this day for centuries to come.

But there was work to be done before he could know that pleasure.

Warlock swept a cool, even stare over the ranks, and began working to whip them into a suitable frenzy. “But most of all, Arthur will pay for failing Merlin. Merlin, the alien wizard who trusted the Magekind to guide humanity into a utopia of peace and prosperity.”

He snorted in contempt, his magic ensuring his followers heard every sound he made. “And how did Arthur fulfill that mission? The evening news tells that story: assassins, terrorists, religious fanatics killing in the name of false gods. Yet Arthur does
nothing
!”

He pivoted to face them. “Is this the world Merlin would want?”

“No!” The deep chorus of werewolf voices shook the trees.

“Of course not.” Warlock pivoted and strode in the other direction, lacing his clawed fingers together behind his back. “Wars rage while thousands starve, even as others die of obesity. Fools and madmen lead captive countries, slaying their own civilians by the thousands when they dare demand freedom. And what does Arthur do?”

“Nothing!” his army roared.

“Yes. Nothing. Despite the fact that his witches could make the humans turn aside from their fanatical faiths, could force them to abandon crime and hate.” Never mind that even Morgana Le Fay lacked the power to so twist a human’s belief. All that counted was that his men believed the witches could. “His Majae could use their power to feed the hungry and cure diseases like AIDS and malaria. His vampire warriors could exact justice on tyrants, and free whole countries from the leadership of madmen. Yet what does he do?”

“Nothing!”

“Wrong!” Warlock whirled, curling a lip in an expression of contempt. “Oh, he does something, all right. He sends his killers to murder our children, then blames
me
for his crimes. Me!”

They howled at that, the mass roared fury of fanatics reacting to blasphemy.

“Arthur blames me because I have strength where he has nothing but weakness.” Warlock curled a hand into a mailed fist, lifting it high. “He knows I could lead the humans into the lives of peaceful order Merlin intended. He
knows
that under my guidance, war and dissent will cease as humanity turns away from the teachings of false gods.”

While turning toward the worship of Warlock himself, not that he needed to say as much. His Chosen understood him perfectly well, just as they knew teaching humans to worship Warlock would require shedding a great deal of blood over generations.

But it was, after all, only human blood. Spilling was what it was
for
.

Warlock spread his clawed hands in a gesture of benediction. “Humanity will finally know peace after all these bloody centuries. They will come to enjoy the prosperity I will create through the order I will maintain.”

Now to appeal to his Chosen Knights’ sense of greed and entitlement. He scanned the ranks, his level gaze conveying confidence.

“But to accomplish this, I will need lieutenants, trusted Direkind to help govern the six billion I will rule. I will find that capable aid in you. You, the descendants of those first bold Chosen Knights who fought at my side so many centuries ago. As the most loyal and deserving of my Direkind, you will know riches beyond your dreams, and power beyond comprehension. Humans will learn to worship you as heroes, and generations to come will revere you as gods.”

Warlock paused, letting that intoxicating picture reach full bloom in his warriors’ collective imagination.

When the moment was exactly right, he pulled Kingslayer from the sling across his back. As the magical blade spat sparks in reaction to his touch, Warlock lifted the great axe as he spoke in a triumphal roar. “Together, we will lead Humanity into the shining future Merlin intended!”

His warriors knew a cue when they heard one. Steel rang as every single fighter drew his blade and raised it high. “For humanity! For Merlin!” They finished the traditional chant with the thundering bellow of the truly devout.
“For Warlock!”

Warlock smiled.
Now
they were ready.

* * *

Stunned, Justice floated
in darkness, only distantly aware of the patter of falling water.

Miranda.

The thought of his lover—possibly unconscious and drowning—slapped him to full consciousness. He flailed around, somehow got his feet under him, and surged upright, sending waves slapping against the marble sides of the bath. “Miranda!”

“Here,” she groaned. “Damn, don’t yell like that. My head feels as if it’s about to split.”

Justice scanned for her frantically. The lights flashed on, obeying some mental command he hadn’t consciously given. Miranda was already on her feet less than a yard away, cradling her head in both hands. Her dazed eyes were slits of misery.

“Jesus!” He sloshed over to pull her into his arms, gentling his grip at her pained gasp. Sweeping a quick magical scan over her, he sought signs of bruises or blood. But, thank God, saw nothing. “Are you all right? Did I hurt you?”

“No, but Daddy sure as fuck did,” she growled, slumping into his supporting arms. “Son of a bitch tried to fry both of us with a death spell.”

Justice frowned, a hazy memory surfacing of Miranda recognizing the incoming attack for what it was. At the last moment, they’d thrown up a shield with their unified power. The block had worked—more or less—but the effort had shattered their fragile connection.

The Spirit Link was broken.

“Now what the fuck are we supposed to do?” Justice growled in frustration. “Maeve told me we had to link.”

“So we’ll try again.” Straightening, she winced as if muscles protested the move. “
After
we’ve had a little more time to recover.”

“Assuming we get a little more time to recover,” Justice growled. He sighed. “We’d better gate back to Avalon.”

* * *

The city of
Avalon glittered in the morning sunlight, an elegant sprawl of castles, chateaus, villas, and neat little cottages surrounded by the blazing shades of fall. Its cobblestone streets lay quiet, without the morning bustle of a mortal city at this hour.

That was no surprise. The vampires were all asleep, along with most of their women, recharging their magical batteries for the next battle in Merlin’s Great Mission: protecting humanity from its own worst impulses.

Warlock meant to see every last one of them dead.

He flexed his clawed hands and spread them wide, reaching out with his magical senses to probe the city’s powerful shields. Shields that had to fall if Warlock’s invasion was to succeed.

He was acutely aware of his knights as they waited in disciplined ranks, his magic rendering them undetectable to Arthur’s witches.

They made an impressive sight, towering and muscular in their armor, clawed hands gripping axes, swords, and spears, all enchanted to kill Magekind. Their thick fur ranged in shade from pale gold to a black so dark they seemed carved from darkness.

He was the only white wolf. The sun seemed to tip his fur with a metallic glint so that that it blended with his black armor, as if he
was
a weapon. Exactly what Merlin had created him to be, all those centuries ago.

More than a match for the Magekind.

Still, his enemies weren’t fools. The spell that protected Avalon swirled in a complex of lethal energies that would kill anyone without the proper magical signature. Unfortunately, it was a signature Warlock didn’t have. Worse, the shield was designed to alert Morgana Le Fay, Guinevere, and the other senior witches if it was tampered with. If Warlock triggered that alert, they’d all be ass-deep in witches before he could blink. Though he had seven thousand fighters at his back, plus his three Beasts, he had no desire to be locked out of Avalon with his plans laid bare. Arthur would see to it he’d never get such an opportunity again. The success of his battle plan hinged on cutting through the shield without being caught.

He’d briefly considered a nighttime attack. Defeating Arthur’s full forces would be far more satisfying than a simple slaughter.

Unfortunately, he knew his people were no match for Arthur’s vampires, especially not under the leadership of the Knights of the Round Table. There might be only twelve of Arthur’s bastards, but given that each one had more than fifteen hundred years of combat experience, they’d butcher his wolves like sheep. And Warlock might as well die with them.

He was damned if he’d live as a failure.

So Warlock probed the city’s shield with exquisite care and an immortal’s patience. He didn’t need a large opening, only one wide enough for a single werewolf to slip through at a time.

Then he’d send them raging after the knights, drag them from their beds, and . . .

Ah, what a sweet, sweet thought.

* * *

More than an
hour passed before Warlock’s claws sank into Avalon’s great shield as if thrusting into warm dough—or cooling flesh. He grinned.
And there’s the pattern. I knew no woman could craft a spell I couldn’t crack.