Master of Shadows (14 page)

Tanner leaned forward, a muscle clenching and releasing in his lean jaw. He was a handsome, older man, lean and fit, his graying hair clipped short, his gray eyes intense. “Elena, you know what they’ve done. Davon Fredericks himself said Arthur ordered the Sheridan boy’s beheading.”

“I don’t believe Arthur gave any such order. Justice said . . .”

“My dear, don’t be naive.” Tanner dipped his lids and stopped just short of a sneer. “It’s obvious our Wolf Sheriff has lost his objectivity. He’s grown too . . . close to Tristan and the Magekind. He believes whatever unlikely tale they tell.”

Justice had heard about enough of
that
. “Tanner, I am first, last, and only a cop,” he growled. “Nobody influences me—including you. I look at the evidence, and that tells me everything I need to know.”

Tanner lifted a brow. “Does it?”

“
Yes.
And yes, Davon Fredericks admitted he killed Jimmy Sheridan. He seemed to believe that Arthur gave him the order to do so. But judging by his scent, he was also deeply confused and apparently under some kind of magical influence at the time.”

“From his own people, obviously.” Triumph rang in Andrews’s voice. “The Magekind are the only ones that work magic.”

“Except for the Sidhe, the Dark Ones, the Dragonkind, and damn near everybody who lives in the Mageverse,” Rosen pointed out. “Any of them could have cast some kind of spell to make Davon kill the boy in the mistaken belief it was under Arthur’s orders.”

There was a short, stunned silence. Tanner and Andrews exchanged a quick look; it was obvious neither had expected Rosen to enter into the discussion. The chairman usually remained aloof.

“But why?” Tanner demanded. “What possible reason would they have?”

“It would trigger a war between the Magekind and us, which wouldn’t be good for anyone,” Elena observed. “And it wouldn’t do wonders for the human race either. Maybe someone on Mageverse Earth has his eye on invading this planet. It’s happened before.”

This time Tanner did sneer. “So the Magekind says.”

“I don’t think we can dismiss the testimony of the Magekind out of hand,” Rosen said. “Don’t forget, Arthur and his knights—including Sir Tristan—have been protecting mankind for fifteen hundred years. I find it difficult to believe that King Arthur would suddenly start murdering children.”

“I move we have Tristan and Belle appear before the Council of Clans to testify about this incident,” Elena said.

Realizing that the two might be able to turn the tide, Justice seconded. The vote passed three to two, with Tanner and Andrews looking frustrated.

The others filed out, leaving Justice and Rosen alone as they got their papers in order. As Justice slipped his into a folder, Rosen looked up from the briefcase he was closing. “Do you think Tristan and the Maja will agree to testify?”

“I believe so,” Justice said cautiously. “Though they’re justifiably concerned they won’t get a fair hearing.”

“They don’t need to worry about that. I don’t want a war,” Rosen told him. “The death of this boy was a great tragedy, but I don’t think Arthur had a damned thing to do with it. And I don’t want to watch more boys die trying to avenge him.”

Justice considered him thoughtfully. “Tanner thinks we’d win a war with the Magekind.”

“Tanner’s an idiot. We might be able to defeat the Magekind if we could get to them, but as long as they can open dimensional gateways, we’re at a serious disadvantage. Think of the kind of damage they could do to us with the abilities they have. We may be immune to magic, but our young children aren’t. Neither are our homes and businesses.”

“And that kind of fight would be damned showy,” Justice pointed out. He’d been worrying about the implications of such a war since Jimmy Sheridan died. “We could end up revealing ourselves to the humans, and then we’d all be screwed.”

“We certainly can’t afford that.” Rosen shook his head. “Get Tristan and the woman to testify, Justice. I’ll do my damnedest to get everybody calmed down.”

 

Cherise Myers lay
surrounded in great mounds of flowers. Roses, stargazer lilies, tulips, and orchids foamed around the gleaming mahogany bier in shades of white and pink, complementing the white silk gown she wore. Pearls and crystals shimmered on her bodice and sparkled from the folds of the skirt. A wreath of star lilies and white roses crowned her head, and more flowers had been woven through her long, shining blond curls. Her delicate hands clasped a great sword that lay the length of her slim body. To either side of the bier, candelabra burned, the ranks of candles illuminating the bier in a soft, golden glow. Overhead, the stars of the Mageverse night blazed in their brilliant glory, as if adding another layer of beauty to the service.

The Magekind surrounded the bier as it lay on the cobblestones of the central square, a solemn crowd of thousands dressed in medieval garb. Black velvet and silk trimmed in silver embroidery and jet beads rustled over the cobblestones.

Tristan stood with the other Knights of the Round Table to the right of the bier, an honor guard in full armor, swords at their sides. The men talked among themselves in low voices, heads bent together, expressions solemn.

Carefully managing her long silk gown with the practiced ease of centuries, Belle made her way through the crowd to join Guinevere and Morgana, both grimly beautiful in black velvet trimmed in pearls.

“I hate funerals,” Gwen murmured. “At least mortal deaths are usually from old age. We never get anything but combat fatalities and murders.”

“It doesn’t help that this whole situation was a clusterfuck from first to last,” Morgana growled. “First the mess with the werewolves, then this poor child’s death. That magic bite of theirs is a development I could have done without.”

“We’ll find a solution. We always do.” Guinevere gave Belle a wicked smile obviously designed to lighten the mood. “So, how’s it going with Tristan?”

“Oh, fine. He . . .”

“You
slept
with
Tristan
?” They stared at her, eyes wide and incredulous. Belle cursed silently. The problem with being friends for a millennium was that your confidantes became all but telepathic. They could read every eye flicker and lip twitch, then decipher them in a blink.

“Why?” Gwen demanded.

There was no point in denying it. She gestured at Tristan. “Oh, come on. Look at him.”

“Yes,” Morgana protested, “but he’s a dick.”

“He also
has
a dick.” Belle suspected her own smile was feline. “And it’s . . .”

“I do
not
want to know about Tristan’s dick.” Gwen spread her hands as if to ward off any other information.

“You know it’s a bad idea to get involved with a fellow agent.”

“I get involved with agents all the time, Morgana.”

“Recruits, not agents. This is different and you know it. This is Tristan.”

“No, it’s
sex
. Sex with somebody I do not have to worry about killing.”

“Avalon is full of men you don’t have to kill. Only one of them is Tristan.”

“But Tristan is . . .”

“Shush,” Gwen said. “Here comes the chorus.”

The double line of twenty white-garbed Magekind filed into the square and moved into place beside the bier, opposite the honor guard. Utter silence fell, almost vibrating with anticipation. Avalon’s City Chorus always gave gorgeous performances.

The choir began to sing an ancient Celtic dirge of loss and grieving, the women’s voices soaring high, the men’s a deeper, rolling rumble that made the old words echo across the city. As they sang to the infinite darkness overhead, the light of the moon poured down over Cherise’s still form, surrounded by masses of flowers like sweet-smelling clouds.

The priest spoke next, since Cherise had been Catholic. Father John de Clairvaux had been a Templar knight before becoming a vampire, and now he served the spiritual needs of Avalon’s many Catholics. He had a fine, deep voice, and he spoke with an elegant simplicity and a quiet faith. There was genuine grief in his voice when he spoke of his young parishioner.

Next her friends moved to stand before the bier, one by one, telling the story of the young Maja who had been with the Magekind such a short time.

When Davon started forward, Belle tensed. “Oh, great.”

“What?” Gwen whispered.

“This is not good.”

Davon looked haggard, as if he’d lost weight just in the three days since his partner’s death. “Cherise was more than my partner,” he said, his hoarse voice ragged. “We only went on two missions together, and one of them we shouldn’t have been on anyway. Yet in that short time, she demonstrated her love of duty. She believed in the importance of Merlin’s Great Mission to serve and protect mankind. Our oath wasn’t just words to her. They were etched on her bones and written in her blood. And when a werewolf charged me”—Here his voice broke—“it didn’t matter to her that he was seven feet tall and resistant to her only weapon, her magic. She stepped in his way and met his charge. And he bit her.” A tear rolled down his cheek. He made no sound as he cried, made no move to wipe it away. “She died for me because that’s how she lived. And there’s no way I can repay her.”

Morgana frowned as Davon walked away from the bier. “That one needs help.”

“I’ve sent the healer to him,” Belle whispered. “He refused care.”

“Yes, well, he won’t be able to turn her away if Arthur sends her. I’ll see to it.”

“Thank you.”

She only grunted in response, but Belle wasn’t fooled. Most thought her friend a cold-blooded bitch, but Morgana had a warm core of genuine compassion. True, it was locked under a mile of icy calculation, but it was still there.

Arthur stepped forward. “Once again, my friends, we face an enemy who has claimed the life of one of our own. Warlock and his agents have killed thirteen innocents, both Latent and mortal. Now he has used one of
us
to kill an innocent, preying on my agents’ loyalty and sense of duty to do so. He’s trying to start a war because he imagines he can destroy us. He is not the first to make that assumption, and he won’t be the last. We have survived fifteen centuries of war, and we are not so easy to kill. He will pay for his crimes. This I so swear.” Arthur drew Excalibur, the big blade ringing bell-like as it slid from his scabbard.

As one, his Round Table knights drew their weapons. Tristan’s deep voice led the chorus. “This we so swear.”

All the other vampires followed suit, thrusting their blades heavenward. “We so swear.”

Morgana stepped forward. “The Majae join this oath as we send our sister home.”

“We so swear,” Belle said, her voice rising with the other Majae as she called her magic. The power burst from her hands, joining with the blazing magic the others summoned to blast into the flower-piled bier.

The bier flared white, glowing brighter and brighter until Belle wanted to shield her tearing eyes. Instead she raised her arms in concert with her fellow witches, sending the great globe of energy shooting skyward. It detonated, raining sparks of golden magic over the empty space where Cherise’s body had lain. The Maja, her bier and her flowers had vanished, consumed by the raw magic of the spell.

She’d become part of the Mageverse again, returned to the source of all magic.

Darkness fell, a moment of dazzled blackness after the detonation. Belle sighed. It could just as easily have been her or Tristan on that bier. And one day it would be.

The Magekind might not age, but they weren’t truly immortal.

Not in this business.

The Magekind started
making their way to the Great Hall, where Cherise’s memorial feast was being held. Cooking was considered an art form among the Majae, who actively competed to impress one another. Belle had worked all day on her offerings: roast pheasant with black truffles—she’d used her magic ruthlessly to obtain enough pheasant and truffles to produce the dish in sufficient quantity—and
Daube de Boeuf Provencal
, a complex beef stew she’d marinated for eighteen hours. She was looking forward to the reaction.

Tristan appeared beside her with astonishing silence for a big man dressed in armor. He opened his mouth, and she absently cast a spell before he could even voice the request. His mail disappeared back to his quarters, replaced by breeches, tooled black knee boots, a white shirt with flowing sleeves, and a black velvet doublet embroidered with Celtic designs in silver thread. A cape draped over one shoulder and under the opposite arm, fastened with a silver chain and a ruby clasp. He glanced down at himself, taking in the somber elegance of his clothing. “Very nice. Thank you.”

The genuine pleasure in his voice gave her a warm little glow, and Belle smiled at him. She suspected her expression was a touch sappy, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. To make up for it, she shrugged. “Well, you’re a Knight of the Round Table. I can’t dress you like a peasant. The other witches would talk.”