Master of Shadows (36 page)

To Belle’s delight, Elena Rollings had indeed used the spell gem to contact her with the location of the scene. She was there now, the moonstone gripped in one furry hand, ready to guide a gate.

“I hope the kid appreciates what we’re doing for him,”
Tristan said in the Truebond.

Belle suspected the smile she gave him was a little goofy. She loved feeling his consciousness brush hers. Banishing the expression as inappropriate for an inspection, she replied,
“Unfortunately, Davon’s probably going to get just as pissy about it as he was last night.”

“Not anymore.”
The thought sounded more than a little smug. She’d handed in her resignation to Morgana that afternoon. Once you Truebonded, you were no longer eligible for the office. Morgana had accepted the letter with a sigh. Evidently, she’d been expecting it.

Retired or not, though, Belle fully intended to visit and encourage her boys. She just wouldn’t have to sleep with any of them.

Or, for that matter, kill them.

“Tonight we go to save one of our own,” Arthur said in his ringing parade ground voice, jerking her from her preoccupation. “Davon’s young, and his judgment leaves something to be desired . . .” His dry tone won a laugh. “But he’s also a victim of an ancient enemy we didn’t even know we had. Warlock is the self-appointed god of the Direkind, and he means to lead them to war against us.”

He fell silent, his dark gaze sweeping the lines of agents, his mailed hand riding Excalibur’s hilt. His armor shone in the moonlight, and he’d tucked his helm under one mailed arm. His wife stood just behind him, serenely beautiful in her own armor. “But remember, these people are our cousins—created, like us, by Merlin. They were to be humanity’s guardians in case we ever forsook our vows and attempted to victimize humanity.”

Arthur pivoted and began to pace along the line of warriors. “But we never did. We have done our duty faithfully all these centuries. Unfortunately, it seems Warlock has gone insane from jealousy and paranoia. He means to destroy us, and he’s using Davon Fredericks as his excuse.”

He stopped and swung to rake his eyes across the line. “
I will not allow it.
Warlock dies tonight, before he has the opportunity to poison his people any further. We will kill as few of the Direkind as possible, though we will defend ourselves when necessary. And we will bring Davon Fredericks home.”

Silence fell, seeming to vibrate like struck crystal in the moonlit darkness.

“Now,” he said, “as to the order of battle . . .”

 

“You have heard
the evidence against you, Davon Fredericks,” Rosen said. “How do you plead?”

Davon licked his dry lips. That was the question, wasn’t it? Yesterday it had all seemed so very clear: he had killed Jimmy Sheridan, and that was all that mattered.

But then he’d prayed with Howard Sheridan and his son, and somehow that had changed everything. He’d felt God’s forgiveness. The self-hate that had haunted him for days had lifted like a dark cloud, and a sense of peace rolled over him. He could plead not guilty because now he knew he really
wasn’t
guilty. But if he did, the Council would howl betrayal and declare war on the Magekind, then execute him anyway.

If he pleaded guilty, however, maybe he could make the werewolves see that the Magekind were committed to justice, even if they had to pay the ultimate price for it.

Davon swallowed and lifted his chin. To his relief, his voice rose in clear, even cadences, without the tremor he’d half feared. “It was my hand that killed Jimmy. But I was the victim of . . .”

“We did not ask you for an explanation,” Rosen snapped. “You’ve admitted your guilt. That is sufficient for these proceedings.”

Howard Sheridan rose. “As the father of the victim, I claim my right to speak.”

Rosen hesitated, obviously worried about what the preacher might say. Finally he admitted, “You have that right.”

Sheridan paused, his gaze flickering across the faces of the watching werewolves. His eyes lingered last on the gaunt face of his wife, hollow-eyed and sleepless. The crowd went utterly silent.

Until at last he spoke. “I do not believe that Davon Fredericks is guilty of murder.”

A gasp rolled over the audience, along with a broken cry of protest. Davon winced; it had come from Sheridan’s wife. “But my boy is dead!” she wailed. “He’s dead, and he never did anything to anyone!
I want his killer dead!
”

Sheridan flinched, but he lifted his voice over his wife’s protests. “Fredericks told me that when he killed my son, he did so because of a spell cast on him by Warlock. He believed Arthur had told him my son was guilty of raping and murdering a four-year-old child. He wasn’t, of course, but Davon had no reason to doubt the man he believed to be his leader. A man who told him that unless he killed Jimmy, Jimmy would kill again. I believe he was as much a victim of Warlock as Jimmy, and I have forgiven him for what he did.”

Astonished whispers swept over the crowd. Some seemed surprised that he’d believe Warlock existed at all, while others were outraged that he’d suggest their mythic hero would commit such a crime.

“And why would I do such a thing?” The voice was all velvet seduction, tinged with a note of fatherly sorrow.

Davon jerked around and stared. The huge white werewolf stood at the edge of the trees, an armored warrior in human form standing just behind him like a bodyguard. He was the first werewolf Davon had ever seen in armor. Mailed gauntlets covered his hands and forearms, a chest plate stretched over his massive torso, and long tassets swung at his hips. The armor was black, with intricately engraved silver panels. He carried a huge battle-axe with rubies inset in the point between the blades. A helmet that resembled a crown covered his head.

“Warlock!” someone gasped. “It’s Warlock!”

Oh, shit,
Davon thought.

“Merlin gave Arthur a great trust—to guide mankind into a bright future.” Warlock paced forward on clawed feet, his white fur seeming to shine with its own light. “But Arthur has failed. Anyone who has ever watched CNN knows that much. Chaos wracks this world—mad assassins, terrorists, religious fanatics killing anyone who doesn’t believe exactly as they do. Is this the world Merlin wanted?”

Warlock turned toward the crowd and spread his clawed hands. “Is this the world you want to give your children?”

“No!” a man yelled.

“Of course not.” Warlock paced on. Davon’s gaze slid to the bodyguard following the werewolf like a shadow, a two-handed great sword sheathed across his back. His plate armor was matte black; he was barely visible even to Davon’s vampire vision. A helmet covered his face completely, making him appear menacing and faceless.

A chill made gooseflesh rise on Davon’s arms. Something told him he was looking at his executioner.

“This world convulses with war, thousands starving while others die of obesity,” Warlock continued. “Countries lurch along guided by fools and costly bureaucracies that accomplish little beyond giving idiots work. Meanwhile, what does Arthur do?”

He pivoted to face the crowd, and his voice lifted into a contemptuous roar. “I’ll tell you what he does—
nothing!
Yet he has the means to take the chaos in hand instead of allowing it to thrive. Think of the power at his disposal. Thousands of witches who could make humans believe whatever he pleases, who can transport his vampire warriors wherever he likes to kill terrorists and madmen and murderers. Arthur’s witches give him the power to ensure the hungry are fed, to heal diseases of the body and mind, to persuade leaders to follow him. And he does
nothing.
”

His voice dropped, forcing the crowd to strain to listen. “Nothing except send his killers to kill our children. And blame
me
for his crimes. Me!”

A rumble of outrage rolled over the listening werewolves, and Davon’s heart sank. His gaze flicked to Warlock’s silent bodyguard shadow, and sweat broke out along his spine. Bound as he was, he could do nothing to defend himself.

But damned if he would stand here any longer and listen to this self-serving shit. “Arthur wouldn’t do such a thing!” Davon yelled. “He . . .”

“Silence, murderer!” Warlock flicked his fingers, and Davon’s vocal chords locked, producing nothing more than a strained croak. “You’ve admitted your crime. The rest is lies. I will not allow you to hoodwink my people the way you did that poor boy’s father.”

Why didn’t Warlock smell like the liar he was?
Davon wondered in helpless fury. Tanner’s lies had burned the air, as sharp and obvious as the stink of urine, but Warlock smelled like a man speaking the absolute truth.
He must be using magic to mask the odor. Werewolves can resist magic, but if he’s not casting the spell
on
them, but on himself . . .

“Arthur blames me because he knows I have the strength he lacks.” Warlock curled a hand into a massive fist. “He knows my people have the strength to lead the humans, instead of cowering in the shadows like his.” His gaze swept across the audience, blazing with a fanatic’s certainty. “You all have so much potential, more than you even dream of. You are the descendents of warriors—my bold Chosen knights who fought at my side so many centuries ago. I can help you realize that potential, become the fighters Merlin intended you to be. And together, we can lead Humanity into a new future . . .”

“I have never heard such a stream of bullshit in my entire life.”

Davon’s head whipped around, and his heart leaped in joy.

Arthur Pendragon had just stepped through a dimensional gate. He was dressed in full plate armor, the enchanted steel shining in the moonlight, faint golden sparks trailing him as he moved. The Knights of the Round Table strode behind him, like a wall of steel at his back. Their ladies moved alongside them, also in armor, all silent, gleaming beauty.

More gates appeared around the picnic grounds, making the air dance, big shimmering ovals that disgorged armored knights who immediately moved into position around the werewolves.

“Hey, they’re surrounding us!” someone shouted. The werewolves sprang to their feet with cries of alarm.

Magic exploded across the grounds in a series of blue detonations. In moments, the area was packed with Direwolves who glared at the warriors in defiance. Growls rumbled, and the light wind carried the reek of fear and fur and rage.

Oh, sweet Jesus
, Davon thought.
This situation is about to go straight to hell
.

 

Belle stood at
Tristan’s side, just to Arthur’s right. The werewolves, realizing they were surrounded, backed away from their armored foes, some of the women whining softly in anxiety as the men growled. It was like listening to a huge chainsaw.

“Oh,”
Belle thought into the Truebond,
“I don’t like the way this looks.”

“Sorry.”
But it was absently said. His attention was focused on Warlock. “I think Fido there is about to make his move,” he murmured to Arthur.

“Yeah. He’s letting ’em stew. Then he’s going to come to the rescue.” There was a note of lazy cynicism to Magus’s voice. “Funny how dictators always follow a pattern.”

They sound so damn calm
, thought Belle wildly.

We’ve been at it a while, darlin
’, Tristan said in the Bond. Evidently he’d picked up the thought. She was going to have to learn to shield the ones she didn’t want him to hear.
“And we’re not really all that calm.”

Actually, he was. Through the bond, it felt as though Tristan stood in the eye of a hurricane, his mind cool and crystalline in the face of all the violent emotion swirling among the werewolves. When Belle glanced up and down the line of Round Table knights, she saw the same watchful stillness in their faces.

Tristan’s mind touched hers, enveloped her fear like comforting fingers clasping a shaking hand. She felt her battle nerves drain away.
“You’ve done this before, Belle. And I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“We have no intention of harming any of you.” Arthur’s battlefield-trained voice cut over the werewolves’ fearful growls. “All I want is my agent returned safely from this farce of a trial. Warlock played him just as he’s trying to play you. But I assure you, the last thing Merlin would want is to see us killing each other over anyone’s lies.”

“I am not lying!” Warlock threw up a hand. A bolt of searing white energy burst from his fingers, arched high over the heads of his people, and slashed down toward Arthur and his knights. Belle threw a defensive shield up out of sheer reflex.

The curving field she created interlocked with the shields springing into place above all the other witches, forming the magical equivalent of a Greek shield wall. It was a move they’d all been practicing for years, and it had saved their collective asses more than once.

The bolt slammed into the shimmering golden wall and danced along its surface as if looking for some chink, some weak spot.

“Fuck, he’s powerful,” one of the witches gasped.

Belle, too, gritted her teeth, fighting to maintain her section of the barrier against the raging energy. Warlock definitely wasn’t playing games.

“Did that son of a bitch just throw a
lightning bolt
at us?” Gawain demanded, his worried gaze on Lark’s strained, white face.

“Yeah,” Smoke gritted, as he and Eva reinforced the Majae’s shield wall. “He does that.”

At last the bolt faded away as its energy dissipated. The witches sighed in relief, but they didn’t let the shield drop.

“How long do you think you can keep that up?” Warlock called, mockery in his voice. “Because I have plenty more where that came from.” He spun his battle-axe in a showy revolution. “I’m more than a match for all your little witches, Arthur.”