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weapons—everything from box cutters to an Uzi, stashed everywhere from boot-tops to shoulder holsters. He’d even found a garrote in Dice’s jacket pocket. He’d put the weapons on the bar, then methodically kicked the ass of anyone who seemed to even think about going after the pile.
    Between the magical pyrotechnics and all eight fanged and furry feet of Warlock, the bikers had been too damned intimidated and exhausted to try anything. Though Dice had given it serious thought, according to the magical link Warlock had formed with the biker’s mind.
    Now that the point had been made, it was time to go. A flick of the wizard’s clawed hands opened a dimensional gate wide enough for the entire crowd. A second gesture swept them all up and blew them through the opening like autumn leaves in a windstorm.
    Humming softly, Warlock sauntered after them into the cavern that was his mountain sanctuary.
    The network of caves he called home inhabited the heart of one of the Appalachian mountains, deep in western North Carolina. He’d transported his victims into the cavern that served as his workshop.
    He’d used his magic to dig niches in the stone walls marching from the cavern floor to its ceiling. They were filled with countless books, the magical tomes he’d both written and collected over fifteen centuries. There were jars, too, filled with the herbs and potions he used in his spells. A long worktable occupied the one wall empty of niches, its wooden surface scarred in places from Warlock’s claws and blades. A few burns and stains showed where potions had spilled or spells had backfired.
    The center of the room was dominated by an immense inlaid silver spell circle. He’d chalked the ancient sigils of his latest spell creation around the circle that morning, while he’d done the preliminary work.
    Now he immobilized fourteen of the bikers on the floor, arranging them carefully inside the circle like the spokes of a wheel, their heads at its hub, heels just inside the silver ring.
    He hung Dice in midair over his companions’ heads, supported by a glowing framework of magic in the exact center of the circle.
    “What . . .” The man gasped, blinking down at him, half blind with pain. “What are you doing to us?” Warlock had been forced to get quite firm with him, breaking several ribs and giving him a nasty little concussion. But under the circumstances, he’d have been disappointed if Dice hadn’t fought.
    “Solving a problem that has been bothering me for some time.”
    “What kind of . . . problem?” Not that Dice cared. Warlock knew he was just trying to distract himself so he wouldn’t give his captor the satisfaction of screaming in agony.
    He really was perfect.
    “I had originally intended to recruit you and your men as my new Bastards, since the last team was killed by my enemies. But it occurred to me that you’d fail just as they did, especially going up against the Knights of the Round Table. I needed a new plan.” He gestured at the spell circle around them. “And this is it. Werewolf magic, combined with the elemental’s sorcery to create a new kind of warrior.”
    “Knights of the . . . ?” Dice peered at him, bleary with pain and the bite’s magic. “What the flying fuck are you talking about?”
    “Patience, my son. Soon the pain will be gone, and you will see what a gift I’m about to give you.”
    “I ain’t your son.” Anger gave his voice strength. “What ‘gift’?”
    “Power.” Warlock threw his clawed hands wide, sending magic dancing in the air around him. “More power than you can imagine. Enough to kill my enemies and help me fulfill my destiny.”
    Dice curled his lip in a sneer, though he looked a little white around the eyes. “I ain’t gonna help you do shit.”
    There was admirable defiance, and then there was insubordination. “Now, that was not an acceptable remark.” Warlock flicked his claws, and Dice screamed as pain ripped him like buzz saw