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Authors: Angela Knight
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teeth.
The wizard jerked the pain higher with another claw flick, then higher still. Finally Dice’s will bent to his. It took a gratifyingly long time.
“Sorry!” the biker wheezed at last. “’M sorry.”
Warlock smiled. “That’s better. Mind your tongue and show proper obedience, and we’ll get along fine.”
Then he got to work.
When Tristan strode out of the High Council building, he spotted Belle heading home, her shoulders rounded and her steps weary. Something about her pose sent a painful little twinge through his chest.
She was worrying about Davon, and he couldn’t blame her. The young doctor was obviously on the edge of doing something stupid.
Tristan set off after her. He knew he should go home, but the thought of his empty house held no appeal. Not compared to exchanging quips with his partner, who was damned good at it. He lengthened his stride until they were walking side by side.
“There’s going to be trouble with the Direkind.” Belle frowned at the toes of her boots without looking up at him.
“Well, Davon did kill that kid,” Tristan said, purely to get a rise out of her. He hated to see her looking so defeated.
He was rewarded with an angry flash of her blue-gray eyes. “He thought he was doing his duty. Anyway, they already got their pound of flesh. Cherise is dead.”
“But they’re going to want Davon.”
“They’re not getting him. If they want justice, they need to execute Warlock. There’s the bastard who deserves to die.”
“If we could prove he exists.”
Belle tilted her head back and studied the stars. “The key is that werewolf girl, Warlock’s daughter, Miranda. If we could get her in front of that council of theirs, have her do some magic and testify to her father’s existence, they’d be more likely to listen.”
Tristan’s eyes narrowed as he considered the suggestion. “That might work—if we could find her. Finding her is the problem.”
Belle sighed. “And right now, we’ve got more than enough problems to go around.”
Belle’s house was two charming stories of gray stone and arched stained-glass windows. Stone was a popular building material in the Mageverse, since it held up to the centuries better than anything else. The stained glass protected any vampire guests against the sun, and was damned pretty to boot.
A blooming riot of flowers surrounded the cottage: red roses climbing trellises, pink and white azalea bushes, pansies in multihued beds, cherry trees and magnolias. Their scents filled the air, so rich to Tristan’s vampire senses he could almost taste them on his tongue.
He followed her through the arched wooden door and through the foyer beyond, boots clicking on the red-ceramic tiled floor. As they stepped into the kitchen, his gaze lingered on Belle’s delicate back and the sweet curve of her ass. Suddenly he was intensely aware of her, the grace of her walk, the rich female scent of her hair wafting in her wake.
“Want a drink?” She strode to the fridge, a top-of-the-line stainless-steel appliance which stood among the black granite countertops. Belle was serious about her cooking. “Because I’ve got to tell you, I need one after today.”
“Sure. Got any ideas how we can find Miranda?”
She was silent a moment as she got a beer out of the refrigerator, then pulled a second bottle from a cabinet. As she poured a stream of deep red liquid into a crystal goblet, magic sparkled and glowed around the stream. The complex spell preserved the blood and kept it from clotting.
Majae needed to donate blood as desperately as Magi needed to drink it. There could be unpleasant health effects for both otherwise. Vampires would starve without the magic in a witch’s blood, while Majae could suffer strokes from a failure to donate regularly. Most single witches like Belle bottled their blood and handed it out to whoever needed it.
“Here you go. Enjoy.” She passed him the glass, corked the bottle, and put it away
The wizard jerked the pain higher with another claw flick, then higher still. Finally Dice’s will bent to his. It took a gratifyingly long time.
“Sorry!” the biker wheezed at last. “’M sorry.”
Warlock smiled. “That’s better. Mind your tongue and show proper obedience, and we’ll get along fine.”
Then he got to work.
When Tristan strode out of the High Council building, he spotted Belle heading home, her shoulders rounded and her steps weary. Something about her pose sent a painful little twinge through his chest.
She was worrying about Davon, and he couldn’t blame her. The young doctor was obviously on the edge of doing something stupid.
Tristan set off after her. He knew he should go home, but the thought of his empty house held no appeal. Not compared to exchanging quips with his partner, who was damned good at it. He lengthened his stride until they were walking side by side.
“There’s going to be trouble with the Direkind.” Belle frowned at the toes of her boots without looking up at him.
“Well, Davon did kill that kid,” Tristan said, purely to get a rise out of her. He hated to see her looking so defeated.
He was rewarded with an angry flash of her blue-gray eyes. “He thought he was doing his duty. Anyway, they already got their pound of flesh. Cherise is dead.”
“But they’re going to want Davon.”
“They’re not getting him. If they want justice, they need to execute Warlock. There’s the bastard who deserves to die.”
“If we could prove he exists.”
Belle tilted her head back and studied the stars. “The key is that werewolf girl, Warlock’s daughter, Miranda. If we could get her in front of that council of theirs, have her do some magic and testify to her father’s existence, they’d be more likely to listen.”
Tristan’s eyes narrowed as he considered the suggestion. “That might work—if we could find her. Finding her is the problem.”
Belle sighed. “And right now, we’ve got more than enough problems to go around.”
Belle’s house was two charming stories of gray stone and arched stained-glass windows. Stone was a popular building material in the Mageverse, since it held up to the centuries better than anything else. The stained glass protected any vampire guests against the sun, and was damned pretty to boot.
A blooming riot of flowers surrounded the cottage: red roses climbing trellises, pink and white azalea bushes, pansies in multihued beds, cherry trees and magnolias. Their scents filled the air, so rich to Tristan’s vampire senses he could almost taste them on his tongue.
He followed her through the arched wooden door and through the foyer beyond, boots clicking on the red-ceramic tiled floor. As they stepped into the kitchen, his gaze lingered on Belle’s delicate back and the sweet curve of her ass. Suddenly he was intensely aware of her, the grace of her walk, the rich female scent of her hair wafting in her wake.
“Want a drink?” She strode to the fridge, a top-of-the-line stainless-steel appliance which stood among the black granite countertops. Belle was serious about her cooking. “Because I’ve got to tell you, I need one after today.”
“Sure. Got any ideas how we can find Miranda?”
She was silent a moment as she got a beer out of the refrigerator, then pulled a second bottle from a cabinet. As she poured a stream of deep red liquid into a crystal goblet, magic sparkled and glowed around the stream. The complex spell preserved the blood and kept it from clotting.
Majae needed to donate blood as desperately as Magi needed to drink it. There could be unpleasant health effects for both otherwise. Vampires would starve without the magic in a witch’s blood, while Majae could suffer strokes from a failure to donate regularly. Most single witches like Belle bottled their blood and handed it out to whoever needed it.
“Here you go. Enjoy.” She passed him the glass, corked the bottle, and put it away
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