Master of Shadows (Mageverse, Band 8) - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Angela Knight is the USA Today bestselling author of the Mageverse series and the Warlord series for Berkley Books. She has also written for Red Sage, Changeling Press, Loose Id and Ellora's Cave. Besides her novels, Angela’s publishing career includes a stint as a comic book writer and ten years as a newspaper reporter. Several of her stories won South Carolina Press Association awards under her real name. Angela lives in South Carolina with her husband, Michael, a polygraph examiner and hostage negotiator for the county's Sheriff's Office.

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Chapter One

“What do you do when they order you to kill?”

The conversation instantly died as every witch and vampire in the room turned to stare at Davon Fredericks. Davon did not flinch under the weight of those incredulous stares. He’d been a trauma surgeon before becoming a vampire, and he’d never lacked balls. He just gazed at Belle, his chocolate eyes level and troubled. He was a big man in his jeans and dark blue oxford shirt, broad shoulders stretching the fabric as he leaned forward, elbows on knees. His curling black hair was cut close to his scalp, emphasizing the strong, handsome lines of his face—the full lips, the broad cheekbones, the wide swoop of his nose. His skin was precisely the color of milk chocolate, smooth and clear, with a faint, creamy gleam.

Belle looked up at him from the plates of hors d’oeuvres on the coffee table, a stuffed mushroom halfway to her mouth. “Why do you ask?”

A muscle flexed in his chiseled jaw, and he looked up at the CONGRATULATIONS, DAVON AND CHERISE! banner hanging across the back of the den.

Belle had designed the room especially for the dinner parties she loved to throw, with two big white leather L-shaped sectionals arranged around a low, square coffee table. Davon’s brooding gaze dropped to the table, flicking among the trays and bottles that crowded it. He chose a beer and opened it with a violent twist of one strong hand. “I was just wondering.”

Now all twenty of her guests looked uneasy. Ten vampires and ten witches, Asian, black, Caucasian, Latino, all of them wet behind the ears. Though they were either in their early thirties, like Davon, or late twenties, none of them had been Magekind for longer than a few months. Well, except for Cherise Myers.

And Belle herself, who had been around one hell of a lot longer than that. She sighed and decided she’d better scotch this concern before they all started obsessing about it. “First off, none of you is going to be ordered to kill anybody.” She dropped the mushroom on her plate and used a toothpick to skewer a couple of cheese cubes from a tray. “If someone needs killing, Arthur will send one of the Knights of the Round Table.”

Like Tristan, who had been avoiding her for the past month. She curled a lip and stabbed a cheddar cube through its cold, imaginary heart.

“But . . .” Cherise began, only to fall silent with a glance at Davon, who sat beside her on the sectional. Each promptly looked away from the other, as if they’d synchronized their chins. Cherise looked delicate as a fairy next to big, broad Davon. She had a heart-shaped face, enormous blue eyes, and a tumble of blond hair that made her look like she’d just stepped off the cover of a romance novel. Yet a solid buzz of power radiated from her, and intelligence lit those blue eyes.

So what was with the grimness that thinned the line of her full mouth?

Frowning, Belle eyed the couple. They’d returned from their first mission a few days before, which was the whole point of this get-together. Belle always threw her boys a party to celebrate that first-mission milestone. You’re a real Magus now, kid.

There was more to being a Magekind vampire—a Magus—than having a set of fangs. You had to save the world, too.

Whether the world liked it or not.

But Cherise Myers was no green recruit; she’d been a Maja for several years now. A steady, intelligent young witch, she had just enough power to handle most jobs without getting dangerously cocky about it. Belle had been pleased Davon had been assigned to her.

So why were they acting so twitchy now, when neither was the twitchy sort? “Look, Arthur doesn’t make the decision to kill humans lightly. You’ve got to be a career asshole along the lines of Osama bin Laden to make him decide to take you out.”

Richard Spotted Horse looked up from pouring himself a glass from one of the bottles of donated blood each of the witches had brought. He cocked a dark eyebrow. “But why not just cast a spell on Osama to make him give up the terrorist business?”

“Wouldn’t work,” she said, and noticed that Davon was now pointedly avoiding her gaze. She’d have to pull him aside after the party and make him spill whatever was bothering him. Nobody had appointed Belle den mother to the men she’d recruited; she just couldn’t help herself. “Once a murderous attitude becomes deeply engrained, you can’t wipe it out of a subject’s mind no matter how much magic you use.”

“So why is he still alive?” Davon picked up a chocolate-covered strawberry, then dropped it back on the tray as if remembering he didn’t eat anymore.

Belle laughed. “Oh, chéri, the fights the council had over that subject. We finally decided killing him would just make him a martyr, which is the last thing we need right now. There are enough psychos in the Islamist movement that the loss of one wouldn’t even put a dent in it. I . . .”

“Belle, we’ve got a mission.” The familiar male voice rang across the room, cutting her off as a shaft of helpless longing stabbed through her. Which instantly pissed her off. Tristan.

The knight filled the doorway with his height and swordsman’s solid brawn. He was dressed all in black. He would be, she thought. A black knit shirt tucked into black jeans over soft black boots, the darkness broken only by the glint of the silver belt-buckle at his narrow waist. His hair fell around his shoulders in thick, blond strands that gleamed like expensive silk.

Tristan had the face of a Renaissance warrior, long and square-jawed, his cheekbones precise juts, with sculpted hollows and a determined chin. His mouth was wide and far too sensual for her peace of mind. His eyes glittered vividly green under his thick blond brows demanding and more than a little arrogant. .“Sorry to interrupt your party, but I’ve got a nasty situation on my hands.”

Belle gave him a smile sweet enough to rot the fangs right out of his head. The kids, of course, were staring at him in hero-worshipping awe. “Come on in, Tristan.” Since you already let yourself in my house without knocking. “We’re celebrating Davon’s first mission.”

“Congratulations.” Tristan didn’t even glance over at him. “Look, Belle, I’ve got a pissed-off werewolf waiting for me. It’s kind of urgent.”

She bared her teeth. They weren’t fangs, but they apparently got the message across; he flinched. “I’ll be happy to open a gate for you to go meet your fuzzy friend, but I’m a little too busy to accompany you just now. I’ll join you once the party’s over.” Damned if he was going to stroll into her house and start ordering her around. Not when he’d been treating her like a Black Plague victim for weeks.

“Belle, if you need to go on a job, we can clean up,” Cherise said earnestly.

“I think we can all be trusted not to get drunk and trash the place.” Richard gave her a lazy grin, shameless flirt that he was.

Tristan glowered at him before turning the glare on her. “Look, I realize I’m interrupting fun and games with your . . . boys, but the Direkind needs us to investigate a murder. And they’re convinced magic was involved.”

Belle stared, making the instant leap. “Warlock.”

“That’s my thought.”

“A murder?” one of the kids asked. “Who?”

“What happened?” Davon looked...