Master of Smoke

head.”
    Smoke gave her a tired smile and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “No he wasn’t. You wouldn’t have let him.”
    Eva cuddled against his chest, her furry arms encircling his equally furry waist. “I don’t know about that. He’s damn fast.”
    They fell silent, clinging together like a pair of weary children, until she asked, “You think he’s dead?”
    “We’re not that fucking lucky.” Smoke wondered whether he had the energy to levitate out over the ocean and search some more, then reluctantly decided it was probably beyond him. He’d wiped out his energy reserves.
    Fortunately, he was willing to bet Warlock was in no better shape.

    When Smoke cast the communication spell with the last of his magic, he got through to Guinevere. Twenty minutes later, dozens of witches and vampires were combing the ocean and every inch of island beach. But they found nothing.
    “Do you think you got him?” Arthur asked, as the healer worked over Smoke’s collection of scrapes, bruises, and one of two really deep wounds. He was still in werecat form, since he’d been too drained to change. The healer looked tiny next to him, her hands trailing sparks as she gently traced his injuries.
    Eva was already healed; Smoke had insisted the witch work on her first. Now she watched the Maja with quiet interest, as if absorbing her techniques.
    Knowing Eva, she probably was.
    “Frankly, I suspect he’s back in that lair of his licking his wounds and plotting revenge,” Smoke told Arthur bluntly. “He stole a hell of a lot of power from Zephyr.”
    “And he was formidable even before that,” Eva put in absently.
    Arthur cursed. “So basically we’ve still got to deal with the bastard. I’ll have to talk to the Direkind Council of Chosen again, try to convince the idiots to give him up.”
    “That’s not going to happen,” Tristan said, appearing with a weary Belle at his heels. A light coat of sand covered his armor, and he looked tired and grouchy. Which was no surprise; he should be in the Daysleep now, but like Arthur, he’d woken when Belle had transported him to this night-shrouded hemisphere. “Those people really believe Warlock’s a god.”
    “And they’ll protect him to the death,” Belle added, her expression grim.
    Arthur growled. “Fanatics. Hate ’em. Every fanatic I’ve ever encountered has been a pain in my ass—including the ones who were supposed to be on my side.”
    “Yes,” Smoke said, rising to his feet, the healer’s work finished. “But I’d like to point out that you’re still here, and they’re not. We’ll find Warlock, and we’ll take him out, just like all the others.”
    “And we’ll make him pay.” Eva’s eyes flashed white, and for a moment, ghostly antlers appeared over her head. “Get his axe and he’s done. We almost had it today, but he was quicker than I thought.”
    “You do realize he’s going to come after Excalibur just as hard?” Tristan said, lifting a blond brow. “Because that sword is just as important to you as the axe is to him.”
    “He’s not going to get it.” Arthur’s hand fisted on the sword’s hilt. “Trouble is, Merlin created those bastards to defeat us, and I’ve got a really ugly feeling they’re going to give it their best shot.”

    Warlock swam in pain, his big body twitching and cold. It had taken everything he had left to create the gate back to his lair before he slammed into the ocean. He’d had just enough wit left to realize the impact probably would have killed him.
    He still needed to shift to heal the burns that covered his body from the cat’s final attack. Unfortunately, he didn’t have the power. He was going to have to endure until his magic regenerated.
    But until it did, he had plans to make.
    He’d tried to resolve this fight with Arthur with a minimum of deaths. He’d meant to kill only Pendragon’s son, which would have made the Celt easy prey. When that plan failed, he figured stealing the elemental’s power would enable him to take Arthur out. But Smoke had proven to be stronger and more powerful than he’d anticipated. At least he’d obtained Zephyr’s magic.
    He drew Kingslayer close with bloody, swollen hands and glared at the rocky ceiling of his lair. The Celt had to be brought low. And the past weeks had taught Warlock there was only one way to do it, even if it meant his own people would suffer in the process.
    “War,” he said into the silence, his voice cracked and