Master of Smoke

his powers back. Because he would. Eventually Smoke’s spirit would call the magic back to him, and it would answer that call. Only the cat’s death would allow Warlock to keep his stolen abilities.
    Should I do it myself? It would be easy. Stripped of his magic, Smoke would be unable to defend himself.
    But what if proximity allowed Smoke to draw on his powers? What if they jumped back to him when Warlock got within killing range? Now that he’d tasted the cat’s magic, he knew he definitely didn’t want to be on the receiving end of it.
    So, no.
    Fortunately, he had plenty of killers at his disposal. Handpicked murderers he’d bitten to create Dire Wolves. Those men feared him so much they would do anything for him.
    Even kill a god.

    Miranda Drake sprawled on her belly on her pink lace canopied bed, reading Guilty Pleasures for something like the fifteenth time. Whenever she got particularly depressed, she liked to read about Anita Blake kicking monster ass. Especially since kicking any kind of ass was something Miranda was never allowed to do.
    Thus the whole depression thing.
    She supposed it could have been worse. The house she lived in was a thirty-room Gilded Age mansion with high walls of cream stone and a low-pitched roofline. It had been home to Drake werewolves since 1898, and it was drafty and pretentious as hell. Miranda’s very pink bedroom was better suited to a tween than the twenty-four-year-old she was.
    But at least she had books.
    Anita was locking horns with Jean Claude when her mother tapped on the door. “Miranda?” Without waiting for permission, Joelle walked in. She paused with one nervous hand on the doorknob, a too-thin, perpetually wary woman in a Vera Wang tank dress. Its flowing emerald silk contrasted with the flaming red tumble of her hair. All that color only emphasized her pale skin and the dark hollows under her green eyes.
    Miranda looked up, frowning in surprise. Her mother normally had more respect for her privacy. Unlike her stepfather, who usually barged in like a man hoping to catch her at something.
    Her surprise became unease when Harold Worthington sauntered in at her mother’s heels, an expression of ugly anticipation on his handsome face. Worthington was a big man, tall and powerfully built, with silver threading his black hair. Dressed in a tailored pin-striped gray suit with a red power tie, he looked like a bank CEO. Which was exactly what he was.
    He was also a very big, very nasty werewolf.
    None of which explained what the hell he was doing in here. Her parents had never let any male in her bedroom before.
    Miranda rolled off her bed and faced the two warily. “What’s this about, Mom?”
    Joelle licked her lips and pasted a too-bright smile on her face. “Randy, you remember Mr. Worthington—uh, Harold. He’s been a friend of the family for years.”
    “Yes, but he generally doesn’t make a habit of coming into my bedroom.” She met her mother’s gaze. “Especially not during my Burning Moon.”
    Worthington grinned at her. “Then I’d think you’d be glad to see me. Leave us alone, Joelle.” He gave the order without even looking at her mother.
    Joelle hesitated, her expression torn. “This is what your father wants, Miranda.”
    Oh, fuck. “What about what I want, Mother?”
    “That’s not even relevant, Miranda. Get out, Joelle.”
    “This isn’t your house, Harry,” Randy spat. “You don’t tell my mother what to do in her own home.”
    “Miranda, please don’t make this harder than it has to be. Please!” Joelle turned and fled. The door banged closed behind her.
    So much for mother love.
    Randy stared at the older man coldly. Her heart was hammering, and she wanted to throw up, but she kept the fear and dread from her face. She’d perfected an expressionless mask before she could read. “If you think I’m going to sleep with you, you’re out of your mind.”
    “Do you really think you have any say in this?” He tossed his jacket on her bed and went to work on the gold cuff links fastening his French cuffs. “Warlock wants you pregnant, and I’m going to make sure he gets what he wants.”
    Yeah, that’s what she’d figured. “I’m not going to let you rape me, Harry.”
    He looked up from tucking his cuff links into his pants pocket. “You’re in your Burning Moon, my dear. It won’t be rape for long.”
    Some part of her growled in agreement—her wolf had been denied a lover for far too many years. She