Master of Smoke

invading aliens who lived on the energy of human suffering. We needed hands, and all we had were paws. Good body for killing, less so for leading a tribe. And there was a priestess who wanted us.” Fang stopped, and his features suddenly contorted in feral rage as if at some horrible memory. “We should have killed her instead of loving her. Bitch. Oh, foul, foul bitch. We killed her too late.”
    Which sounded like her cue for a subject change. “Ah, yeah. So, about this Warlock character. How did you end up locking horns with him?”
    “He was trying to kill the son of Arthur Pendragon—”
    Eva damn near ran off the road. “King Arthur?”
    Fang nodded. “So he was, once. Now he leads the vampires of Avalon.”
    Eva rubbed her aching head. “Of course. What else would he do? Jesus.”

    Power surged and sang in Warlock again, and he shuddered at the drugging pleasure. Gods and devils, but it was sweet having such magic burning wild and alien in his soul, ready to leap to his will.
    And I’m not giving it back. He snapped his jaws together, crunching imaginary bone. Soon he’d have Smoke dead and the power safe, beyond anyone’s ability to strip away.
    But first he’d have to find out what had gone wrong.
    The dimensional gateway formed at a flick of his clawed fingers, and he stepped through, every sense wary and alert.
    An empty field lay around him, silent except for the sigh of the wind through rustling kudzu. But when he inhaled, the smell of blood and death coated the inside of his nose. Frowning, he followed the scent.
    He found what was left of the Skoll team lying in crushed green leaves sticky and splattered with drying blood. Striding around the corpses, he mentally reconstructed the combat with eyes that had seen fifteen centuries of war.
    At first Warlock wondered if Smoke had changed to his great cat form in order to kill his warriors. The godling had done it before. But no—these wounds had been inflicted with a blade, swung with great force and equal skill.
    And tremendous rage.
    Smoke hadn’t just killed the Dire Wolves, he’d butchered them. Warlock was reluctantly impressed, considering that each of his wolves outweighed Smoke’s human form by two hundred pounds and topped him by more than a foot. Yet he’d overwhelmed them.
    Warlock would just have to make sure the next team didn’t underestimate the cat. Nothing less than Smoke’s death was acceptable.
    It was just as unacceptable for the mortal police to stick their noses into this business. And they would, if they found all these werewolf corpses. That would draw the attention of their media, which would alert the Celt and his knights. I don’t want to confront Arthur until I have gained control of my power. Then I’ll kill him.
    With a sweeping gesture, Warlock sent a wave of magic rippling across the field. Everywhere it touched, sparks devoured the corpses of his men and eliminated every bloodstain, every crushed leaf, every broken stem. Even the Hummer and the two motorcycles disappeared, their component energy stored for later use as thundering blasts of magic. When it was done, there was no sign anyone had ever fought and died here.
    Warlock summoned another gate and stalked through it, back to his lair deep in the mountains of North Carolina.
    It was a damn good thing Danvers had called during the chase to report the tag number of the girl’s car. Otherwise Warlock would have no idea how to find her. As it was, the Fenir team’s computer hacker would be able to track her.
    And where she was, they’d find Smoke.

    Fluffy did not, as a rule, like cats. But she sure liked Fang.
    Actually, Eva didn’t blame her. Now that she’d figured out where the hell they were, and Fang had finished his mind-blowing story—witches, vampires, and god cats, may Jesus have mercy—she was feeling a little better about life.
    Besides, Fang looked way too much like David, flavored with just a hint of Animal Planet. There was heat in his burning blue eyes, and his pupils were fat black ovals he kept fixed on her.
    His shoulders looked very broad in that short-sleeve knit shirt.
    She had a thing for shoulders. Also biceps that looked thick and round and bite-able. Add a narrow waist and a truly world-class ass ... Come to think of it, she liked the whole damned package.
    Especially the package.
    Oh, yum, Fluffy purred. I want.

    She smelled like sex.
    Cat breathed deeply, drinking her scent, the femininity brushed with traces of fur