Master of Smoke

he’d stay just close enough to protect her from whatever hell Warlock rained down on them.
    He definitely shouldn’t make love to her at every opportunity, ensuring that his obsession with her only deepened.
    Because the deeper he got, the more likely it was to blow up in his face. True, the sheer lush pleasure of loving her might be worth whatever pain he suffered at the end.
    But what if Eva ended up hurt?
    No, that wasn’t acceptable.
    Unfortunately, he strongly suspected he wasn’t going to be able to keep his hands off her. His arms unconsciously tightened around her, and she sighed in her sleep. Her breath puffed against his mouth, and he looked down at her. God, he wanted to kiss her.
    Idiot.
    David ended up watching the sun rise through the bedroom window, red light spilling across the sky like blood. An omen that was just a little too damned apt.

    Joelle Drake’s delicate hand closed hard around the orange half, squeezing a stream of juice from it with easy Dire Wolf strength. The air smelled of the eggs, bacon, and pancakes she’d just prepared, but she wasn’t hungry. Still, it felt good to be busy, especially since she was making Miranda’s favorite breakfast. The smell of it would hopefully lure the girl off the couch, where she’d been sulking her way through a Bones marathon. Probably looking for grisly inspiration while she plotted matricide.
    Sticking her head around the door frame, Joelle checked on her daughter. She still lay sprawled under an Afghan, looking like a glum ghost. Even the sight of a shirtless David Boreanaz failed to cheer her up.
    Joelle’s lips tightened, and she retreated back into the kitchen to slice another orange in half with a single angry pass of her knife. She’d barely slept the night before, haunted by guilt and worry. She knew her daughter viewed her call to Gerald as the worst kind of betrayal.
    And maybe she was right. Unfortunately, Miranda didn’t realize what Gerald was capable of. Joelle knew from hard, bloody experience. It wasn’t just what he did to Joelle; those injuries would heal.
    It was what he might do to Miranda that had driven Joelle to pick up the phone.
    Grabbing another orange half, Joelle gave it a vicious squeeze, watching it bleed juice into the pitcher. She wished she could get Miranda to accept there was no escape for either of them. Even if Joelle had run away with the girl—and she’d considered it more than once over the years—there was no evading Warlock for very long.
    They’d have to work to support themselves, which meant there was no practical way they could remain together at all times.
    True, as long as Joelle remained with her daughter, the sorcerer would be unable to track them because her resistance to magic would shield the girl. Unfortunately, Randy was a magic user, so she wasn’t immune to spells. The minute the two separated, Warlock would have her. And he’d be pissed, so he’d go after Miranda like a wolf on a lamb. Joelle shuddered, imagining what he’d do to her then.
    Miranda thought she’d seen abuse in Gerald’s slaps and scratches. She had no bloody idea what a werewolf was really capable of. And Warlock—mad, vicious, powerful Warlock—was inclined to do much worse.
    Joelle had tried to explain all that, but Miranda insisted she could find a way to shield herself from Warlock’s magic. Joelle knew better. No spell was that good.
    Judging the pitcher full enough, she put it on the table with the rest of the food and walked to the doorway again. “Miranda, breakfast is ready.”
    Randy didn’t even glance away from the TV. “I told you I’m not hungry.”
    “And I told you you’re going to eat. Get in here.”
    With a sigh, Miranda rose and trudged into the kitchen. She’d always been an obedient child, and the habit had fortunately persisted into adulthood.
    Joelle watched her drop into a chair and mechanically fill her plate. She sat down and followed suit.
    The silence that followed was a sullen thing, but Joelle knew how to break it. “The Chosen ladies are holding a Grieving for Joan Devon. Her husband and daughter were killed a few days ago, and she lost her son at Christmas.” She sighed and forked up a bite of pancake, chewed, swallowed. “That poor woman. So much tragedy.”
    Miranda snorted. “Her son was a serial killer who was killed by the sister of one of his victims, who just happened to be a Maja. As for Joan’s husband and daughter, those two murdered a dozen