Master of Smoke

beautiful eyes go blind in climax.
    David collapsed onto the mattress and hauled her over on top of him. Struggling to get his breath, he savored the way she felt lying across him like a sweet-smelling scarf, silken hair tumbled across his skin, tangled with his own.
    “I’ve come up with a sidekick for Anaconda Man,” she murmured sleepily.
    “Oh?”
    “Her name is Noodle Woman. She’s not much of a sidekick. Just kinda lies there with her eyes rolled back in her head and a sated smile on her face. But she drives all the female super-villains crazy.”
    He laughed, savoring the sound of her giggle.
    Then a thought wiped the grin off his face. How can I keep them from killing her? How can I keep from hurting her?

“The car is registered to Eva Naomi Roman,” the werewolf said. “She lives at 605 Millview Road, Building Five, Apartment E-8, Greendale, South Carolina. I checked the Dire Wolf rolls, but she’s not registered.”
    Warlock grunted in satisfaction. Joe Byrnes was the Bastards’ computer hacker. Five minutes after Warlock gave him the car tag number Danvers had called in, Byrnes had the desired information.
    “She must be a Bitten rogue,” Warlock said thoughtfully. It was, of course, strictly forbidden to give a human the Bite without informing the local clan. It was too easy to create a rogue who had no knowledge of what it meant to be a Dire Wolf—and who was therefore a danger to everyone else. “She was probably one of Trey Devon’s victims. He always was an idiot. I’m not surprised he couldn’t control his Bite.” Trey had murdered women for years, until a Maja who was the sister of one of his victims tracked him down and killed him.
    That Trey had slaughtered all those women meant nothing to Warlock, but he was deeply irritated that the case had attracted Arthur’s attention. The Magekind always slew their own mad rogues; the Direkind’s inability to do the same pricked his ego. Adding insult to injury, one of the Magekind had cleaned up his mess.
    To make matters worse, Trey’s father had set out to avenge his son’s death, only to fail miserably despite Warlock’s assistance. Arthur’s son, Logan MacRoy, had survived all his assassination attempts. The only positive thing that had come out of the incident was Warlock’s acquisition of Smoke’s power.
    Warlock considered the members of Geri team as they lined up in his throne room. They’d all transformed to face him—four big, capable wolves. Unfortunately, Skoll had been just as tough, just as capable, but they’d still fallen to Smoke’s merciless skill.
    “We’re going to try something a little different this time,” Warlock told them.
    The wolves moved closer to listen.

    This, Tristan thought, as he pulled up to Joan Devon’s sprawling brick McMansion, is going to be one of those missions. The kind where you rammed your head repeatedly against a brick wall with nothing to show for it except a bloody skull.
    They’d been hunting Smoke and/or Warlock for the past few days with zero success. Tristan figured the cat was dead and buried in an unmarked grave somewhere. Which sucked, because he’d liked the fuzzy little bastard. Warlock—well, nobody knew nothing, which was a sure sign everybody was lying.
    He was starting to hate werewolves. What the fuck had Merlin been thinking?
    “She’s got company,” Belle observed, as he parked the canary yellow Porsche 911 behind a charcoal gray BMW, one of a number of very expensive cars parked along the tree-lined street. “Should we come back later?”
    “Nope. Prime opportunity to meet new werewolves and listen to them lie through their pointy white teeth.”
    Belle eyed him with disfavor as they got out of the car. Moonlight skated along her high cheekbones and the pure line of her nose, then explored the hint of cleavage revealed by her cream lace blouse. He was beginning to give serious thought to seducing her. “You’re a cynic, Tristan.”
    He shrugged. “People lie. Some are hiding something, some don’t want to get involved, and some just for shits and giggles. The trick is to figure out who’s lying for a reason, and then dig at them until you can pry out a truth or two.” Luckily, he’d been listening to lies for so long, he’d gotten good at classifying them. He now considered himself a gourmet of prevarication.
    “But Arthur said Joan Devon told them the truth. If we question her in front of other wolves, we’re not going to get anything