Master of Smoke

out of her.”
    “No, but we can always come back to her later. And we might be able to shake something loose from one of the others.” They walked up the gracefully curving brick steps to the colonnaded porch. The mahogany door had a beveled glass insert depicting the family’s coat of arms: a wolf rampant over a pair of crossed swords.
    Tristan glanced at Belle, to find her rolling her eyes. They shared a snort at pretentious werewolves before he rang the doorbell.
    A blond woman answered the door dressed in what was obviously a uniform of black slacks and a white blouse. She carried that particular magical buzz Tristan associated with werewolves. “Yes?”
    “We’re here to see Joan Devon,” Tristan said, and used their true names rather than the identities he gave mortals. “Sir Tristan and La Belle Coeur.”
    “Oh!” The maid’s eyes widened, and she looked flustered as she realized he was a Knight of the Round Table. “Please come in.” She ushered them to a sitting room off the foyer, then hustled off.
    Maybe this wasn’t going to be as bad as he’d assumed.
    Nah. Anytime he even thought things might not be an utter disaster, a clusterfuck was a virtual certainty.
    “I thought she was going to ask for your autograph,” Belle murmured.
    “Hey, at least all that hero worship got us in the door,” Tristan pointed out. “Though—a Dire Wolf maid?”
    “Even werewolves need jobs.”
    They’d barely found seats in a pair of comfortable armchairs when a slim, middle-aged woman ghosted in. And ghost was definitely the word. She was so pale, even her skillful makeup couldn’t hide the circles under her big brown eyes. Tristan thought she might actually be pretty, if not for the emotional stake in her heart. It’s a bitch being collateral damage. She wore a stark black dress with a single string of pearls, and her dark hair was styled in a chignon.
    The woman offered her hand as Tristan and Belle stood to greet her. Her fingers felt brittle as sticks of ice in his hand. “I’m Joan Devon.” Her smile looked strained. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sir Tristan. And you, of course, La Belle Coeur.”
    “We regret disturbing you at such a painful time,” Belle told her, sympathy lighting her lovely eyes. “And we’re deeply sorry for your loss. Is there anything we can do?”
    “No, but thank you for offering.” She lifted one dark, elegant brow. “But I assume there’s something I can do for you.”
    “We’re searching for one of our people, a Sidhe shapeshifter,” Tristan explained. “He disappeared while he was trying to protect some mortal children. The kids told us he was fighting a huge white werewolf we believe was Warlock.”
    “Are you sure?” She frowned. “I’ve never heard of Warlock going into combat. He usually sends his Bastards when he wants someone killed.”
    “Bastards?” Belle asked with a quirk of the lip. A lip Tris was finding far too tempting these days ...
    Joan shrugged. “That’s what he calls his version of the Round Table. Twelve assassins.”
    “We,” Tristan said coolly, “are not assassins.”
    “No, but the Bastards definitely are. They’re greatly feared.”
    “Do you have any idea where to find Warlock or any of these Bastards?” The assassins would probably be a great source of information. Though getting them to talk would no doubt be a challenge.
    But then, Tristan enjoyed a challenge.
    She shook her head. “As I told Arthur, all I know about Warlock is what I overheard when my husband was discussing him with other members of the inner circle. Warlock considers women inferior, so I’ve never met him.”
    Though sexism had been the rule everywhere on mortal Earth until recently, it amazed Tristan that the Chosen practiced it. They had to know that Merlin and Nimue would hardly have approved.
    “We noticed there were other cars here,” Belle observed with that charming smile she did so well. The woman made an art form out of seduction. Even her own gender wasn’t immune: Joan smiled back. As for Tristan—well, he was only human. More or less. “Would it be all right if we talked to your other visitors?”
    Joan lost the smile. “They’re all women, so they know very little about Warlock. And they probably won’t tell you whatever they do know. The Chosen still regard the Magekind with suspicion.”
    “You’re probably right,” Belle said easily. “But we’d like to talk to them anyway.”
    She shrugged. “Come,