Master of Smoke

then. But don’t be surprised if they’re hostile.”

    Tristan and Belle followed Joan into the elegant living room as the knight gave their surroundings his professional paranoid’s glower. Belle could almost hear him ticking off the findings: A sprawling fireplace had brass andirons that could be used as weapons. The coffee table and end tables were slabs of gleaming white marble veined in gold. A werewolf could probably lift the table and swing it like a battering ram, or break off the curving brass legs for sinister purposes. Art Deco bronzes of women danced here and there, long skirts swirling around them; Tris was probably imagining them used as blunt objects.
    Belle’s attention was diverted by the huge painting that hung, flanked by the bronzes, over the fireplace. It depicted George Devon Jr. sitting in a massive chair, more throne than anything else. His wife stood behind him with one hand on his shoulder as his two children leaned on either arm, the boy blond, the girl a redhead. Somehow Joan looked very alone surrounded by her family, her large, dark eyes filled with secrets and sadness.
    By contrast, her children and husband looked as if they knew themselves to be the center of the universe. Yet she was the only one of the four still alive.
    The real Joan spoke with a sweeping gesture at them that snapped Belle out of her preoccupation. “I’m pleased to introduce Lord Tristan, Knight of the Round Table, and Lady La Belle Coeur.”
    “We’ve come to convey the sympathies of the Magekind Court to Mrs. Devon,” Tristan said with a courtly bow. He did have pretty manners when it suited him.
    “Very kind,” said a round-faced lady in frosty tones, narrowing green eyes surrounded by too much makeup. “Considering you killed them.”
    “No, actually, they did not,” Joan said in a clear, cold voice. “And they are guests in my home. I would beg you to respect the hospitality I extend to all.” Without giving anyone a chance to respond, she began a complicated round of introductions Belle carefully committed to memory.
    Two of the other women looked sour at the introductions, while three stared as coldly as the plump woman. One looked nervous, and the young woman next to her showed no emotion at all. Judging by the particular shade of red hair they shared, they were mother and daughter.
    It was the girl who brought Belle’s instincts to quivering attention. She was pretty in a long-boned, angular way, tall and slim, yet with a certain wiry strength in the line of her shoulders. Her eyes were a clear, bright amber that verged on gold, markedly different from her mother’s emerald green. Definitely not a combination you saw in humans without benefit of hair dye and contacts. Belle was willing to bet the odd coloring was genuine in this girl. But what really riveted her attention was the power that swirled around the girl in a cloud that was almost visible.
    Magic surrounded all the women, of course, but it was Dire Wolf magic, deep and blue and cool, not the busy dancing gold of the Magekind. Any spell cast on one of the Direkind seemed to roll right off like water on a raincoat.
    This girl’s magic sizzled and popped like oil on a hot griddle. Its sheer steaming heat made Belle instantly wary. If she proved as hostile as the glares they were getting from everyone else, Belle and Tristan were in serious trouble.
    On the other hand, this girl was a werewolf who obviously used magic. Warlock was a werewolf who used magic. Maybe she knew something about Warlock. Finding out was definitely worth the risk of a magical brawl in the middle of a werewolf tea party.
    Merlin help them all.
    Introductions complete, Joan ushered Tristan and Belle to a love seat, a piece of irony that was not lost on Belle.
    As their hostess rang for more tea, Belle put a hand on Tristan’s brawny knee. He started and shot her a what-the-hell-are-you-doing look. She gave him a get-over-yourself eyebrow lift and silently cast a communication spell. “Do you see that girl?”
    “Little hard to miss her. She’s lit up like the Eiffel Tower on New Year’s Day.”
    “It strikes me she might know something about Warlock. Do what you do best, Tristan.”
    One corner of his firm lips quirked upward as if he imagined she meant something a hell of a lot more complimentary than what she had in mind. “And what would that be?”
    “Annoy the hell out of everybody while I see if I can establish communication.”
    “As my lady