Master of Smoke

murmured a spell. Sparks of blue magic trailed her fingers.
    And the house burst into flame.
    “That’s all the warning you’re going to get from me, Warlock.” She slid into the driver’s seat and started the car.

    Belle sat six inches above the floor, her golden hair whipping back from her face on a magical wind, her eyes glowing the same milky moonstone as the pewter cat she held in one hand. Her long legs were folded in a lotus position that made Tristan’s thighs hurt just looking at them. All while wearing a black lace teddy that made her breasts look like mounds of fresh cream.
    Sadist.
    When he’d commented on her choice of magic wear, she’d told him he could always leave. Damned if he would, though, with her working some kind of potentially dangerous spell.
    So Tristan made a point of leering at her until she was so far gone in the magic that she didn’t even see him anymore. Then, and only then, did he pull up a chair and sit down to keep watch.
    The floor beneath her floating backside was covered with an intricate pattern drawn in golden light on the blue hotel room carpet. Apparently, the pattern was designed to act like a lens, gathering and focusing whatever magic Belle could pick up from the cat statue she cupped in both hands.
    She looked like she was having really good sex. Her glowing eyes were wide, her full mouth parted and glistening under a coat of that gloss stuff she wore. Tristan was getting a hard-on just looking at her.
    But then, he’d basically kept a hard-on the entire time he’d been working with her. When he didn’t want to strangle her, anyway.
    Tris hated to admit it, but he was actually enjoying himself. The Majae he’d worked with before had tended to fall into two camps: the hard-core professionals who acted like they had Excalibur up their butts, and the party girls who wanted to do him solely because he was a Knight of the Round Table. Maybe while lying on it.
    No thanks, he’d had that with Isolde.
    Unlike all the other witches, Belle took his crap and dished it right back with a sarcastic twinkle that made him want to laugh. Or smack her. She ...
    Belle screamed, the sound deafening and shrill. Her slim body flew out of the pattern as if hit by a cannonball. She slammed into the wall behind her, and the wallboard cracked with the impact, the floor shaking under Tristan’s chair.
    “Shit!” He leaped to his feet as Belle fell on her face, plaster dust and bits of Sheetrock raining around her.
    “Belle!” Tristan dropped to one knee beside her. His first instinct was to jerk her into his arms, but he’d been in enough fights to be wary of internal injuries. Instead he bent to look into her face and cautiously touch her slender back. Her skin felt like fine Chinese silk. “Belle?” His heart was hammering, and his mouth tasted metallic with fear. “Belle! Wake up, dammit!”
    She groaned. “Jesu, stop yelling.” The words came out as a rasp. Bracing her hands on the floor, she tried to push herself upright.
    “Stay down! I’ll call a healer ...” He reached for his belt, where a cell phone rode a clip. It was spelled to reach Arthur or Morgana at a word.
    “No, that’s ...” Belle swallowed and rolled onto her back. “Not necessary. Bastard just took me by surprise, that’s all. Threw me for a loop, but I’m not hurt. Much. I’ll have some nice bruises, though.”
    Sitting back on his heels, Tristan studied her. She looked too damn pale for his peace of mind, and he decided if she didn’t start looking better in a minute, he was calling Morgana anyway. “I gather whoever the hell it was you contacted, it wasn’t Smoke.”
    “No. I think ...” She swallowed and closed her eyes. “I think it was Warlock. And he was not happy to be pinged.”
    Tristan frowned. “What’s he doing responding to Smoke’s communication spell?”
    Belle started to sit up. He slid an arm around her back and steadied her. She gave him a what-the-hell-are-you-doing look, but he stubbornly refused to back off. He didn’t want her eating carpet again.
    Bracing herself back on her arms, Belle sighed. The deep line between her blond brows suggested a ferocious headache. “He must have usurped Smoke’s powers. God knows how.”
    Tristan frowned. That didn’t sound good. At all. “So was it Warlock you sensed when you thought you felt Smoke?”
    “No, it was definitely Smoke. I’ve touched his mind before.”
    She had? When the hell had she ... Shut up,