Master of Smoke

a pace. “No, you didn’t, because what I actually told you to do was run like hell if we were ever in this situation.”
    “And let them eat you? Not fuckin’ likely.” Pulling out of his arms, she looked around. Dead werewolves sprawled in the dim light of the moon, blood-splattered, heads and limbs at unnatural angles. It made for a sickening sight—until she remembered that if the creatures had had their way, she and David would be the dead ones.
    “Well,” she told him, “we made one hell of a mess.”

    When Belle and Tristan stepped through the dimensional gate after she’d finally gotten the cat spell to work, the first thing they saw was a dead werewolf. The creature’s throat had been torn out, and his neck was broken.
    “Looks like Smoke’s here,” Tristan said dryly. “And he’s pissed.”
    “Definitely.” Belle gripped the pewter cat. Its eyes glowed so brightly, they illuminated the scene like tiny flashlights.
    They’d been back at the hotel when she’d sensed the roaring force of Smoke’s magic suddenly activating. It had taken fifteen precious minutes to trace the pulse and cast a gate that led to its source. Which had evidently been more than enough time for Smoke to express his extreme displeasure to whatever werewolf had pissed him off.
    Tristan’s helmeted head lifted suddenly, and he silently pointed toward the corner of the building. That was when Belle heard the soft murmur of voices.
    Despite his armor, Tristan could move with surprising silence when he wanted to. Belle followed him, her own armor creaking and scraping, plate against plate. She was considering a spell to silence it when they rounded the corner.
    And saw Smoke. Or actually, they saw a nine-foot were-beast that shared the cat’s dramatic coloring of blue-black fur and silver stripes. Behind him stood a female Dire Wolf who looked delicate next to the cat’s menacing brawn.
    “Oh, God,” the female said, “what now?”
    With a rolling, vicious snarl, the werecat leaped at Tristan. The knight went down with a shout and a clatter of armor under the massive beast’s weight. The cat dove for his throat, only to be frustrated by his enchanted gorget.
    “Smoke!” Belle shouted, “we’re friends! Don’t hurt him!”
    But before she could get anything more out of her mouth, something hit her like a four-hundred-pound running back. She slammed into the ground so hard she saw stars and tasted blood. Claws raked her armor with a metallic screech.
    It was the female werewolf, snarling and savage.
    Though the wolves were immune to magic, that only meant energy attacks did nothing against them. They still couldn’t tear their way through armor spelled to resist physical attacks. The Dire Wolf growled in frustration as she tried to get her claws in Belle’s neck.
    “Get off, dammit!” Belle slammed a backward kick into the werewolf’s thigh she didn’t even seem to notice. “We’re Smoke’s friends!”
    “Yeah, right. That’s why you showed up with the rest of the assassins.” The werewolf paused, as if to consider a better place to rake. Belle twisted for an elbow slam. The armored joint hit the werewolf right on the end of her sensitive nose, and she yowled in pain.
    Belle had spent a thousand years learning how to fight dirty. As the werewolf jolted up in pain, Belle twisted onto her back and slammed a fist into her furry groin.
    A groin punch hurts regardless of gender, and the female tumbled backward, yelping as she cupped her abused sex. Belle rolled, grabbed her fallen sword, pounced on the wolf, and slammed the pommel into the girl’s temple. Dark eyes rolled up. It was a blow that would have killed a human, especially delivered with a Maja’s supernatural strength, but Belle knew it had only bought her a moment to think.
    She bounced to her feet and looked around for Tristan and Smoke. Unsurprisingly, the knight was having a far harder time with his opponent than Belle had had with hers. The huge cat raked his claws across Tristan’s armor, fighting without success to get through to flesh. Tristan was giving as good as he got, but since he didn’t really want to hurt Smoke, he was handicapped. All he could do was punch and kick, while battering the beast with the flat of his sword.
    Smoke should have recognized Tristan; the two had been buddies since he’d rescued Logan more than twenty years ago. That the cat was attacking his friend now suggested that Warlock had done something to