Master of Fire (6 page)

The boys wheeled. Four pairs of eyes widened, faces going bloodless in the light of the full moon. And to Smoke’s delight, the pranksters screamed in chorus like terrorized little girls. All four dropped their rolls and fled like all the demons of hell were at their heels.

He watched them go, tail swishing lazily, and contemplated pursuit with a certain wicked glee.

A door opened and the porch light flicked on, flooding the front yard. “Smoke, is that you?” Logan demanded, sounding sleepy and irate. “Jesu, what the hell are you doing? I almost shot you.”

“Saving your oak from being festooned with toilet paper.” The cat turned.

It was just as well Giada wasn’t here. Logan stood in all his shirtless glory, barefoot and wearing only a pair of jeans he hadn’t bothered to zip, his nine-millimeter in one hand. He shook his dark head in disgust. “Probably my neighbors’ kids, aka the Four Stooges. Those idiots try something at least once a month. I always run them off before they get started.” He grimaced. “I think I’ve become a challenge.”

“Somehow I doubt you’ll have that problem again.” Smoke grinned, revealing gleaming fangs the length of daggers. Fangs that went with the rest of his eight-hundred-pound body. “Aren’t you going to offer me a saucer of milk?”

Logan snorted. “More like a turkey platter. Unless you want to switch forms before you terrorize the rest of my neighbors . . .”

“Oh, very well.” Another wave of magic, and Smoke’s tiger-sized body shrank down into house cat dimensions once more. He strolled up the brick steps and leaped easily into Logan’s arms.

“What are you doing here, anyway? I haven’t seen you in months.” Logan gave him an absent ear scratch.

“I was bored. I thought I’d drop by.” He cocked his head, eyes narrowing, as he enjoyed the sensation of those long fingers digging in. The boy had a talent for finding the perfect spot to scratch. He hummed in pleasure as Logan turned to carry him back into the house. “So, what have you been up to? Anything interesting going on?”

“Well, there’s this new chemist I’m training at work . . .”

Smoke sniffed in feigned disdain. “I’m not interested in the activities of some balding nerd.”

One corner of Logan’s lips twitched up. “Believe me, she’s not a nerd, and she’s definitely not balding.”

The cat gave him an innocent blink. “ ‘She’? Do tell, my boy. Do tell.”

Terrence reclined on
a stack of thin, dingy pillows on his sagging bed at a no-tell motel off I-85. He could have afforded better, but better meant maids. Maids who might be a little too nosy for his comfort. The Stay-N-Rest was a long-term occupancy motel that only afforded maid service between customers. Which meant he could leave his suitcase of bomb-making materials under the bed without having to worry some silly bitch would get curious.

So, pencil in one hand and a slice of pizza in the other, he felt free to sketch an idea for another bomb on the pad propped on his knees.

The encrypted cell phone vibrated on his belt. Terrence grimaced and dropped the slice of pepperoni pizza back in the Domino’s box. He wasn’t looking forward to this conversation.

“Status?” the client demanded. He thought she was female, but it was hard to tell, given the heavy filter that distorted her voice.

“No luck.” He winced as he said it, feeling an unaccustomed sting of shame.

“
No luck?
They said you were the best. Did they lie?”

“No, they didn’t lie,” Terrence snapped back. “Somehow he disabled it. I have no idea how he realized . . .”

“Was someone with him?” the client interrupted, her distorted voice gone even sharper. “A woman?”

“Yeah, a blonde. But . . .”

“Did your wristband get hot?”

“Yes.” He leaned back against the lumpy pillows. “Mind telling me what that means?”

“As a matter of fact, I do mind. I will contact you with further instructions. Keep your cell charged.” The line went dead.

Terrence swore viciously, flipped the phone closed, and slid it back into its clip. What the hell was he dealing with here? Should he cut his losses and walk?

What if she’d decided to cut
her
losses and call the cops? Report the mad bomber holed up at the Stay-N-Rest?

Then she was one dead bitch, because the cops would never hold him. They never had. Then he’d find her, and he’d kill her. And he’d take his time. You didn’t cross Terrence John Anderson and live.

On the other hand, she was paying him a hell of a lot of money to off the cop and make it look like an accident. Half a million. Exactly what MacRoy had done to piss her off that bad was a question he’d never asked. Mostly because it was none of his fucking business. All he cared about was the color of her money. Judging by the half she’d paid up front, it was his favorite shade of green.

So he’d sit tight and humor the bitch a little longer.

Picking up his pencil, he went back to work designing the bomb that would be the death of Logan MacRoy.

 

 

Logan sat in
the black leather easy chair in the living room, absently rubbing Smoke’s head and enjoying the soothing rumble of the cat’s purr. After that god-awful nightmare, a conversation with his old friend was just what he needed to calm down.

He’d missed Smoke over the past few years. During his childhood, the cat had been the only confidant he’d had. He’d had to lie like a sociopath to every other boyhood buddy, at least when it came to talking about the family. Not that they’d have believed him if he had told the truth.
My father is King Arthur?
Yeah, right. As far as his mortal friends were concerned, his mother, “Gwen MacRoy,” was a single parent with a great deal of money that allowed her to do whatever she damned well pleased.

So Smoke had been the only one he could talk to about the pressures of being the child of a legendary hero. Which was why Logan didn’t hesitate to confide in him now. Felt like old times. “I’d wondered if she might be a Maja, but the more I thought about it, the less likely that seemed.” He ran his hand slowly down the length of the cat’s back from ears to tail tip, absently enjoying the silky texture of Smoke’s fur.

His friend blinked one eye, cat fashion. “Oh? Why?”

“She has a doctorate in organic chemistry, and when I got her going on the subject, she knows current theory better than I do. Had my head spinning. No way a Maja would be able to fake that. Hell, most of ’em don’t even know how to use a computer.”

“Neither do I.”

“You don’t have opposable thumbs.”

Smoke sniffed. “At the moment.”

Logan ignored that. “I have no idea why the hell one of the big pharma companies didn’t snatch her up. According to her file, she taught chemistry at some little community college for a while, but apparently wanted to get back in the lab. She says she took the forensic chemist job with the Greendale department because she couldn’t find anything else, but she’ll be bored spitless in a week. That woman is a genius.”

“I wasn’t aware you found your job boring, boy.” The tip of the cat’s tail flicked.

He shrugged. “Testing drugs gets a bit dry after a while. Which is why I started working arson investigations and joined the bomb squad.”

“You always were ADD.”

Logan laughed, and the two fell into a comfortable silence. Stroking the cat slowly, he meditated on the sound of Smoke’s rumbling purr in the darkened room. The last of his nightmare-induced tension drained away.

It had only been a dream, after all. He wasn’t a vampire, and he had no intention of becoming one anytime soon. Giada was safe from him.

“What I don’t understand,” the cat said at last, “is why you fear becoming a Magus.”

Logan stiffened, his peace instantly draining away. Sometimes it was like the damned cat read his mind.

Apparently oblivious to his sudden tension, Smoke continued. “When you were a boy, following in your father’s footsteps was all you could talk about.” He angled one ear. “Afraid of being lost in Daddy’s shadow?”

“Dad doesn’t cast a shadow. Dad is a fucking total eclipse. I came to terms with that when I was sixteen.”

“And? Have you suddenly decided you can’t live without chocolate after all?”

Logan smiled a little at that. When he was ten, he’d told Smoke the only thing he didn’t like about the idea of becoming a vampire was giving up Tootsie Rolls in favor of chewing on girls. “Not quite. Girls have more appeal than I thought.”

“So why don’t you have fangs? Morgana predicted you’d be a fine Magus before you could walk, so I know you’ve been cleared.”

He definitely didn’t want to have this conversation. For one thing, he didn’t want to trigger a rerun of that fucking nightmare. “That’s a long story, and it’s late. I need to hit the sack.”

“Don’t give me that,” Smoke said roughly. “Something happened to you when you were fourteen. No one will tell me what, including your mother, and she’s never hesitated to tell me anything. Neither did you, once upon a time. All I know is that you suddenly started keeping secrets.”

“Don’t worry about it, Smoke. It was a long time ago. I’m over it.”

“Obviously not, or you’d be a Magus.”

Dammit, when the cat got an idea in his head, he was like a dog with a bone. “I have a satisfying career I’m not ready to give up. That’s all there is to it.”

“I caught you
crying
, boy. You never cried. And you wouldn’t tell me why.”

There was a note of hurt in the cat’s voice he’d never heard before. Guilt needled him, but he couldn’t bring himself to dredge up the whole ugly story. “I’ll tell you later, Smoke. Just . . . not tonight.”

“Fine.” The cat rose and leaped out of his lap, radiating offended dignity. The door opened, apparently at a wave of magic, and Smoke stalked out. It slammed behind him.

“Great.” Logan scrubbed both hands through his hair, rose, and went back to bed.

Maybe if he was lucky, he’d even be able to sleep.

 

 

The alarm went
off way too early. Giada groaned as she rolled out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom to let the shower pound her groggy brain awake.

As the warm, hot spray rained over her body, the details of the night’s erotic dream replayed in her mind in uncomfortable detail.

Had
it been a vision?

Somehow it didn’t feel like a simple dream, maybe because it had been so kinky. She’d never had bondage fantasies before, so why would her unconscious mind generate one about Logan?

And how the hell was she supposed to face him this morning with the memory of that incendiary whatever-it-was playing in her head?

She got out of the shower, dried off, and went to work on her hair and makeup. She’d just finished dressing when her cell rang. She scooped it off the counter. “Hello.”

“MacRoy’s Taxi Service,” announced a voice that sounded entirely too cheerful. “Hungover?”

“No, no thanks to you.” Giada grabbed her purse off the bed, waving at Smoke as she headed for the door. He must have come in during her shower. The cat twitched an ear in reply as she closed the door behind her. “How could you let me drink all that tequila?” she continued to Logan. “I babbled like an idiot.”

“I wouldn’t say ‘idiot.’ You were a very cute drunk.”

“Oh, thanks a lot.” Just what she didn’t need to hear. “Be down in a minute.” She snapped the cell closed and headed for the elevator.

Logan had apparently
swapped the bomb truck for his department-issued unmarked Impala in a very coplike dark blue. He leaned over to open the car door for her. As usual, he wore his black fatigue pants and a black knit shirt embroidered with a gold sheriff’s star.

He gave her a rakish smile. “Good morning.”

“Morning.” She slid into the seat. “Thanks for the ride.” It even sounded grudging to her ears.

“My, we’re grumpy this morning.” Logan lifted a thick, dark brow. “Sure you’re not hungover?”

“Rough night. Didn’t sleep well.”

“Bad dreams?”

She felt her cheeks begin to heat and quickly turned her head to look out the window. “Something like that.”

 

 

The Greendale Sheriff’s
Office was a former corporate headquarters that had been sold to the county when the corporation in question built more upscale digs. It was accordingly much nicer than the taxpayers of Greendale County would have otherwise been willing to spring for. Three blocky stories of mud brown brick, the building was pleasantly ugly, but at least it had plenty of room for the assorted divisions of the sheriff’s office. Including Logan’s lab.

After stopping by Evidence to pick up the day’s tests, Giada and Logan headed for the lab with a thick stack of manila envelopes containing what might—or might not—be crack cocaine, marijuana, or meth. Each sample would get two separate tests: a presumptive chemical test conducted by hand, then a mass spectrometer run in which liquefied samples would be vaporized and analyzed by computer. The two tests had to agree, or charges would be dropped.