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the Direkind had followed him in his quest. Even those who had no idea of his existence—which was most of them—had followed the Chosen he led. The Chosen, who were the aristocratic descendents of those Merlin had personally selected to become Direkind. Most of the rest were Bitten—transformed by the magic of a werewolf’s bite.
    The Direkind, unlike the Magekind—or him, for that matter—were not immortal. Another thing that gave him power.
    He’d taken the strength Merlin had given him and built it. Now, with Smoke’s added magic, he had become stronger yet. Strong enough to meet the hated Celt king’s power, even with all the witches Arthur could command.
    Always, always he’d feared failing his people—going against Arthur only to be defeated by the overwhelming magic of the Magekind. That fear had become an obsession, eating at him for centuries, until he’d known he could let nothing stop him in his quest for power. Even if it meant doing the necessary but distasteful. Even if Merlin would not have approved.
    Merlin, after all, was gone. Warlock was the one left to clean up the Celt’s mess—unnecessary wars that could have been prevented, starving children, racial and religious hate boiling over into violence. If the Celt had only had the balls to use the power at his disposal, so many lives could have been saved. But Arthur didn’t have the stomach for the job.
    Warlock did.
    He just had to get Arthur out of the way so he could do it.
    So he’d fathered sons, attempting to create magic-using partners, but one by one they’d become a threat, and he’d had to eliminate them all. More recently, he’d gotten a daughter on a woman of the Chosen, reasoning that since she was a female, she could be no real threat.
    The grandsons she’d give him would not have the talent to be true competition, while still providing the magical assistance he’d need to go up against Arthur’s witches. It would take decades to put such a plan in motion, but since he was immortal, he had all the time he needed.
    Now he’d suddenly acquired the power he’d craved for so many centuries. And it was everything he’d ever dreamed of, as intoxicating as any drug.
    It was delicious being a god.
    As for the alien memories that came with that power, he’d realized he needed them. Otherwise he wouldn’t have the experience to shape all that wild magic.
    I’m not going to give this up. Not any of it.
    The Demigod had to die before he could take his powers back. Because he would. Eventually Smoke’s spirit would call the magic back to him, and it would answer that call. Only the cat’s death would allow Warlock to keep his stolen abilities.
    Should I do it myself? It would be easy. Stripped of his magic, Smoke would be unable to defend himself.
    But what if proximity allowed Smoke to draw on his powers? What if they jumped back to him when Warlock got within killing range? Now that he’d tasted the cat’s magic, he knew he definitely didn’t want to be on the receiving end of it.
    So, no.
    Fortunately, he had plenty of killers at his disposal. Handpicked murderers he’d bitten to create Dire Wolves. Those men feared him so much they would do anything for him.
    Even kill a god.

    Miranda Drake sprawled on her belly on her pink lace canopied bed, reading Guilty Pleasures for something like the fifteenth time. Whenever she got particularly depressed, she liked to read about Anita Blake kicking monster ass. Especially since kicking any kind of ass was something Miranda was never allowed to do.
    Thus the whole depression thing.
    She supposed it could have been worse. The house she lived in was a thirty-room Gilded Age mansion with high walls of cream stone and a low-pitched roofline. It had been home to Drake werewolves since 1898, and it was drafty and pretentious as hell. Miranda’s very pink bedroom was better suited to a tween than the twenty-four-year-old she was.
    But at least she had books.
    Anita was locking horns