Free Master of Wolves by Angela Knight

swirling forces. But Celestine didn’t drop her aching arms.
    â€œIs that it?” Reynolds asked, his voice a low growl of excitement. His big body coiled as if eager to leap through the gate, no matter who or what was on the other side.
    â€œAlmost,” she gritted. “Hold on. I’ve got to shield us first.” Her voice growing hoarse from manipulating death magic, she started chanting again.
    Another wave of energy foamed from her hands, coating her body and the werewolf’s, forming an invisible shield around them. Glancing at Reynolds, she watched him grow transparent and finally vanish. With an exhausted sigh, she dropped her arms. They were now impossible to detect by sight or magic. Even their voices wouldn’t carry to anyone other than each other.
    As long as nothing went wrong, anyway.
    â€œNow,” Celestine said. “Let’s go.” With the werewolf at her heels, she stepped through the gate. Power pulsed over her skin as that single magical pace carried her hundreds of miles, from Clarkston to the heart of New York.
    She and Reynolds emerged in a corridor built of blocks of crimson stone polished to a mirror gleam. Celestine gazed around them, reluctantly impressed. If the decor was any indication, Korbal was even more powerful than he’d been before.
    When last she’d been in the New York temple, the building had looked like the rundown warehouse it was, with rusting steel I-beam supports and graffiti-splattered walls.
    Korbal’s death magic had transformed it into a cathedral supported by black columns with gleaming solid gold capitals. Eyeing the closest pillar, she saw it was carved with naked, writhing figures, entwined in sex or murder—it was hard to tell which.
    â€œBet this goes over real well with the locals,” Reynolds whispered. “Looks like a whorehouse.”
    â€œNot from the outside, if I know Korbal,” Celestine said absently as she started down the corridor. “Probably looks just like it did before.”
    â€œâ€¦did you call us, priest?” a male voice demanded from somewhere down the corridor. “This had better be good.”
    â€œI suspect you’ll find my reasoning more than compelling, Jarvis.”
    Celestine’s mouth went dry at the sound of Richard Korbal’s sonorous voice. For more than a year, she’d been a member of his New York Satanic Temple, until Geirolf had summoned them to destiny. Within hours, she’d drunk from the third grail and tasted true power as a vampire. She’d fought the Magekind as a member of Geirolf’s un-holy army, only to watch the demon god die. She’d have died, too, if Geirolf’s lieutenant hadn’t scattered his vampire army to the four winds.
    The spell had dumped Celestine in the wilds of South Carolina. She hadn’t even known where she was, or where she should go next. She only knew she wasn’t interested in rejoining Korbal’s flock.
    She wanted a flock of her own.
    A week later, Celestine had been driving through Clarkston on her way to Florida when Reynolds had pulled her over. It was then she’d realized she could create her own temple. Hungry for blood, she’d seduced him—had, in fact, meant to kill him. Then she’d realized he was a kindred spirit beneath his badge. What’s more, many of the other cops of Clarkston were just as amenable to seduction.
    The question was, what had Korbal discovered while she was laying the groundwork for her own power? There was one way to find out.
    Celestine started toward the set of open double doors where she’d heard voices. Reynold’s claws clicked faintly on the gleaming marble floor as he followed.
    Rounding the corner, she stopped short in surprise. The room beyond was huge, an echoing space wrapped in gloom and theatrical splashes of torchlight.
    It was also completely filled with robed vampires. The stench of death magic rolled over her in