Shadow's End (15 page)

He felt as if he had just wallowed in manure. As he rubbed his face hard, Ferion bolted out of the house. Bel's gaze shot to his in a brief, surprised flash. She strode after her son.

Graydon didn't follow them. He could already hear the sounds of retching outside and knew Ferion hadn't gone far. No doubt, they needed a few moments in private. In any case, he knew he needed a moment.

He couldn't stand to be in the confines of the dust-filled room any longer. In fact, he would be doing the world a favor if he destroyed the room altogether.

Striding over to the armchair, with one vicious kick he booted it toward the fireplace. It shot across the room, crashing into the flames and knocking logs and embers everywhere.

Following the glowing constellation scattered across the floor, he kicked embers toward the heavy velvet curtains shrouding the front windows. Then he upended the sofa on the rest of the coals.

Malphas would still prey on foolish gamblers, but he wouldn't be taking anybody's life in this place again.

When Graydon was through, he walked into the hall to sit on the bottom stairs of the wide marble staircase, elbows on knees and head in his hands while he waited to make sure the fire spread.

It wasn't enough destruction to suit him. He wanted to rip apart the countryside, set fire to the world. What a wretched, fucked-up day.

After a few moments, quick, light footsteps approached. He didn't have to look up to know it was Bel. He would recognize her footsteps anywhere, now.

She sat down on the stairs beside him. “The curtains in the receiving room are going up in flames. You set fire to the house?”

He rubbed at his dry eyes. “Not burning the house wasn't part of the bargain.”

“If this were any other day that would make me laugh.” She sighed. “I suppose you've thought of the surrounding countryside.”

“I surveyed the area as we flew in. There may be dust all over the furniture, but sometime in the past growing season, the grounds were well tended. The immediate area is clear of trees and shrubs. Whoever originally built the place set the stables well away from the house.” He looked over his hands at her. “Where's Ferion?”

“He's gone to tend to his horse.” In the strong morning light that streamed in through the open front doors, she looked almost as bad as Ferion had, her skin a chalky white, and dark shadows like bruises ringed her large, lovely eyes. “He says that he can feel the lien. It's like a shackle on him.”

He told her, “I don't want you to take this the wrong way, but I could throttle him right now.”

She leaned forward to rest her elbows on her knees as he did. She had taken a moment to braid her hair, rather haphazardly, and the long dark silken rope slid forward over her shoulder.

“I'm so angry, I can barely speak to him in a civil tone,”
she replied. “It's incomprehensible to me how he could create such an overwhelming trap, not only for him but for us as well. Can't he see how his actions have affected others—how they've affected me, and now you?” Her eyes filled with sudden liquid. “Does he think so little of his life?”

He needed to touch her so badly it clenched in his stomach like sickness. Malphas mentioned dancing. The Djinn had allowed for them to touch, and that might have been the cruelest part of the bargain.

Slowly, Graydon reached out. When she placed her hand in his, his fingers tightened around hers.

He said, very low, “I can understand wanting and needing something so badly you're ready to gamble your life away for a chance to have it.”

Her gaze slid sideways at him, and he caught a glimpse of the anguish he had seen in her expression earlier. “This is my fault. I should never have taken your offer of help. I should never have paid his debt the second time, or the third. If I'd only—”

A different kind of pain cut through him. Taking her hand, he held it to his chest, committing the feel and the weight of it to memory, the sensation of her slender fingers curling around his, the softness of her skin. Then he released her, and stood.

“That's where you and I differ. I could never wish away making love to you.” Despite himself, a note of bitterness entered his voice. “No matter what else happened, or what the cost.”

“Gray,” she said softly, “that wasn't what I meant.”

“I know what you meant.” If he looked at her, he would kiss her. He closed his eyes. “Can you sense the connections Malphas attached to us?”

She hesitated. “Not really. I felt his Power shimmer when we agreed to the bargain, but now . . . I can't feel anything. It's not anything like what I felt in Ferion.”

He knew better than to entertain any foolish hope that Malphas wouldn't be able to sense if he and Bel made love. The Djinn would not have demanded terms he couldn't enforce.

He strode to the doorway of the receiving room. The fire had taken hold with a vengeance. It was small satisfaction. When the blaze grew large enough the smoke would attract people from the nearby town, but they had several minutes before that happened.

Outside, the country air was clean and sharp like a knife. He went around the back to find Ferion emerging from the stable, leading a saddled roan. As he approached the Elven male, he noted how terrible Ferion looked, his normally youthful-looking face lined as if with age.

Graydon wanted nothing more than to unleash his rage on the other man, but the thought of what he had said to Bel remained with him. Need for her ran through his veins, turning part of him into a traitor with ugly thoughts, urging him to do anything it took, just so that he could be with her again.

The predator in him had taken note: nowhere in the Djinn's bargain had it said Graydon couldn't kill Ferion and be done with Malphas once and for all.

That same predator took note of Ferion's inattention and relative fragility, the vein pounding at the side of his neck, the way his hands shook as he handled the reins.

Graydon would do almost anything to be with Bel again, except take from her what she loved the most.

Turning and crossing his arms, he faced the house. Silently, Ferion led the horse over to him and stood by his side.

After a moment, Ferion said, “I'm appalled at my own actions and offer you my most heartfelt apologies. I make no excuses for what I've done.”

“That would be wise of you.” Graydon used the most neutral tone he could manage. At the moment, his control was fragile at best. If the Elf had started down that path, he didn't know what he would have done. He said, “If this hasn't made you hit bottom so you realize you've got to change, I don't know what will.”

“It did.” Ferion's voice was so quiet, even Graydon almost didn't hear him. “It happened when Malphas confronted
me. When I truly realized I had no other way to pay my debt. Nobody else could take my fate from me, and he—fixed the lien inside of me. I—I didn't realize such a low point could exist.”

As he listened, unwilling sympathy took hold of him, dissipating his rage.

Ferion whispered, “Always before, this voice inside my head compelled me on and on. I convinced myself that when I won, I could pay any debt I accumulated. I could even pay back my mother everything she had spent on my behalf. Once I won that big, I could quit whenever I wished.” His raw gaze cut sideways to Graydon. “I knew that voice was crazy. I just couldn't seem to stop listening to it.”

Graydon rubbed the back of his neck, trying to ease the knot of tension that had taken residence between his shoulder blades. He acknowledged, “I reckon I have a version of that voice in my head too.”

Only his voice had urged him to make plans to fly down to South Carolina once a month. It whispered to him that somehow the arrangement would have made it acceptable for him to mate with her, that he would survive each interminable month, as long he knew he would get to see her again.

Even as part of him had known better—that eventually something about the arrangement would have crumbled—it hadn't stopped him from trying because he would have done almost anything to be with her again, including mating in silence and giving her a kind of devotion she had not asked for, and likely wouldn't have welcomed had she known.

“Whatever happened between you and my mother,” Ferion said, “I'm doubly sorry about that.”

“We're not going to talk about that,” Graydon said between his teeth.

Off to one side of the house, Beluviel came into view. She walked toward them.

Ferion whispered, “I saw how you looked at each other. I also know she hasn't chosen to be with anybody in a very long time, so while we might not talk of it, I wanted you to
know—I'm so sorry for that too. More than anyone else I know, she deserves to be happy.”

As soon as Bel had come into sight, Graydon's attention fixed on her. Hungrily, he soaked in every aspect of her appearance.

She looked composed and calm, her dark gaze focused. As he took in her settled demeanor, he recognized the distance that had been growing between them was now complete.

He told her telepathically,
You realize Ferion can no longer be trusted. Malphas might not be able to resist compelling him to do small, sneaky things. Whatever he thinks he might be able to get away with, he'll do.

The full, generous curve of her lips tightened. She replied,
I know. I'll have to keep watch.

If there is anything I can do to help, don't hesitate to send for me.

Giving him a steady look, she shook her head and told him in a gentle voice,
You are good-hearted and generous to the very end. I will not send for you, Graydon. It would hurt too much to see you.

A violent pain flared. How sensible she sounded, how emotionally honest and yet dismissive at the same time.

In one corner of his mind he knew he wasn't being fair, but the uncivilized beast he fought to hold in check wasn't interested in fairness. It wanted to snatch at her and rage against the world.

But she was not Wyr. She couldn't know how his beast rebelled at the thought of being sensible. Of leaving her.

He made himself breathe evenly and loosen the fists he had pressed against his sides. “So, we hold our ground.”

“And Malphas wins,” said Ferion bitterly.

Bel gave her son a look of rebuke. “Holding one's ground is not passivity. It takes its own kind of strength. Sometimes the hardest part of a battle is holding one's ground. At most Malphas has gained a standoff. He has not won anything yet.”

“Nor will he,” said Graydon. “Although this may turn into a very long war. Have patience.” He looked up. Dark smoke was beginning to billow out of the manor's windows
and chimneys. “We should leave. I can take you both back to London.”

“I can't abandon the horse,” Ferion said.

That small, selfless statement helped Graydon feel a little more kindly disposed toward the other male.

“It's a hired horse, yes?” When Ferion nodded, he said, “Tie the reins to the hitching post beside the stable doors. It's far enough from the house, it'll be safe from the fire, and you can be certain that Wembley's constable will be up here momentarily, along with many other people. They'll make sure it gets returned to the stable where it belongs.”

Ferion did so. Within moments, both he and Bel settled astride on the gryphon's back.

The return flight to London was mostly made in silence, each one of them wrapped up in thought. When Graydon landed in Grosvenor Square, it had just turned midmorning. The sun had begun to take the chill out of the frigid air.

Tradesmen crowded the streets, conducting business, although many who had attended masques the night before would still be abed. Graydon maintained his cloak. He sensed Bel's cloaking spell as she did the same.

She and Ferion slipped from his back. Together, they both moved to face the gryphon. He would not even get the chance to say good-bye to her in private. Pride made the gryphon hold his head high.

“Thank you for everything,” Ferion said. “I will never forget what you've done for my mother and me.”

“Make something good come out of this,” Graydon told him. “Stay away from gaming tables.”

A harsh breath escaped the other male. “The thought of gambling again makes me feel ill.”

Well. At least there was that.

Bel stepped forward, looking up at him. Her expression caused his chest to ache. Telepathically, she said,
I will miss you with all my heart.

The pain in her mental voice was so apparent, every imagined rebuff or slight he had felt over the last several hours vanished in an instant.

Slowly, the gryphon lowered his head until he rested his beak against her chest. He breathed deeply, filling his lungs with her scent one last time. She stroked his head.

This isn't over,
he told her.
Don't ever forget it.

Nodding, she stood back and wiped at her eyes. He felt the physical separation like a knife cut along his skin. Ferion put his arm around her shoulders. Graydon watched as they walked to their house.

Once she had disappeared from sight, he launched again and stayed aloft for hours, hurtling through the air as fast as he could in a crazed flight going nowhere.

Malphas couldn't kill Ferion without also freeing them to hunt him down, but that did not defang the Djinn, not while he held the lien on Ferion's soul. If they broke the bargain, Malphas could control or torture Ferion with impunity.

That meant Graydon couldn't hunt for Malphas, or say anything to anyone based on what he had learned that morning.

But, like setting fire to the house, there was nothing in the bargain to keep Graydon from watching and waiting for other leverage that may come his way.

And nothing whatsoever in the bargain that could keep him from using it.

TEN

South Carolina, December 2015

A
s Graydon flew south along the coast, he left the snowfall behind in New York.

Gradually the air warmed. The cloud cover cleared enough to reveal the glow of the moon. He watched the shadowy ocean and the glowing lattice of the coastal cities while he considered the challenges that lay ahead.

The biggest challenge was figuring out how to speak with Beluviel in private. If Linwe refused to tell Bel he was coming, and if, as Linwe had said, she was secluding herself, trying to talk to her would not only be difficult, it could very well be dangerous.

The Elves had been through one hell of a year. Earlier in January, their numbers had been decimated. Their Lord Calondir had been killed, and for a brief time, Beluviel herself had been controlled by a Powerful madman, Amras Gaeleval.

Graydon's muscles clenched as he remembered carrying her from the battlefield. She had been bloody and suffering from exposure to the cold. An atavistic, primitive part of him had wanted to lash out at the world, to keep her from any harm.

But she wasn't his to protect. Giving her over to the care of the healers and walking away had been one of the hardest things he had ever done.

Aside from the loss of so many Elves, for Bel, one of the most devastating losses had to have been the death of her Wood, which had been destroyed when a fire swept through it.

And the most dangerous consequence of all—Ferion had inherited the power and title from his deceased father.

Now Malphas held the lien on the soul of the Lord of the Elven demesne. Any hope Graydon had entertained of finding some way to renegotiate the terms of their bargain had died along with Calondir. Malphas would never give up the possibility of control over a demesne ruler.

In fact, in Graydon's jaded opinion, it would be downright miraculous if Malphas hadn't already forced Ferion to commit stealthy, nefarious acts that furthered the Djinn's own interests without giving him away.

If they could only catch him reneging on the bargain, they would have enough to take to the Djinn, who could forcibly sever Malphas's connections on Graydon and Beluviel, and might even be able to lift the lien on Ferion. But it would be foolish to hope Malphas would make a mistake that catastrophic.

It didn't matter how sharp an eye Bel tried to keep on Ferion's actions. Nobody could watch someone else all day, every day for years on end. With the power shift that had occurred earlier this year, Ferion could set any number of obstacles in her path to keep her from getting too close to him.

One grim consolation lay buried in the midst of tragedy. The Elven demesne had faced so many challenges in recovering that Ferion—and through him, Malphas—hadn't had time to do more than pick up the pieces.

Also, throughout the summer months, the Elder tribunal had maintained a constant physical presence in the demesne, erecting Quonset huts as temporary medical and psychiatric hospitals to aid the recovering wounded.

Large quantities of other kinds of aid had poured in from all over the world in the form of food, clothing, temporary
propane-powered generators, and tents to house the Elves who had recovered enough to leave the hospital. Even a cell tower had been built a few miles away to facilitate in coordinating the relief efforts.

The tribunal had only removed its presence when autumn came, and the surviving Numenlaur Elves had been ready to travel home again. Still, as a community, the Elves who remained in South Carolina would be raw and jumpy.

Linwe had exaggerated on the phone, but only a little. Like all the other demesnes in the United States, the Elven demesne covered a large area, including Charleston, and Graydon could enter it quite easily.

What he couldn't do as easily is approach the main Elven home, the nucleus of their society, without permission.

While he considered recent events, the gryphon stole over the South Carolina Elven border in the early hours of the morning.

Because he had been part of the events in January, he was familiar with the geography. He knew exactly the moment when he flew over the Wood.

He had been expecting to find the area still mostly deadened by fire damage. Instead, to his surprise, he saw that much of the debris had been cleared away. In its place, he sensed a new wild Woodland presence.

The new growth covered a massive area. It wasn't nearly as large as the previous Wood had been, and he didn't think it was sentient.

At least, not yet. It was too young for that.

But it was burgeoning with rich, abundant life, and it was indisputable evidence of a strong, positive, restorative force.

The Lady of the Wood had in no way been idle or incapacitated over the last six months.

The gryphon did not know how to cry, but the man who lived inside the Wyr beast felt inexpressibly moved and fiercely relieved.

Passing over the heart of the Elven home at high altitude, he saw firelight dotting the area. Even though it was the early hours of the morning, a few people were awake.

The old, sentient Wood no longer acted as guardian over the Elven home. They would feel that vulnerability keenly and keep watch through the night. At least, he knew he would if he were in their shoes.

He arrowed away until he reached a bluff beside the shoreline. There, he landed, changed into his human form once again and walked along the edge of the Wood. Locating a likely spot on the beach, he descended to lean his back against a boulder, and stare over the dark ocean at foam-capped waves.

Where was she sleeping? Had she taken other lovers?

Something deep in his chest twisted at the thought, although he couldn't blame her if she had. Two hundred years was a long time, even for those as long lived as the Elder Races.

He had burned for her, but that didn't mean she had burned for him.

He had lain awake countless nights, reliving over and over every detail of their too-brief lovemaking. The scent of her hair. The taste of her soft nipple against his tongue. The look in her eyes and arch of her body as she orgasmed.

But that didn't mean she had.

He had longed to talk to her, many times over the years, just simply talk, as one would to a treasured friend.

And yet, that didn't mean she had.

At times, he thought falling in love must be the loneliest experience in the world.

Truthfully, he no longer knew if he was in love with her, or if he was merely ensnared by the luminous memory of that long ago experience. Part of him felt frozen in time, trapped by a cruel enchanter.

Yet, if he had truly mated with her, he would have died long ago. They hadn't had time for his instinct to mate to solidify irrevocably in his bones.

He needed to find out what he still felt for her, but more than that, he was grimly set to endure whatever might come. Life was complicated and messy. Often it didn't offer resolutions or answers to questions.

Restlessly, he shifted, digging the heel of one boot in the
sand. He would wait until dawn, and then he would call Linwe again.

He couldn't fault the young Elf for her dogged protectiveness of her mistress, but Linwe was not yet forty—she was very young for an Elf, and hotheaded, and at the moment, he couldn't help but wish that Alanna and Lianne were still Bel's attendants.

While they only knew a small fraction of what had occurred in 1815, it would have been enough for them to find ways to connect him to Bel, not erect barriers. But last he heard, Alanna had been killed in March, and Lianne had moved to a position of command in the Elven warriors.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. Having time to brood was never a good thing. The most effective coping mechanism he had found over the last two centuries was to keep so busy he didn't have time to dwell on matters he couldn't change.

Right now, the most important objective was to kill Malphas and release Ferion from the shackle of the Djinn's control once and for all—for Ferion's sake, for Beluviel's, and for the sake of the Elven demesne itself.

Otherwise, the Djinn's poison would seep slowly through the Elven demesne until his corrupt influence spread out to darken the rest of the world.

•   •   •

B
el woke from a sound sleep.

She stared at the dark ceiling of her bedroom while listening to the quiet sounds of the Elven demesne at night. Her rooms were located in one of the most attractive areas of the main Elven abode, overlooking the river.

Just outside her living area, a spacious balcony hung over the river itself, where she often sat to gaze at the water, or watch the trees as they changed through the seasons. Sitting on the balcony and immersing herself in the scene was the only thing that gave her peace anymore.

The soft, soothing sounds of the outside waterfall played constantly along the edge of her awareness.

That wasn't what had awakened her.

Her sensitive hearing picked up other sounds, as the few people who were awake moved and talked quietly in the area.

She couldn't hear what they said. Their murmuring voices were too faint and ran along the background of her consciousness, rather like the sound of the river.

Everything sounded just as it should, completely normal.

Shoving back the bedcovers, she pulled on her robe and went out on the balcony. The cool night air brushed the last cobwebs of sleep from her mind.

Something had awakened her. She cast her awareness out, searching for a hint of the malevolent presence that had preyed on her son so long ago. She never stopped watching or listening for Malphas.

She couldn't find any evidence of the Djinn, but someone or something had walked in her young, vulnerable Wood. Someone who was not Elven, or human. She was quite familiar with the noisy psychic footprint of humans.

The tiny, rudimentary spirit of her new Wood was convinced that nothing was untoward. The only creatures that had passed through it were wild ones, both small and very large . . .

Hmm. A very large, wild creature might bear some investigating.

The Wood didn't speak to her in a language that anyone else would recognize. None of the Woods that she had nurtured to maturity had.

Rather, it shared impressions with her and on occasion images, and a boundless sense of vitality. Over time it would deepen in spirit and awareness.

It gave shelter and sustenance to the creatures that lived in it, and watched the play of nature within its borders—mating, birth, the scavenging for food, the hunt of prey, eventual death.

Eventually, it would grow to recognize the natural rhythm of life in the wild, and become sensitive to occurrences that did not fit the pattern. It would welcome friends, acquire the
ability to shield its borders from most intruders, and actively work to expel what it recognized as enemies.

Most of that lay in the future. For now, this Wood was young and inexperienced, and at times, she had to admit, somewhat silly. There was no telling what it considered a very large wild creature, except it would never have reacted in such a way to a herd of wild deer.

No, this, whatever it was, was something unusual. Something strange and . . . not alarming, not quite that.

Something exciting?

Any number of Wyr could be very large. If they were in their Wyr form, the Wood might consider them wild.

Dragos was indeed very large.

So was Graydon.

It was impossible to quell the irrational hope that surged as soon as the thought occurred to her. She could not imagine Graydon would come. Ever since Wembley, they had seen each other only in public. Even after the battle with Gaeleval, he had carried her away from the scene, straight to a team of healers and then he had disappeared.

Gazing at him at political functions, watching his shuttered expression from a distance, nodding and smiling as though there were nothing at all between them, no history of intimacy, no empty ache deep inside of her . . .

Malphas had seen how to get revenge on them with a particular kind of cruelty.

With a discipline born of long practice, she set the thought aside.