Shadow's End (17 page)

Her mind raced over possible consequences.
Is there proof that Malphas murdered him?

No. But we don't need conclusive proof of a murder.
He framed her face with his hands. His gaze had turned fierce.
We have enough proof of everything else, along with what happened to the other victims he enslaved, that we can now establish a clear, documented pattern of behavior without ever mentioning what happened to Ferion.

She repeated,
Documented behavior.

The reality of what he was saying began to sink in. Over the last several months, while she had been fighting to recover along with rest of her people, Graydon had been patiently, carefully collecting proof to use against Malphas.

Along with everything else, she remembered what he had said, as if it had happened yesterday.

I will keep looking for a way to get out of this. No matter how long it takes, no matter what I have to do. I will not stop until we're all freed.

He had kept to his word. Looked at houses in Charleston. All this time, when she had been fighting despair and discouragement, he had been quietly fighting.

Her heart filled with a powerful, unnamed emotion. Wetness spilled from the corners of her eyes.

He said,
This is no longer about whether Malphas broke Djinn law. This is about crimes against other Elder Races. Crimes against humanity.

You're saying it's a matter of tribunal law,
she breathed.

He nodded.
After all the victims from Devil's Gate, and the human casualties in the Nightkind demesne, along with other problematic events, like the bombing of the Oracle's home in Louisville, the human government is acting very spooked right now. Senator Jackson is heading a federal subcommittee to look into what they claim are abuses committed by the Elder Races. His appointment can't be an accident. Relations between humans and Elder Races have
never been so strained before. The tribunal will not be able to set this aside.

She moistened dry lips.
You mean we can get enough support to kill Malphas.

I really believe we can.
He watched her expression closely.

Her hands were shaking. She pressed them together.
But if we attack him, we're putting Ferion's life on the line.

I didn't say it would be easy or without risk, and we couldn't attempt anything without some serious planning. The one thing I know for sure is we can't let Ferion rule the Elven demesne while Malphas controls him. We have to free him, and free ourselves.

Slowly he bent and angled his head. She froze, waiting to see what he would do next.

He put his lips on her cheek. They were warm against her chilled skin. The sensation caused her trembling to increase.

In the barest thread of sound, hardly more than his lips moving against her skin, he whispered, “Come to New York. We can figure out what we need to do then.”

ELEVEN

I
nstead of lifting his head afterward, he kept his lips pressed against her cheek, resting against her, breathing her in.

The sensation ran along her nerves, causing the private place between her legs to throb.

Heated images ran through her mind.

The way his gentle fingers had probed at her sensitive flesh, discovering exactly the right way to give her the most pleasure, the urgent need with which he had suckled at her breasts.

The way his powerful body had moved to cover hers as together they positioned his cock at her entrance, and he had pressed inside her. Even though it had been years, it felt as powerful as if it had happened yesterday.

It grew harder to stand on her own. She needed to pull away from him, to let the cold fresh breeze clear her mind, but she was so hungry for his touch, she found herself leaning into him instead. She gripped the edges of his jean jacket for support, while she tried to think.

She whispered, “I told everyone I wouldn't go to the masque this year.”

“Say you changed your mind,” he murmured. He touched the delicate skin at her throat, stroking his fingers along her skin. “Say you need a break. That's valid, Bel, especially since you've worked just as hard, if not harder, than anybody else to get your demesne back on its feet. And think about it—there's no better time for you to come to New York without rousing suspicion. The masque is next week. Is Ferion attending?”

She shook her head. “No, he said he would stay home as well.”

“If you came right away, that would give us several days to figure out a plan of action. We can talk everything over, free from his scrutiny.”

Indecision gripped her. She held herself tense, trying to see her way clear to the best decision.

She felt as if she were surrounded by a wall of thorn bushes, and everywhere she turned, wicked, needlelike thorns were ready to tear into her flesh. Her mind spun in circles, looking for a way out of the trap.

If she did nothing, Ferion might very well remain under Malphas's control, which would be disastrous for both him and the Elven demesne.

Things couldn't continue the way they were, but moving forward felt full of danger and uncertainty. Graydon was talking about going to war against one of the most dangerous creatures on earth, a first-generation Djinn.

Yet if she went to New York, Graydon would be there.

Opening her eyes, she looked up at him. The expression in his shadowed gaze made all her uncertainty vanish.

She said, “I'll come.”

His body tightened. “When?”

She lifted her shoulders in an uncertain shrug. “As soon as I possibly can. The flight itself is a short one. Perhaps by tomorrow night? It will look too strange if I try to come by myself, so I'll have to bring at least one guard. I can say that since I'm the only one going, with probably Linwe, there won't be any need to send staff to open up the Elven residence in the city.”

That strategy would also prevent Ferion from keeping watch on her through house attendants. She hated that she had thought of that, or that it was a realistic danger.

Her plan solidified in her mind. She told him, “I'll stay at a hotel, if I can get a room or a suite at this late date.”

“I'll make sure you get a suite,” he promised. “New York gets so crowded around the time of the masque, we always keep a few suites in reserve at some of the best hotels, to cover unexpected contingencies. I can send you an email with the reservation.”

That made things significantly easier. “And I'll contact you once I arrive.”

He took a deep breath. “Okay. I'll expect to hear from you by tomorrow night.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “I don't want to say good-bye,” he muttered. “As stupid as it sounds, I feel superstitious about letting you out of my sight right now.”

“I know what you mean. I feel the same way.” She threw her arms around his neck.

He hugged her tight.
Bel,
he said telepathically.
I want you to know, I would be doing this for Ferion's sake, regardless of anything else.

For some reason, that brought tears to her eyes. He really was such a good man. Stroking his hair, she told him,
I believe you.

A lot has changed over the last two hundred years. When we find our way free of this, all I want is the chance for you and me to figure out what we might mean to each other.
His arms tightened.
Okay?

I would really love that, Graydon,
she told him wistfully.

With obvious reluctance, he released her.
Until tomorrow night.

She rested her hand on his chest and promised,
See you soon.

Watching her, he backed up a few steps. Then he turned, shapeshifted into the gryphon and leaped into the air. He was only visible for a few moments, then his form rippled and faded from sight as his cloaking spell took hold.

Gods. To see the gryphon again, after all these years. He was glorious. Watching him soar like that, with such power and grace . . . She felt unbelievably heavy, like a lump of clay forever trapped on earth, and she longed to ride in the air with him again.

Holding her breath, she stared up at the night sky for long moments after he had disappeared.

Finally accepting that he was truly gone, she turned and climbed the bluff. As she walked along the path on the journey home, she braced herself for the next steps.

She had to sell this story like it was really true, and that wouldn't be easy. Ferion's truthsense was enhanced by the fact that he had known her for a very long time.

•   •   •

G
raydon kept his speed strong all the way back to New York. He had a lot to do in a short amount of time. As he traveled north, he entered the winter storm system again.

Snow swirled around him for the last half hour of his flight. By the time he landed, he had flown well over a thousand miles, and a good portion of that had been in inclement weather. He was tired and more than ready for a bucket of hot coffee and a hot, filling meal.

If he showed up at the Tower, he could help himself to the copious amounts of food in the cafeteria, but he would never get a moment's peace. People would approach him with their problems, and he would spend all his time explaining that he was on personal leave.

Instead of going to the Tower, he stopped at Ruby's Diner, a local restaurant that had been a favorite of his for the last thirty years. He ordered two steaks, half a dozen eggs, and a double helping of biscuits and gravy, along with coffee. The food was hearty, and the coffee was so strong it could put a dead man back on his feet again.

Outside the diner's plate-glass windows, large, fluffy flakes of snow swirled. Several of the customers were either Christmas shoppers or masquegoers. The snowstorm seemed
to foster a sense of camaraderie. Laughter and cheerful conversation filled the diner.

He was such a long-standing customer, and they knew him so well, they always kept the barstool at one end of the counter available for him.

Other than giving him a permanent seat, they didn't make any fuss or call him by his title. He enjoyed the sense of anonymity and the chance to eat his meal in peace while he watched the ebb and flow of the other diners.

I'm unbalanced and obsessive. I wouldn't recommend living this way to anyone, and yet, I still can't give up the thought of you.

She had said that to him only a few short hours ago, but in the bright, bustling light of a New York morning, the words already began to feel distant and unreal.

He had lied to her, and she hadn't even noticed.

He had said, all I want is the chance for you and me to figure out what we might mean to each other.

Because that was what a normal, healthy person might say. He had been faking it in the hopes that the rest of him would fall in line, and it hadn't worked.

He wasn't normal or healthy. He was every bit as unbalanced and obsessive as she claimed to be. They really were trapped in much the same place as they had been two hundred years ago.

Only, if they managed to break free of Malphas, he thought likely that she would move on to a new, different life, while he would still be in the same place, wanting her yet unable to have her. He didn't know how to protect himself while still fighting for a chance to be with her.

In the cold light of morning it didn't seem very realistic to hold out hope.

He was still Wyr. She was still Elven.

He had made promises to Dragos, to the other sentinels—Pia and Liam—and he intended to keep them. Bel had already proven over the centuries how devoted she was to the Elven demesne.

While the world had changed and Calondir was dead, Bel's feelings for Dragos ran deep and bitter, and with good reason. Dragos's help in January might have mitigated some of that bitterness, but it couldn't have erased all of it.

As he considered the obstacles that lay between them, he looked around the diner.

The most generous way to describe the restaurant would be to call it retro. Still sporting much of the original décor from the 1970s, it was worn, outdated and definitely working class.

Faded green linoleum covered the floor, while the booths and barstools were covered in orange vinyl. The cracked seat on his own barstool had been patched with a strip of duct tape.

The tables were covered with a layer of faux wood, which was nearly as worn as the floor. The food was hearty, not designer cuisine, but it was well cooked and savory. He felt comfortable in this place, at home. It wasn't fancy, but neither was he.

He tried to imagine Bel enjoying the diner.

It wasn't that she was stuck-up. She was the exact opposite. She was attentive to others, and genuine, and her graciousness caused people from all walks of life to gravitate toward her.

She also wore clothes that were handsewn—jackets covered with a fortune in delicate embroidery and seed pearls, along with handcrafted boots, and silk shirts. Everything about her screamed money and class.

He looked down at himself. His jean jacket, jeans and boots had certainly seen better days, and his plain gray T-shirt had come from a plastic multipack of shirts he had bought at a superstore.

As he rubbed his tired face, he encountered stubble on his chin. The catlike part of his nature was obsessed with cleanliness, but he wasn't sure when he had last shaved.

Wednesday? Maybe Tuesday?

Resting his elbows on the bar, he propped his head in his hands. He didn't know who he was trying to fool. If you
took away the extraordinary events that had thrown them together so long ago, in real, ordinary life, he and Bel were pretty much like oil and water.

“Job getting you down, Gray?”

He looked up at Ruby, the owner of the diner. She was an elderly human woman, around seventy years old. Slim and energetic, with dyed red hair and tortoiseshell glasses, she stayed active in the daily running of her business, claiming her customers kept her young at heart.

He told her, “My job's a piece of cake.”

She snorted as she filled his coffee cup. “Pull the other one, why don't you?”

One corner of his mouth tilted up. “Well, some days it's a piece of cake. Other days . . . hey, it's why they pay me the big bucks, right?”

“You need a good woman to make your life easier.” Ruby rested her coffee carafe on the counter beside him.

Over the years, they had bantered many times like this before. His smile turned genuine. “You applying for the job?”

“Oh, sweet cheeks, if I was about forty-five years younger and a whole lot more stupid, I would hog-tie you and fight off all comers.” She gave him a wink. “But you would always be leaving in the middle of the night. Or you would come home scratched up and bloody, and not say a word about what happened. Some people can handle being the spouse of a cop or a soldier, yet I never was one of them. But we woulda had a lot of fun, you and me, before it all went to hell.”

Laughing, he pulled out his wallet. “We sure would have.”