Shadow's End (3 page)

“You're right,” he said. “I do need to stop.”

When he closed his eyes, he saw the colors. White, and black, and red like roses. Those colors looked a lot like destiny.

“It's nothing personal,” Linwe said, her voice softened. “You saved her life. All of us are grateful to you for what you did.”

“Tell her I'm coming,” Graydon said, keeping his voice as soft as Linwe's. Soft, courteous and inexorable. “I'll be there by morning. She and I have things to discuss.”

And a demon to exorcise once and for all.

Her indrawn breath was audible. “I absolutely will not. She's gone to bed, and I'm going soon too. Graydon, you can't come into the Elven demesne without permission.”

“Fine,” he said. “Just whatever you do, don't tell Ferion.”

He hung up, turned off his phone and went to stuff things into a backpack. Weapons, clothes, basic toiletries, cash and credit cards, and a couple sandwiches for the road. When he was finished, he jogged up the stairwell to the roof, shapeshifted into his gryphon form and launched.

Usually the city of New York shone with panoramic brilliance, but the snowfall had grown thicker and obscured much of its brightness. As he flew through the keen sharp night, his obligations to the Tower fell from his shoulders, and in the silent, solitary space that remained, other images came in.

Only those images weren't of the future, but of the past.

From two hundred years ago, when it had all begun.

TWO

London, December 1815

N
erves knotted Bel's stomach. Even though Ferion had promised to attend her at the masque, she couldn't find him anywhere.

At least, she noted, the Great Beast had not yet arrived. His absence might be the only bright spot in what was rapidly turning into a tense, wretched evening.

Flanked on either side by two attendants, she forced herself to take the path at a leisurely seeming stroll, while she searched the laughing crowd.

Blast Ferion. She shouldn't have taken him at his word.

Instead, she should have insisted he accompany her directly from their rented house in Grosvenor Square. But she had wanted so much to trust him. She had wanted to believe he had finally gotten through the worst.

As she searched for her stepson, huge snowflakes wafted through the air, each one sparkling with magic. No matter what the weather was like throughout the rest of England, for the last several years on winter solstice, snow always fell in the Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens.

The enchantment was courtesy of the Daoine Sidhe King
and his formidable wizard knights. The most mysterious and Powerful of all the Fae, the Daoine Sidhe were split into two distinct peoples—the Light Court, or the Seelie Fae, ruled by Queen Isabeau, and the Dark Court, or the Unseelie Fae, ruled by Oberon. Tonight, the gardens were closed to the public, as the King hosted his annual Masque of the Gods.

Eerie, fantastical ice sculptures decorated the paths, glittering from the light of white witch lights floating a few inches above the ground.

A Sidhe knight prowled along the path, dressed in black. Bel thought he might be Ashe, or Thorn, but she couldn't tell for sure. His face was obscured by a harlequin's mask, his long, dark hair bound back in a queue.

Black velvet bows and crystals adorned the trees, while invisible musicians played a sharp, tinkling music. Open flame from gigantic braziers lent a dash of heat and a feral quality to the scene.

Smiling jugglers performed for the crowd, and magicians pulled party favors made of paste and paint from behind onlookers' ears. Occasionally, a delighted scream pierced the air as a magician revealed the gleam of a real jewel nestled in a painted robin's egg.

The refreshments were equally fantastical, served by Dark Court attendants dressed in spotless white, intricately embroidered uniforms.

Baked cockatrices, a classic medieval dish created from half pig, half rooster, and cooked with saffron and ginger and gilded with edible gold, steamed in the chill night air. Strange, delicate meringue structures, sprinkled with sugar, tilted and swirled on glass plates. Savory jellies of lamb, lavender and lemon had been set in molds shaped like roses, the dishes interspersed with bowls of cherries, oranges, nuts, and sausages. A cocktail of brandy and champagne bubbled in ice fountains.

Everybody who was anybody traveled from all over the world and swathed themselves in wool, furs and jewels to attend the King's masque.

Eventually, Bel knew, the fashion would change. It always
did. Some other spectacle would become de rigueur, but in this age and place, Oberon and his strange, elegant Dark Court held sway. Despite the history of enmity between the two Courts, even the Seelie Queen Isabeau put in an appearance for a short while.

In order to attend without squandering months on travel, those who lived in faroff lands, such as the Elves in the South Carolina demesne, often bargained for transportation from the Djinn, to which the Djinn comfortably agreed.

Quick transportation was an easy task for the Djinn to perform, and in return they collected a fortune in favors. The winged Wyr smiled in pity at such pedestrian arrangements, and generally almost everyone found a way to feel superior.

Very few humans were invited to attend the King's masque, although Bel noticed one or two in the crowd. Usually they were fantastically rich or well favored in Power or political standing. Oberon liked to cultivate opportunity wherever he might find it.

Worry nipped at her heels as she approached the dance floor and walked along the border, her gaze darting over the dancers.

The evening was young, well before midnight, so everyone went masked. Some wore plain dominoes, while others wore masks as fantastical as their surroundings, along with costumes of brilliant color that stood out against the black-and-white background.

The masks made it difficult to identify anybody at a distance with any surety. Magic swirled and eddied, dizzying the senses. Her attention caught on a trio of males, standing beside one of the brandy and champagne fountains.

The Great Beast might not have arrived, but two of his sentinels had. Over the millennia, the Beast had acquired a name, Dragos Cuelebre. Then he had become a Lord and ruled over his own demesne of Wyr, an event the Elves considered an act of outrageous ill fortune.

Of the Beast's seven sentinels, those attending the masque were two of his most Powerful—gryphons
Constantine and Graydon. They stood talking with another Wyr, the ever-courteous and enigmatic Francis Shaw, the Earl of Weston.

Despite her preoccupation, Bel paused to consider the men. No matter how she felt about Dragos personally, overall she enjoyed the Wyr. They had a sense of wildness and a connection with nature that appealed enormously to her.

Reputably, Weston was the one Wyr whom Dragos could not persuade to join him in governing the Wyr demesne in New York. Nicknamed the Eighth Sentinel, Weston had chosen instead to remain loyal to England, and to the family title which he had inherited many years ago. In recent years, he had worked tirelessly in the War Office against Napoleon.

Whatever truth was behind the story, there did not appear to be any ill feeling between the earl and the gryphons. As she watched, Constantine threw back his head and guffawed at something Weston said, his handsome face creased with laughter.

Beside him, his fellow sentinel Graydon grinned as well, his rugged features creased with good humor. While Weston's slim height hinted at a falcon's grace, the gryphons were heavier and taller, the rangy bulk of their muscles indicative of their Wyr form's lion bodies.

Of the three men, Graydon was the biggest. He towered over the other two like a lazy-seeming, good-natured mountain, his masculine form broad and powerful. In defiance of the masque's tradition to go masked until midnight, he had pushed his plain, black domino down so that it hung loosely around his neck like an extra cravat.

Caught by Graydon's easy, relaxed demeanor, Bel's gaze lingered on his face.

There was something about his expression, a kindness perhaps, that touched a place inside of her that had gone cold and quiet a very long time ago. Troubled at the deep, distant ache, she frowned and pressed a hand to her chest.

Unexpectedly, Graydon's gaze shifted. He looked directly at her. In contrast to his relaxed demeanor, his eyes were sharp and alert.

Caught off balance, she felt stabbed by his scrutiny. She heard herself suck in a breath.

The humor faded from his expression. Subtly his posture shifted, until he looked intent, tense.

Even . . . concerned.

That was totally unacceptable. Forcing her spine ramrod straight, she schooled her features so that nothing of her inner turmoil showed. Giving him a polite nod, she turned away to focus on the two young Elven women hovering at her elbow.

“Damn Oberon's need for ostentatious display,” she muttered. “Do either of you see Ferion anywhere?”

In defiance of convention for the chilly masque, Bel's attendants, Alanna and Lianne, eschewed the warm woven brocades and thick furs. Like Bel, they wore light, silk gowns with short, bell-capped sleeves, the delicate blue and green colors evocative of a brighter, warmer season.

The King's wintry magic had no power over Bel. As long as the two younger women remained with her, they stayed as comfortably warm as they would if they were in the Elven great hall. All three wore delicate dominoes made of transparent silk that did nothing to mask their identities and everything to enhance the feminine shape of their faces.

In answer to her question, both Alanna and Lianne shook their heads wordlessly.

The sharpness of Bel's anxiety dulled to a leaden disappointment.

She said, “Retrieve your cloaks and weapons, and go search for him. Be careful if you go off the main paths. The dark places here are kept so intentionally. If you find him, tell him I need to see him immediately.”

“My lady, I don't think we should leave you,” Lianne replied.

While Bel's attendants had young-looking faces and slender figures that gave the impression of gentle, wide-eyed innocence—and they were, in fact, youthful Elves—in reality they were several hundred years old and experienced members of the demesne's military guard.

Even though Lianne questioned her orders, Bel didn't waste energy on frustration or getting angry.

Instead she said in a gentle voice, “I'm in the heart of the masque. This area is well lit and populated, and I know the names of almost everyone present. Many are friends of mine. Besides, I can take care of myself. Do as you're told, and be discreet about it.”

“Yes, ma'am,” replied Alanna, bowing her head.

They had barely taken their leave, when a deep, masculine voice said from behind Bel, “It has been so very long since the Elven Lord and his Lady have arrived together at a function that almost no one remarks upon it any longer.”

Briefly, her mouth tightened in annoyance, before she made her expression ease. She turned to face the Daoine Sidhe King.

Whatever else one might say about Oberon, he certainly made a compelling figure.

Bel was tall, but he was taller still. His tailored evening coat and waistcoat fit his powerful frame like a second skin, the cloth made of an intricate, silver brocade. His mask was also silver and just as elaborate, with a sharp pointed nose and an outward flare like wings at the temples.

The outfit provided a striking contrast to his dark, glittering eyes. Light from a nearby bonfire shimmered over his raven hair, giving it a blue-black sheen.

Raising one eyebrow, she replied coolly, “Indeed, the subject of how my husband and I choose to attend parties is so boring, the only thing remarkable is that anyone would wish to discuss it at all.” She waited a heartbeat to let whatever small sting from her words sink in. Then she offered her hand to him in greeting. “Oberon.”

Gracefully, he bowed. Instead of brushing the air over her fingers, he touched her skin with his lips. At the same moment, his cold Power brushed alongside hers, like a massive snow cat sliding along her legs, its fur chilled from the winter's night.

“Beluviel,” he murmured against her fingers in a deliberate caress. “As always, your radiance is nonpareil. No matter
how I might try to outdo myself at these masques, you remain the brightest star in my night. How your husband can dance with others without giving you so much as a single glance is quite beyond me.”

She flicked her forefinger against his full lower lip in rebuke for his forwardness. “You pay far too much attention to that which does not concern you.”

His mouth compressed in a smile as he straightened. “I disagree. The whereabouts of every beautiful woman's husband is of immense concern to me. My darling radiance, this year, please say you'll be mine.”

He was so outrageous, despite herself, she felt her lips pull into a responding smile. “You only want what you can't have.”

“You never know,” he said, with dangerous gentleness. “Eternity might be captured in a single kiss.”

“Not your eternity,” she told him dryly. “And not my kiss.”

“If I still had a heart, it would be broken at how you spurn me,” he murmured. “I could give you so much pleasure, more than you have ever dreamed of, if only you would let me.”

Her eyes narrowed. She remembered Oberon when he was much younger, but something had happened to him over the course of the centuries. Perhaps it was an event, or maybe it was just the inevitable march of time.

Whatever had caused the change, the young, smiling Fae King that he had once been was gone. He had grown icy and distant, and his dark eyes glittered like hard onyx. She had heard whispers that his cold, compelling Power could bring his lovers to a screaming ecstasy, only to leave them at dawn, shattered and weeping in desolation at his absence.