Shadow's End (4 page)

She had been shattered enough in her time. She had no intention of deliberately choosing to experience that again.

Easing her fingers out of his grip, she glanced sidelong across the dance floor at the stern profile of her husband, Calondir, High Lord of the Elven demesne, as he talked with a couple wearing matching satyrs' costumes. As Oberon had observed, Calondir did not glance once in her direction.

She was quite content that it remain that way.

“Don't worry,” said Oberon, catching the direction of her attention. “He has displayed a perfectly perplexing indifference to my flirtation with you.”

Calondir wasn't the only one who was displaying a perfectly perplexing indifference to Oberon, who was tantalizing and goading in return. Again, she was reminded of a snow cat, batting at her in frustration with one paw. It wanted to play with prey.

But she was not, nor would she ever be, Oberon's prey.

“I can't think of a single reason why either Calondir or I should be troubled by your flirtations.” She gave the Unseelie King a bland look. “Your party is beautiful as always, Oberon. You should go enjoy it while you can.”

His nostrils flared, and he exhaled with some leisurely force, emitting a barely audible growl. “Before I go, tell me—what would it take to win you?”

For a brief moment, her troubles fell to the side, and her smile widened into real amusement. “My dear winter's night, you ask an impossible question that cannot be answered. There's nothing that could win me.”

Behind the silver mask, his deadly gaze narrowed. “We'll see, my darling radiance. Eternity gains more answers from us than we might wish.”

Despite her best effort at maintaining appearances, her smile slipped. She knew the worn anxiety she felt showed in her expression, but as luck would have it, Oberon's attention had moved on.

As he stepped away, she moved also, picking up her pace as she strode along the edge of the dancing crowd.

Magic sparked and eddied, so thick and plentiful from the many types of Power present, that no matter how she tried, she couldn't sort through it to find the one life spark she sought.

Certainty chilled her veins. She didn't need Alanna or Lianne's return to confirm what she already knew.

Ferion hadn't come. He had broken his promise, and she knew where he had gone—to the one place he had sworn
he wouldn't. The place that would destroy him, if she could not find a way to stop him.

Determination hardened her jaw. If he couldn't keep his promise to show up, why then, she would go to fetch him, by force if necessary.

She would need Alanna and Lianne in order to pull it off. Calondir mustn't discover what was happening.

He might ignore Bel all he wished—and, the gods only knew, she welcomed his neglect—but she had said she would attend the masque, and if he realized she had gone missing, he might start asking questions that nobody wanted him to ask.

Intent on finding her attendants, she pivoted to go in the direction of the paths they had gone to search.

A lazy-seeming, good-natured mountain stepped in front of her. The wintry, elaborate masque disappeared from her sight, to be replaced by a waistcoat that covered a broad expanse of powerful chest. At the same moment, she was enfolded by a golden warmth.

All of the first generation of the Elder Races carried something of creation's first fire. Graydon was no exception, and his Power rippled around his body in an invisible corona.

While Oberon's chill Power might have no hold over Bel, stepping within the radius of Graydon's warm aura was like coming close to the comfort of a warm, bright fire, and she felt her breath leave her in an involuntary sigh.

To be honest, the tailoring was rather indifferent on that very large waistcoat of his. It was so unlike Oberon's or Calondir's glittering elegance, she felt the most ridiculous desire to pat it.

She lifted her gaze to Graydon's face. Smooth, classic handsomeness had passed him by. He had rough features, with a strong bone structure.

Eschewing the current fashion maintaining a pale, indoors complexion, he was clearly a man who relished the outdoors. The fact was stamped in the athletic shape of his muscular body and deeply suntanned skin. The sun had also
lightened his short, tawny hair, and faint lines fanned out from the corners of his eyes.

It was a good face, she thought, in somewhat of a daze. A kind face that liked to smile often. Masked by a relaxed demeanor, his dark gray eyes looked sharp and intent, and she felt stabbed all over again.

She could tell he knew something was deeply wrong.

“Good evening, my lady Beluviel,” Graydon said. The rumble of his deep voice was quiet and gentle. “It's a pleasure to see you, as always.”

A wild upsurge of emotion shocked her. It poured out of her chest, from the deep, distant ache of the place that had gone cold and quiet so long ago. She felt a sudden urge to fling herself against his chest and huddle close.

The urge wasn't to fling her problems at him in the hopes that he might fix them. She always fixed her own problems. The urge was for the simple comfort of that warm, companionable blaze.

Of all the impulses she could possibly experience, this had to be the most inappropriate. Appalled, she nearly recoiled but caught herself in time.

“Graydon,” she said stiffly. Hearing how that sounded, she reached for more warmth. “It's always good to see you too. I'm very sorry, but I'm afraid I don't have—”

As she spoke, he held out one large hand. Automatically, she curled her fingers around his in greeting. Instead of bowing, he turned and tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow.

While keeping a strong, steady grip on it.

She had room inside for one more flicker of amusement that lived the life of a moment before it died. “I believe you've absconded with my hand,” she told him. “Perhaps you've retained it by mistake.”

“Walk with me,” he said. His easygoing smile had disappeared.

“I don't have time to visit right now.” As she spoke, she glanced around.

Calondir had escorted a woman dressed in a Grecian
costume onto the dance floor. Smiling at each other, they swirled with the other dancers. Weston and Constantine had busied themselves at the refreshments table. Virtually no one paid attention to Graydon and her.

Underneath the cloth of his coat, the massive arm muscle underneath her fingers bunched. He began to stroll away from the main crowd on the dance floor.

Due to the strong grip he maintained on her hand, she either had to fall in step beside him or cause a stir.

And since calling attention to herself was the very last thing she wanted, she went with him.

At least that was why she told herself she went with him.

“I know you're distressed, and something is wrong,” he said quietly. “It's clear that Calondir either has no knowledge of it, or the issue doesn't concern him.”

Possible responses flitted through her mind.

I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about.
But the companionship of his presence was too warm and alluring, and the memory of that one shared glance between them still stabbed at her. And she couldn't bring herself to utter such an untruth.

You are too forward, sir.
But while she would not have hesitated to say such a thing to Oberon, the power of Graydon's simple kindness was such she could not find it in her heart to rebuke him.

The tension in her throat muscles made it difficult to swallow. “I don't suppose it would do any good to deny it.”

He had dropped all pretense of lightheartedness, and the glance he gave her was both piercing and troubled at once. Gently, he brought them to a halt and turned so that he faced her.

“I'm well aware that I'm crossing boundaries, and my overtures might be unwelcome,” he said quietly. “You're the Lady of the Elven demesne. I'm just a Wyr sentinel in the demesne that borders yours, and the Wyr and the Elves aren't always on the friendliest of terms.”

“That's never personal, Graydon,” she said quickly.

He nodded. He had stopped gripping her fingers, yet
somehow her hand still remained in the crook of his arm. She regarded her offending limb with some annoyance. While she felt she should do something to rectify the situation, she couldn't seem to make herself withdraw.

“I know it's not personal.” Graydon patted her hand. “But historically, the Elves and Dragos have been enemies before, so you can deny that anything's wrong, and you can send me away with a word—and if you do, I will respect your wishes and never speak of this again. I just couldn't stand back and say nothing, not when you're under such distress. Is there anything I can do for you?”

She averted her gaze as she tried to decide how to respond. As she looked around, she saw that he had chosen the spot with care.

They now stood some distance away from the dancers and the densest part of the crowd, but they were still well visible, just not in the thick of things. It was a good choice for a sensitive conversation, offering both privacy and respectability at once.

She glanced back up at him. “What gave me away?”

He lifted one massive shoulder in a shrug. “I thought there seemed to be some tension as you talked with your ladies, but I only really knew for sure when I walked up and could sense the stress in your scent.”

The Wyr and their sensitive senses. She paused while the part of her that relished the companionable warmth of the fire actually considered taking him up on his offer.

She shouldn't. There were so many reasons why she shouldn't. Not least among them was the one he had brought up—they were from different demesnes, and they had different responsibilities and commitments. They had different governments, with different, often conflicting, agendas.

Without realizing it, her fingers had tightened on his coat sleeve. When he shifted subtly to draw closer to her, his large body taking a protective stance, she realized what she was doing and made her grip relax.

Then she heard the exact wrong thing come out of her mouth. “Can I rely upon your discretion?”

He bent his head, studying the ground at their feet. She felt warmed all over again as she saw how carefully he considered her question.

He looked up at her again. “As long as you can say it has nothing to do with the workings of either demesne?”

“It doesn't,” she said as she met his gaze. With those two simple words, she set them both on a path to disaster.

“Then you absolutely can,” he told her, dark gray eyes unwavering. “You have my word on it.”

Even as he spoke, she sensed a presence enter the Gardens, fierce and lava hot.

The Great Beast had arrived at the masque at last.

Inside, she completely fell apart. At the best of times, she had to brace herself to endure Dragos's presence. To have him come so close now, when she was off balance anyway, abraded her nerves until she felt raw inside.

“Good, thank you, yes.” The words tumbled rapidly out of her mouth. “I must leave. I mean, in that case, if you would join me, we need to go. Only first, I must speak with one of my attendants.”

“Of course,” said Graydon immediately. “Let's find one.”

As she fell into step beside him, she glanced over her shoulder.

Even in his human form, Dragos looked like a killer. The battles the Elves had fought against the dragon had burned the landscape and literally reshaped large tracts of the world. Many Elves had died, and several of them had been Beluviel's friends.

The war had occurred so very long ago, but that was the thing about the Elves.

And the dragon.

None of them ever forgot.

THREE

G
raydon's assignment in attending the masque was a simple one.

Dragos wanted him and Constantine to show up, make nice, and demonstrate to people that they were friendly, domesticated creatures and not the wild, vicious animals that the Wyr were often reputed as being.

While the Wyr were very well aware that one thing did not necessarily preclude the other, putting a friendly face to their demesne did seem to help the rest of the world relax whenever they were present.

Graydon figured the parameters of the assignment meant he could enjoy himself as well, and Oberon's cocktail fountains never did seem to run dry. The food was pretty decent too, except those gold cockatrices were frankly odd. He much preferred the plainer sausages.

One of the advantages of attending the masque meant a rare opportunity to visit with Francis, which was how Graydon came to be standing with Weston and Constantine when Beluviel and her two attendants appeared.

As always, whenever Graydon saw Beluviel, he had to
pause what he was doing to take in the pleasure of her presence.

The three women made a uniquely powerful statement that had nothing to do with swords, armor, or anything else overtly warlike. In direct contrast to everyone else, they wore thin, colorful gowns, with short puffy sleeves.

While Graydon didn't know the first thing about female fashion, he thought the dresses were lovely in their simplicity. Their bare, slender arms, and lack of jewelry or warm, thick clothing made everyone else seem lumbering and overdressed, the lavish decorations and refreshments garish and overdone.

Smiling, his gaze passed over the two other pretty Elven women to concentrate on Bel.

The Lady of the South Carolina Elven demesne was beautiful, of course. All the normal requisites for a face were arranged in the most pleasing proportions imaginable. She had a wide, dark gaze filled with calm intelligence, and her long, shining dark hair, also unadorned, cascaded down, like a silken waterfall, to her hips.

Beluviel's beauty was the first thing anybody seemed to notice. Graydon thought it was the least important thing about her.

As one of the eldest of the Elven race, her Power had grown with age. It manifested as a brightness of spirit that lightened everything around her, gently transformative, like the first, tantalizing breath of spring when Graydon knew the season had changed, the cold of winter had fled, and life was beginning to burgeon once again.

That single breath was the rarest of delights. You could only take one breath like that in a year's time. Each successive breath might be pleasurable and refreshing, but none of them quite held the same power as the first epiphany of spring.

That was the essence of what Beluviel's presence brought to him. Also, like the first breath of spring, she was a rare, passing delight. She did not always attend public functions, preferring, or so he had heard, the peace and quiet of her Wood.

Except, this time was different. Graydon looked at her with every anticipation of the pleasure that the sight of her had always brought to him. What he saw instead made his fingers clench on his champagne glass.

She carried the same brightness of spirit. She couldn't help but do so; the quality was an intrinsic part of her and woven into the fabric of her being.

But his sharp eagle's eyes picked up a multitude of tiny fractures in her demeanor. The flex of tension in those long, graceful fingers. The rigid set to her shapely shoulders. The hooded quality to her gaze, and the tight line of her slender jaw.

Disappointment and concern welled up inside of him.

The disappointment was ludicrous and inappropriate. She was her own unique person. The purpose of her existence was not to bring him pleasure. He shoved the feeling aside and studied her more closely.

That was when the vision of the white ground, black rocks, and the red of his blood swept over him for the first time.

With an instinct born from long experience, he held still, enduring the image until it faded enough so that he could glance around surreptitiously to see if anyone had taken note of his odd stillness.

Neither Francis nor Constantine appeared to have noticed that anything was amiss. The two other men had turned their attention to the refreshments table and were piling plates high with food.

As they returned to his side, Francis asked, “Aren't you going to eat?”

Shaking his head, he put effort into making his voice sound normal. “I stole some sausages earlier off one of the tables. I might have more to eat in a bit.”

As he spoke, he watched Bel send away her attendants, and her brief conversation with Oberon. How could Oberon flirt with her and not see that something was wrong? Was the Daoine Sidhe King that shallow and self-absorbed?

The taut, delicate set of her mouth, and the fist that she
made of one hand then pressed against her thigh, as if to hide it in her skirts . . .

Something about her distress—or what caused it—mattered so much that it had triggered an image of his heart's blood dripping between his fingers.

The second sight was a tricky bitch. If he chose to ignore Bel and turned away to focus on his own life and concerns, would that indifference trigger events that would lead to the vision coming true?

Or, if he stepped forward to involve himself in whatever troubled her, would that lead to the incident?

Action or nonaction—there was literally no way to be sure. He could waste his life trying to second-guess everything he did, but that was no way to live. A very long time ago, he had decided to set aside second-guessing for the useless endeavor that it was.

He had not become a sentinel by worrying about what he should or shouldn't do. He would live or die as he always had, by making decisions he knew to be right.

If Beluviel truly was in some kind of distress, there was no way in hell he could walk away from her. That would be like closing the door on spring to spend his life hiding indoors.

Graydon didn't hide from life. He flew at it with everything he had.

He glanced at Beluviel's husband. Lord Calondir looked like he was enjoying himself, as he bent his head close to his female companion.

The physical and psychic distance between the smiling Elven Lord and his tense wife couldn't have been more apparent. They existed in two completely separate realms.

What's going on, Gray?
Constantine asked telepathically. Appearing to have not a care in the world, the other sentinel popped a fantastically shaped meringue into his mouth.

So his behavior had not gone unnoticed after all. He wasn't really surprised. Constantine was an observant son of a bitch. After working together for so long, he knew Graydon much better than Francis did.

I don't know,
he said. Dismissing Calondir, he turned his attention back to Bel.
Something.

Constantine glanced in the direction of his gaze then swiveled his whole body to face Graydon. His handsome face turned sober.
That, my friend, is the very definition of unobtainable.

A rare surge of anger flashed through him. He bit out,
That's not what this is about.

A pause. Graydon could almost see the other male's mental shift.

Okay,
said Constantine. His mental voice remained neutral.
What is this about?

It was about decency and concern for another being's welfare. It was about living his life to the fullest, and making the right decisions in defiance of any potential future harm that may or may not come to him.

He told Constantine,
I don't know, but I'm about to find out.

He took his leave of the other two men and strode forward. Whatever this challenge was, and whether or not the vision came to fruition, he would approach this like he did the rest of his life—with everything he had.

If he was strong enough, smart enough, if he fought hard enough and tried long enough, he could win through.

•   •   •

S
everal minutes later, as he escorted Bel away from the dance floor and along a main path, a sense of rightness settled into his bones. They might be mere acquaintances—he had only ever exchanged pleasantries with her and they had never shared a tête-à-tête—but it felt delightful to have her hand tucked into the crook of his elbow, and to shorten his stride so that he matched hers.

His enjoyment of her company, in the face of whatever was causing her hardship, seemed as inappropriate as his earlier disappointment. Deliberately, he turned his attention away from the pleasure and focused on other details of his surroundings.

Nearby, a Daoine Sidhe knight stood in the middle of a group of inebriated partygoers. The knight's identity was cloaked behind a full mask with two faces, one facing front and the other facing backward. The forward-facing face was dark, while the backward-facing face was light.

Graydon recognized the costume. It was Janus, the Roman two-faced god, with one face looking forward into the future, and the other face looking backward into the past.

The mask mirrored too much of what Graydon was thinking and feeling. Unease tried to ripple through his body, but ruthlessly, he shoved it away. He had lived with the second sight for far too long to read omens into everything.

A light breeze brushed against his face, and he caught a hint of the knight's scent tangled with several others. It was Ashe, Oberon's oldest and strongest wizard knight. As he watched, Ashe pulled a delicate, fresh orchid out of a woman's hand muff and handed it to her with a silent bow. The woman squealed with delight.

“I would like to make one thing clear,” Bel said suddenly.

Instantly, his attention snapped back to the pale, set features of her profile. He said, “By all means, please do.”

Her large, dark eyes flashed at him and then away again. Some force of unknown emotion made them sparkle with reflected firelight. “I don't actually need your help.”

Had she changed her mind? Bemused by another wave of inappropriate disappointment, he murmured, “I see.”

Of course he didn't see. That was merely one of the things he said when he felt the need to say something instead of remaining silent. He had always found it to be one of the most useful phrases in his repertoire when speaking to members of the fairer sex, who, truthfully, were some of the most mysterious creatures ever created by the gods.

“You're a convenience,” she whispered. “That's all. I can handle my issues by myself.”

Ah. He thought he began to get a glimmer. That sounded like worried pride. Sometimes it could be hard to accept help.

“Bel,” he said gently, giving her hand a squeeze. “I never
presumed anything different. You can send me away at any point you like, but if my help will halve your trouble or ease your path in any way, I'm honored to be of assistance. What
can
I do for you?”

She didn't appear to mind that he had dropped all formality. Her shoulders straightened as she took a deep breath and again gave him a sidelong look.

Then her telepathic voice sounded.
If you don't mind, I would rather not discuss such a sensitive subject aloud.

Caught by surprise, he fell into enchantment. Carrying something of her physical demeanor, her mental voice sounded bright and silvery.

He felt almost as if he had looked up and caught an unexpected glimpse of sunlight flashing on a starling's wing as it flew overhead. Her telepathic voice was entirely and uniquely her, and she was inside his head.

She seemed to be waiting for something. With a start, he realized she was waiting for his response.

“Of course,” he said. “Of course” belonged alongside “I see” in his repertoire of generic responses. Shaking his head, he amended that to something more meaningful as he switched to telepathy.
I mean, of course, telepathy is the best way to keep something private.

I need to go to some place called Malfeasance.
Her expression settled into lines of determination.
While I could do that on my own—and would, if I had to—it would be easier if I had a male to escort me. If we went together, I could hopefully do what I need to do with a minimum of fuss and attention.