Shadow's End

  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.

  • • •

  Bel 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.

  Since she was considering the possibility of the Wyr, she could think of no reason for Dragos to have come south either. While he had invaded the Elven demesne before, he must be busy in New York with the business meetings and preparations that surrounded the masque.

  Shaking her head at her own foolishness, she stepped back indoors to dress in trousers, boots, a loose, comfortable shirt and a quilted jacket. Hesitating over the thought of carrying weapons, the thought of the Wood’s youth and inexperience caused her to slip into her sword harness, just in case.

  She considered waking Linwe, or taking one of the night guards with her, but after studying the Wood’s alert, calm interest, she decided not to. She could always raise an alarm later, if necessary. For now, she trusted her ability in cloaking her presence.

  Her rooms were located at one end of the building. A private stairway led from the balcony to the river’s edge below. The guards on duty were much younger than she. None of them noticed as she strolled from the clearing.

  What do you have to show me? she asked the Wood, only not quite in so many words. Her question was more of a nudge and a sense of inquiry.

  The Wood tugged her along narrow paths, toward the coast. Other races might have had difficulty following the nearly invisible paths, but they were her design. She knew them like she knew the back of her hand.

  As she hiked, a sense of peace and freedom came over her, two things she no longer felt when she resided at the Elven home.

  Soon, she realized the Wood was taking her further than she had expected. Her old Wood had covered miles. This new one would be no smaller by the time it finished growing.

  She began to run. Her Elven nature gave her tremendous stamina. If necessary, she could run for days, although if the Wood continued to urge her in the current direction, she would run out of land.

  She ran out of land.

  When she neared the shore
line, a sense of freshness brushed against her cheek, damp with the breeze that blew off the ocean. Breathing deep, she scented the water, refreshing and brisk, and carrying a hint of brine.

  The path curved, taking her out of a sparse line of new saplings that would soon, with her encouragement, take on the aspect of a large, old-growth forest.

  The path followed the top of a long bluff. Favored by the Elven guards, it provided a good vantage place to look out over the shoreline and water.

  At the highest point on the bluff, she paused to scrutinize the view. Moonlight cascaded over the scene, gilding the water and the edge of shadowed clouds with ivory and silver.

  Below, at the edge of the beach, a half-hidden figure of a very large man reclined against a large boulder.

  Her heart began to pound. Her stupid, stupid heart.

  She couldn’t be right. The man was too far away. The lighting was too uncertain for her to recognize his identity at such a distance.

  Still, she wanted it so badly to be true. Keeping her cloaking spell tight around her body, she made her way down the side of the bluff to the beach below.

  Walking toward the relaxed figure, she stared without blinking, until details became clear.

  The man wore jeans and a jean jacket. A battered pack rested beside him. His arms were crossed, as were his legs at the ankles. The cascade of moonlight glinted off wavy, tawny hair. He had let it grow some years ago.

  With his chin tucked to his chest, his face remained in shadow, but every line of his rough, sun-kissed features was stamped indelibly in her memory.

  “Graydon,” she whispered, disbelieving and, for one moment, deliriously, unutterably happy.

  When he whipped to his feet with catlike speed, she let go of her cloaking spell.

  He walked toward her, stepping out of the boulder’s shadow. The ivory moonlight touched his cheekbones, his jaw, the masculine curve of his lips.

  As he grew near, the Power of his presence enveloped her. She felt nourished again by a warm, friendly blaze. Just as she had in the Vauxhall Gardens, all those years ago, the same crazed desire to fling herself into his arms and nestle against his chest washed over her.

  At the same moment, she felt the impulse to back away. What could Malphas sense down that mysterious, ephemeral connection he had established with them?

  All this time, while she couldn’t fully trust Ferion, she also knew she couldn’t fully trust herself.

  “Hi, Bel.” Graydon stopped a few feet away and made no attempt to touch her. Silence fell between them and stretched into something intolerable. Finally, he asked, “How are you?”

  She lifted one hand and let it drop, at a loss as to what to say.

  I miss you.

  I want you.

  I think about you every day, and when I roll over half asleep in bed, my hand reaches for yours, but you’re not there. You’re never there.

  You never were.

  Every word of Malphas’s bargain was emblazoned in her memory. As she ran over the words in her mind, she remembered. She could touch him. The terms of the bargain allowed for it. What a hateful thing.

  She didn’t even know if Graydon would welcome her touch. She was painfully aware that he had not reached out to touch her.

  She asked, “What are you doing here? What’s wrong?”

  Even in the uncertain light of the moon, the intensity of his gaze seared her. “What if I wanted to see you?”

  Where had pleasantries gone? Those social niceties one said when encountering an acquaintance one hadn’t seen in a long time. Without the trappings of a political function or public gathering to stop them, they had plunged immediately into a raw, intimate place.

  Her breathing turned ragged. “You wouldn’t come here just to see me. Not after all this time.”

  “I wouldn’t?” His hands tightened into fists. “One of the hardest things I ever did was leave you with the healers, back in January. I couldn’t stay by your side—none of them would have let me, so I had to completely leave the demesne. The only thing I could stand to do was go back to the Other land and help from that end. Since then, I’ve scoured every online news source for how you were doing, and how hard you’ve worked to help the recovery effort.”

  She had done everything she could think to do for the demesne. From the moment she had left her sickbed, she had worked every day for the last six months until she dropped from exhaustion.

  Now, when people came to her for help or advice, she gave it to them by rote, because part of her couldn’t help but answer, even as she wondered if she really had anything left to give.

  Wrapping her arms around her middle, she confessed, “I read everything I can about New York and the Wyr demesne, just so that I can see your name.”

  His voice lowered. “From time to time, I’ve slipped down to Charleston. I look at the houses for sale. The ones with a big, private yard.”

  His words were quiet, even gentle. They devastated her completely. Before she quite realized what she was doing, she flung herself at him in an uncontrolled lunge, blindly trusting him to catch her.

  As she collided against his body, his arms slammed around her. He gripped her so tightly, she knew his hold would leave bruises, and she welcomed it. She didn’t care.

  He was breathing as heavily as she, as if he had been running for a very long time. Burying his face in her hair, he muttered, “I would walk from room to room in those empty houses and wonder if you still thought of me.”

  “Oh gods.” The words felt wrenched out of her. She couldn’t hold him any tighter than she already did, but she still wasn’t close enough. She wanted to climb up his body, open his skin, crawl inside and never leave. “I’ve wondered if you thought of me too. I’ve wondered if you moved on, or if you’ve been with someone else. I didn’t have the right to ask. I still don’t.”

  “I haven’t been with anyone else,” he murmured, cradling her. “Have you?”

  Her arms tightened around his neck. “No,” she whispered. “I haven’t found anybody who can replace the memory of being with you. What am I saying? That makes it sound like I’ve been looking, and I haven’t. I . . . 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.”

  “Good,” he said between his teeth. He gripped her head in both hands, holding her with such tense care, she could feel the tension vibrating through his big body.

  Tilting her face up to his, he held his mouth just over hers. Not quite touching or kissing, but so close she could feel the heat from his lips. She shook with the desire to cross that tiny distance and kiss him.

  How could this have happened between them so long ago? It felt as if it had been yesterday. Her voice wobbled. “This is why I’ve never tried to see you alone. One look at you, one touch, five minutes, and it all spills out.”

  He growled, “Don’t be balanced, Bel. Don’t turn away or find someone else. Wait for me. Wait to see what we can have together. You said it once, don’t you remember? Holding your ground is not passivity. Work for this. Stay the course.”

  She touched his mouth with shaking fingers. “What course is there? We’ve been living in a trap for two hundred years. Now Ferion is Lord of the demesne, and I—I don’t know him anymore.”

  “What do you mean?” He massaged her temples with both callused thumbs.

  “Once I knew he was a good man who made a few bad mistakes. Now, mostly he says and does the right thing, but sometimes I find him watching me. I don’t know who’s looking out of his eyes, or what he’s thinking, or how much Malphas might have twisted him.”

  When emotion clogged her throat, she had to stop. Memories from very long ago played through her mind. As a towheaded, Elven boy, Ferion had been intelligent, loving and mischievous. How she missed that boy, with a deep, specific pain that only a
parent who has become estranged from her child could truly understand.

  Graydon stroked wisps of hair off her face. “Does he gamble anymore?”

  His words pulled her back to the present. She paused, thinking. “No, not to my knowledge. Not since England.”

  “Then don’t lose hope, not yet.”

  She drew back so she could search his shadowed expression. “Gray, why did you come? Has something happened?”

  Gently, he laid a large, broad hand over her mouth, stopping her flow of words. We should talk telepathically, he told her. We haven’t done anything to trigger the connection, and I don’t sense Malphas anywhere, but he has slipped up on us before, remember?

  I could never forget. She gripped his thick, strong wrist, staring up into his dark, shadowed gaze. You do know something!

  A slow smile widened his mouth and crinkled the corners of his eyes.

  A few months ago, information came into my possession, he told her. I didn’t go looking for it, and it also has nothing to do with what happened to us and Ferion two hundred years ago, so it doesn’t violate the terms of our bargain. I sent investigators into the field to verify the details and gather more evidence.

  The thought of the risk he had taken made her stomach clench. Her fingers tightened on his wrist.

  Before she could say anything, he added quickly, They’re very good investigators and experienced professionals, thorough and careful to hide their tracks. I took great care.

  Her breath shuddered. Of course you did.

  I also went outside both our demesnes. They’re not even Wyr. Well, one of them isn’t. The other who is Wyr has no ties to the Wyr demesne—in fact, he used to be an Elder tribunal Peacekeeper. He’s young, but he’s respected for the impartiality and quality of his work.

  What did they find? she asked.

  Exactly what you would expect. His gaze turned fierce and eagle-sharp. What happened to Ferion was no isolated incident. Malphas has enslaved others, Bel. Humans, Dark and Light Fae, Vampyres. His reach crosses over multiple demesnes.

  Disappointment began to darken her hopes. None of that goes against Djinn law, just as Ferion’s debt didn’t.