Shadow's End

ONE

With one blunt forefinger, Graydon tapped out a text on his smartphone.

We can’t put off meeting any longer. I can’t explain why in a text, but we’re running out of time. I need . . .

He paused as an onslaught of emotion cascaded through him.

I need to see you.

I need to touch your cheek, clasp your hand.

I need to look into your eyes, your beautiful eyes.

I need to know the precious light inside you has not died.

That was when the vision hit him.

He was used to having visions. He’d had them his entire, very long life. The Gaelic had many words and terms for such a thing. An Da Shealladh or “the two sights” was one of the most famous of them.

When he was tired to the point of distraction, or hungry to the point of feeling hollow, he saw images of places he had not yet seen or things he had not yet done, and he knew he would see those places, and he would do those things. Eventually.

The vision rolled over him as inescapably as if he had plunged into a vast ocean and water had closed over his head.

Over the last two hundred years, the scene had become familiar. He had seen it so many times. It held a scent of danger, smoky like gunpowder and sharp as a stiletto.

White, like snow, blanketed the ground near a dark, tempestuous shore. The white was broken by rocks as black as midnight. Nearby, a behemoth of a building crouched atop a sprawling bluff like a huge predator. When he looked down, he saw bright scarlet blooming on the white ground, like roses opening to the sun.

Only the scarlet wasn’t flowers, but blood.

His blood, dripping between his fingers.

“Uncle Gray?”

The boy’s voice penetrated the images, and the vision snapped.

It didn’t fully dissipate but lingered at the edge of his mind, ready to surge back the moment he became too tired, hungry or careless.

Frustrated, he shoved it aside through sheer force of will. He was on the clock and didn’t have time for this shit. He didn’t care if the vision returned later, just as long as he could focus on his real surroundings for now. He could wrestle with his inner demons when he was on his own time.

As he fought to clear his head, a solid, prosaic reality settled into place around him.

He wore combat boots, jeans and a leather jacket, and he had an assault rifle slung over one shoulder. Beside him stood a young, curious dragon in human form.

Graydon’s assault rifle was a just-in-case accessory, since the most important duty he had that night was watching the boy. If something outlandish did occur, any action he took would be purely defensive.

They stood at the top of Cuelebre Tower at night. The Tower was in the heart of the Wyr demesne, eighty stories of financial and political dominance stamped onto the New York landscape. The air felt frigid and bracing, and fluffy white snowflakes were beginning to drift and eddy on a fitful breeze.

No other building in the immediate vicinity was as tall as Cuelebre Tower. Some people claimed that was the hubris of Dragos Cuelebre, the Lord of the Wyr, multibillionaire and head of Cuelebre Enterprises.

Along with the other six sentinels, Graydon knew better. While Dragos had pride enough in spades, the relative height of his Tower didn’t have anything to do with it.

Between avian Wyr and the occasional helicopter, the Tower rooftop saw a lot of traffic. Dragos’s decision to bribe the city council into keeping the surrounding buildings shorter had been based on security considerations, pure and simple.

As Liam Cuelebre, Dragos’s son and Prince of the Wyr, stared up at Graydon, he realized he hadn’t responded to the boy. He cleared his throat. “Yeah, what is it, sport?”

The wind ruffled Liam’s dark blond hair. His wide, dark violet gaze was so like his mother’s. “Is everything okay?”

Graydon had been standing frozen for too long, and while Liam might appear to be a sunny-natured, ordinary boy, he had been born a mere nine months ago and there was nothing ordinary about him.

Physically he appeared to be a tall, handsome twelve-year-old, but that was the result of the Powerful dragon in him straining to become fully grown.

In his human form, Liam was bigger and stronger than any normal twelve-year-old. In his Wyr form, his dragon was already twice the size of any of the gryphons—and the gryphons were some of the largest Wyr in the world. Graydon’s Wyr form was easily the size of an SUV, a massive, muscled blend of eagle and lion.

In terms of sheer strength, Liam could also overpower any of the sentinels, although that didn’t mean the boy could take any of them in a fight, since the sentinels had age, cunning and experience on their side. Not that any of them fought Liam in anything other than a carefully controlled training exercise.

Intellectually, the boy’s reading was at college level, his math skills were off the charts, and the gods only knew how good his truthsense was, or any of his other senses, for that matter. Sweet-natured as he was, much of him remained a mystery.

So Graydon ruffled Liam’s hair affectionately and told him a version of the truth. “Sorry, I got lost in thought. Everything’s as normal as can be. Wanna listen in for a minute?”

The boy’s gaze sparked with interest. “Sure.”

Graydon said into his mic, “Watch your language, folks. I’m putting a guest on the line for a few minutes.”

Even though the security detail’s channel was encrypted, hackers were a constant concern, and nobody used real names over the comm link. Still, everyone knew the identity of Graydon’s visitor.

Alexander, the pegasus, was the other sentinel on duty that night. His rich, warm voice came down the comm link. He sounded amused. “Roger that.”

Graydon removed his headset and handed it to Liam. “If you just hold it up to your ear, I’ll be able to hear it too.”

His eyes wide with fascination, Liam nodded. He held the headset up to listen to the security detail.

Propping one booted foot on a railing, Graydon crossed his arms over his knee and surveyed the surrounding area as events unfolded like clockwork. He nodded to himself in satisfaction. He liked an evening that held no surprises.

All the rooftops of the neighboring buildings had been checked and cleared, and the last team member had settled into place. Eighty stories below, on the ground, a crowd of paparazzi had formed along the sidewalk that bordered the front steps of the Tower. Legally, the sidewalk was as close to Cuelebre Towers as the paparazzi were allowed to get without an express invitation to a press conference.

Graydon’s smartphone buzzed in the front pocket of his jeans, a short vibration that indicated he had received a text message or an email. He ignored it for the moment, as he gave the rooftops of the surrounding buildings one last, narrow-eyed check.

Three blocks away a sleek, black limousine turned a corner. Dragos and Pia were arriving right on time. The limo pulled to a smooth stop at the front steps of the Tower.

Hugh, a gargoyle Wyr who alternated between acting as Liam’s bodyguard and a member of Pia’s personal security team, stepped forward to open the rear door. Bending slightly, he held out a hand in invitation.

Slender female fingers grasped Hugh’s. Graydon might be eighty stories away, but his sharp gryphon’s eyes picked up the brilliant flash of diamond on the woman’s ring finger.

First Pia’s long slender legs emerged, then the woman herself appeared as she climbed out of the car, her gleaming pale blond hair piled high on her head. She wore a silver sequined dress and a luxurious-looking white faux fur stole, and she shone like a slender pillar of white fire in the night.

Immediately following Pia’s exit, her husband Dragos poured out of the limo, nearly seven feet tall and three hundred pounds of hard, muscled male, the most lethal Wyr predator in the world.

The white shirt of his tux emphasized his dark bronze skin, straight black hair and piercing gold eyes. Several of the paparazzi took a step back, their instincts telling them that danger walked in their midst. They were the smart ones of the bunch.

Their instinctive caution didn’t stop them from doing their jobs. Lights exploded from cameras all around the couple, and Dragos turned his face away. His expression looked hard and bored. He hated having his picture taken.

Pia and Dragos climbed the steps and disappeared from Graydon’s sight as they stepped into the building. The paparazzi’s attention splintered. Individuals wandered in different directions, several talking on cell phones. With a near silent, collective sigh, the security detail outside relaxed.

Alexander said, “Stand down. That’s a wrap for the night.”

Graydon held out his hand for the headset, and Liam handed it over.

“Nice work, everybody,” Graydon said into the mic. “The kitchen will be serving a late supper for the next hour. Chef said there would be prime rib in the cafeteria for people who pulled security duty tonight.”

A flurry of good nights came down the link.

Liam grinned at him. “One of these days I’m gonna be on one of those details.”

“Yeah?” Graydon returned his grin. “One of these days, you might be leading one.”

“Cool.” Liam fell into step beside him as he strode across the rooftop, heading for the staircase. “Can I have some prime rib too?”

Earlier that evening, the two of them had polished off an extra-large pepperoni pizza while watching old Hammer House of Horror episodes, but the boy was a bottomless pit.

“Of course you can,” Graydon said. The cafeteria was located just one story below the penthouse. The upper stories of Cuelebre Tower were secure, so he told Liam, “You go on to the cafeteria.”

Liam paused on the steps to look back at him. “Aren’t you coming?”

“I’m gonna check in with your mom and dad,” he told the boy. “Come back up to the penthouse when you’re done eating.”

“Okay,” said Liam. He gave Graydon a hug and a quick smile. “Thanks for letting me hang out with you this evening.”

His expression softened, and he returned the hug. “My pleasure, sport.”

He watched as Liam ran ahead, then he continued on his way to the penthouse.

That evening, Dragos and Pia had attended one of the major political functions of the year, a kick-off event that started two weeks of meetings, suppers and balls that surrounded the winter holiday celebrations.

For the Elder Races, the time around the summer solstice was the main political season. Winter solstice marked a smaller, secondary season. Some politics were involved, but those meetings tended to be quieter and smaller.

Much of the focus of the winter season was social, as it was the time to celebrate the Masque of the Gods. Every year in New York, the numbers of the Elder Races swelled as Dragos hosted one of the biggest, most elaborate masques in the world, and dignitaries and celebrities came from all the other demesnes to attend.

Once Graydon stepped inside the penthouse, he set his rifle aside gently. His cell phone vibrated again, and he pulled it out of his pocket to check his messages.

The messages app was still open to his unsent text.

He gazed down at it. He hadn’t typed, “I need to see you,” as he had intended.

Instead, his screen read: I need you.

The cool silence in the spacious, luxurious apartment pressed against his ears. Gently, he tapped the erase button until the text disappeared.

Pia appeared in the doorway. She had slipped off her faux fur stole and carried it slung over one shoulder. Up close, she was even more eye catching, as the sequins in her dress picked up every fraction of light and magnified it.

She and Dragos had not yet made a formal announcement about the fact that she was pregnant again. So far, only their inner circle knew. While she hadn’t yet begun to show, the pregnancy suited her. Her skin and hair looked more lustrous than ever.

She gave him a tired, cheerful smile. “Everything go all right?”

“Of course,” he told her. “I love spending time with Liam. He’s gone to get a second supper in the cafeteria.”

She shook her head. “Why does that not surprise me?”

“He’ll be up in a half an hour or so.”

Dragos entered the room, his tuxedo tie loosened. He had shrugged out of his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He nodded a greeting to Graydon.

Even though Graydon had already heard a preliminary report, he asked, “How did the evening go?”

With a cynical twist of his lips, Dragos replied, “Same old, same old.”

Pia rolled her eyes. Leaning against the end of the couch, she slipped off her sparkly high heeled pumps.

“There was plenty of ammunition for the gossip magazines. The Light Fae ambassador from Brazil got drunk, took off all his clothes and went for a swim in the big fountain in the hotel lobby, and the heir to the Algerian witches demesne vomited all over the Demonkind prime minister’s Stuart Weitzman diamond stiletto shoes.” She paused thoughtfully. “If you ask me, I think he did that on purpose. The prime minister was being very snippy.”

Graydon gave her a brief smile, then turned to Dragos. “I know it’s late, but I need a few moments.”

Dragos and Pia exchanged a glance. Bending to scoop up her shoes in one hand, she said, “I’m headed for a shower and bed.”

“I’ll wait for Liam to get back and join you later,” Dragos told her.

She nodded and padded over to kiss Graydon on the cheek. “Goodnight, Gray.”

A rush of affection hit him. Pia had only come into their lives a year and a half ago, but now he couldn’t imagine life without her.

“Goodnight, cupcake,” he replied, patting her back.

Both men watched her disappear down the hall. She closed the door to their master suite and a few moments later, Graydon heard a faint, distinct sound of water running.

Only then did Dragos move. He strolled to the bar located at one end of the spacious living room, sloshed brandy into two snifters and returned to hand one of the glasses to Graydon.

“Step out onto the balcony with me,” Dragos said. “I could use some fresh air.”

Graydon blew out a breath. “Sure.”

Outside, the wind was knifelike, but both Wyr males generated enough body heat that the cold felt refreshing. Dragos lifted his face and took a deep breath, the line of his wide shoulders easing.

Graydon couldn’t join him in relaxing. The vision pushed along the edges of his awareness, seeking to take over his mind again. His muscles tightened against the instinctive urge to shift and launch into the night.

Dragos took a mouthful of his brandy. “What’s on your mind?”

Walking to the edge of the balcony, Graydon looked down at the incandescent ribbon of traffic below. “I told you once, a long time ago, that I might have to take a leave of absence. Do you remember?”

His question wasn’t just a conversational prompt. Over the summer, Dragos had sustained a traumatic brain injury that had resulted in odd gaps in his memory.

Dragos joined him at the balcony. Graydon was a big guy, the largest of the sentinels, but even he had to look up a few inches as he glanced at the new pale scar that slashed down the other male’s temple.

None of the Wyr lord’s incisive intelligence or aggressive personality had been affected by his injury. After a few tense days of suffering total post-traumatic amnesia, he had recalled the most vital parts of his life—his mate and family, and those in his closest circle.

Even so, Pia and his seven sentinels kept a sharp watch at public events, so they could help fill in any unexpected blanks Dragos might encounter. In the months that had followed the accident, Dragos had collected countless history books and read through corporate files obsessively in order to recover as much as he possibly could, as quickly as possible.

Graydon thought of all the secrets the Cuelebres were keeping. Pia’s Wyr form. Her new pregnancy. Dragos’s accident, and the fact that he might have recovered most of his memory, but he hadn’t regained all of it.

So far, they’d been damn lucky that none of their secrets had come out.

At least as far as he knew. Blowing out a breath, he rubbed the back of his head and let the thought go. No sense in getting himself riled up until he had reason to.

At Graydon’s question, Dragos’s dark, sleek brows had drawn together. The expression in his fierce gold gaze grew intent.

“Yes, I remember,” he said. “You had talked about taking a leave of absence—what, nearly two hundred years ago?”

“That’s right. Two hundred years, almost to the day.” With a quick flick of his wrist, Graydon tossed back the contents of his brandy glass. The liquor was smooth on his tongue, warm like liquid sunshine, and fiery on the way down. He welcomed the burn.

Dragos’s gaze turned uncomfortably sharp. “I also remember you’d said that if you ever needed to ask for the leave of absence, you might not be able to tell me why. Is that still the case?”

“Yeah. And you promised I could have the time if and when I needed it.” Graydon met the other male’s gaze. “I need to hold you to that promise now.”

Dragos’s frown deepened. He turned to face Graydon fully, and Graydon braced his wide shoulders in response. To get the full focus of the Lord of the Wyr’s attention could sometimes be an unsettling experience.

“I don’t like it,” growled the dragon. “It smells like trouble. Like you’re in trouble. Tell me what’s going on.”

Slowly, he replied, “I can’t. I made a promise, too, and it’s not my secret to tell.”

The moment stretched tight, straining the air between them.

“What if I say no?” Fierce, gold eyes burned as hot as lava.

Unsurprised, Graydon nodded. The dragon disliked constraints of any kind, even those of his own devising. “That would be unfortunate, because I would have to go anyway.”

“To keep that promise you made.”

“Yes.”

The pressure built, from the weight of Dragos’s attention and the vision that pushed at Graydon from within, until he thought his skin might split open.

Breathing evenly, he stiffened his spine. Holding one’s ground was not passivity. It took its own kind of strength. She had said that to him once, all those many years ago, and he had never forgotten it.

He would hold fast.

Muttering a curse, Dragos pivoted to scowl down at the traffic below. “I gave you my word, and I’ll keep it,” he said. “But now you have to promise me something in return.”

Releasing his pent-up breath on a soundless sigh, Graydon pinched the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger. “What’s that?”

Dragos stabbed him with a sharp look. “You’re my First. The other sentinels rely on you. Hell—Pia, Liam and I rely on you. More than that, you’re family.”

Unexpectedly touched, he ducked his head. “You’re mine too.”

“So,” Dragos said, “you go and take care of whatever you need to take care of, but you have to promise that you’ll tell me what’s going on the moment you can, and that you’ll come to me for help if you need it—and you must promise to come back.”

He understood exactly why Dragos pushed for that last part.

Wyr mated for life. Nobody fully understood the dynamic, which involved a complex combination of timing, circumstance, sex and personality.

A year and a half ago, Dragos had lost two of his sentinels, Rune and Tiago, because they had mated with women elsewhere. It had taken months to choose two new sentinels, and for the Wyr demesne to stabilize again from the change.

Graydon found he had room for a wry smile. If only Dragos knew how unlikely it was that he might run the risk of losing Graydon to mating.

“As soon as I can tell you anything, I promise I will. I’ll ask for help too, if it becomes appropriate.” He met Dragos’s gaze steadily. “As long as I am alive and able to do so, I’ll always come back. This is my home. I’ve made that commitment to you, and to here.”

And besides, she wouldn’t have me, anyway.

His jaw tightened. Like he had with the vision, he shoved the thought out of his head.

Managing to look curious, frustrated and mollified all at once, Dragos angled out his jaw. “Fine,” he said. “Go.”

Giving him a grateful nod, Graydon turned away.

A heavy hand fell on his shoulder, causing him to stop in his tracks. Dragos’s grip clenched, almost to the point of pain.

Normally, Dragos was not demonstrative with anyone other than Pia and Liam. Moved, Graydon angled his face away. After a moment, he reached up to grip the other man’s hand in return. Only then did Dragos’s hold ease and allow him to continue on his way.

He strode out of the penthouse, pausing only to collect the rifle. He could go to his apartment, grab his pack, and if the goddamn vision would only loosen up so that he could see to fly, he could be in the air inside of fifteen minutes.

In just a few hours, he could see her again. His world ground to a halt as he finally allowed himself to think of it.

He could see for himself how she was healing. Life’s cuts had wounded her deeply, but she had a strong, unique spirit, forged most elegantly and tempered by adversity and time.

After everything they had endured, he had grown a bone deep, unshakable faith in her. She was true, her spirit clean, straight and strong. She knew how to stand her ground and hold steady, no matter what the odds.

That much had become clear as he had watched her covertly over the centuries, knowing he could only ever catch glimpses of her, because anything else, everything else between them, had become far too dangerous.

Even though the evening had grown late, the elevators and hallways in the Tower were crowded with late-night revelers and the personnel that had pulled third-shift security. Several times, people stopped Graydon, either to ask him questions or exchange pleasantries.

He gave each of them his unhurried attention, while inside him everything strained to be on the move. His head was beginning to pound from the effort of maintaining control, but he would not be ruled by either his visions or his desires.

She had taught him that kind of iron, ruthless self-control. Sometimes he had hated her for it, with a private, passionate insincerity that disturbed him profoundly.

Once he finally reached the privacy of his apartment, he flipped on the lights. All of the sentinels had apartments in the Tower, although some, like Quentin and Aryal, only chose to use them sometimes.

Graydon was different. He chose to live full time in his Tower apartment. To a man of his simple tastes, it was more than luxurious and met all of his needs. While it was only a one bedroom, it had been built with such spacious dimensions, even someone his size could sprawl out and feel comfortable.

Floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room and bedroom gave him a panoramic view of the New York skyline, and he had a private balcony where he could enjoy quiet dinners or launch for a quick flight to clear his head after work.

A giant Jacuzzi tub in the bathroom could soak away most aches and pains after a brutal day at work, and a professional decorator had made sure the furniture was good and the colors didn’t suck.

He had laundry service, housekeeping service, and the Tower cafeteria kept his fridge fully stocked with excellent cooked meals, freshly made, whole grain sandwiches stuffed with meats and cheese, and his favorite kind of beer.

It was a fine enough place, a good enough place, most of the time.

“This is my home,” he whispered through clenched teeth. He could hear the desperation in his own voice. “This is where I belong. I will keep all of my promises. I will hold true.”

Right now the apartment felt like a cage. He thought about smashing his fist into the plate-glass window, just to see it shatter and to feel the wild wind rush in.

He closed his eyes. Swiftly like a predator, the vision of his death struck. This time it would not be denied.

The white ground, black rocks, and red drops of his heart’s blood growing on the ground like blooming roses. He lost himself in the sensation of liquid warmth flowing between his fingers.

When he could finally see again, he found himself kneeling on the floor, shoulders hunched. That damned scene hung like an albatross around his neck, until he almost wished it would go ahead and happen, just so that he could get it the fuck over with.

He had carried that albatross for almost two hundred damn years—exactly from the moment when he had responded to a damsel in distress and had embroiled himself in another man’s curse.

And wasn’t that too much to swallow as a coinkydink.

It was all connected. He knew it.

Stiffly, he forced himself to his feet, walked to a cupboard and pulled out a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue. After taking several deep pulls from the bottle, he scrolled quickly through the contacts on his phone until he found the right one.

He punched the call button.

Despite the late hour, the person on the other line answered almost immediately. “Hello?”

The feminine voice sounded cautious and guarded. In the background, he could hear sounds of Elven music, quick moving and passionate.

“Linwe,” he said. He didn’t bother to introduce himself. Linwe knew very well who had called her, even if she refused to say his name aloud.

Over the connection, he heard quick, light footsteps, and the music faded. His mind constructed an image from the sounds. She was walking out of the great hall in the Elven home.

“What do you want?” Linwe asked.

He drank scotch. “She doesn’t answer my phone calls or texts.”

“She doesn’t answer anybody’s phone calls or texts.” The young Elven woman kept her voice low. “She doesn’t carry her phone anymore, not since . . . not since what happened in March.”

He held his phone tightly. “How is she?”

“She’s recovering, like everybody else in the Elven demesne. Look, I shouldn’t talk to you about her, or tell you things. It doesn’t feel right. You need to stop calling me.”

“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.