Shadow's End

NINETEEN

The day before the masque, they cremated Constantine’s remains. Everywhere in New York City, flags were flown at half-mast. Traffic was muted, and many shops closed their doors.

The weather had warmed as well, and a light drizzle fell from the gray sky. It felt as if the whole world mourned his death.

Dragos had ordered a special brazier created, one large enough to hold a man. It was set on the roof of the Tower. The sentinels took Constantine’s body, dressed in simple, everyday clothes, and laid him gently on it.

Then everybody who could fit onto the roof of the Tower came. Those who couldn’t fit on the roof stood on the stairs, all eighty flights down to the street, where people gathered around the building on the sidewalks. Bel heard later that the crowd extended for several blocks in every direction around the Tower.

She took her place beside Graydon in a circle of the sentinels, holding his hand. Rune and Carling joined the circle. The harpy Aryal wept openly, while her mate Quentin rubbed her back, his jaw tight. Grym and Alexander stared fixedly at Constantine, while the fourth gryphon Bayne bowed his head, covering his face with one hand.

Dragos, Pia and Liam stood nearby. Pia’s eyes were puffy and red, and Liam kept wiping at his face. Pia kept her arm around the boy’s shoulders. Occasionally she whispered in his ear and tightened her hold, hugging him against her side.

And Dragos . . . Bel did her very best not to stare, but she couldn’t help stealing a glance or two at his bleak expression. The fierce gold of his eyes had gone dull, and she thought she saw something hot and smoking on his lean cheeks. It was almost as if the dragon cried tears of fire.

The Great Beast could feel love and loss. He could feel grief. Her understanding of who and what he was metamorphosed into something new. While she could never imagine becoming close to him, she could finally accept he had grown into someone else. He was no longer the animal that had preyed on the Elves so long ago.

Graydon gripped her fingers tight. His expression appeared stony as he clenched down on his grief. He didn’t shed tears or speak, but she knew how raw his grief was inside. While she hadn’t known Constantine, she grieved for Graydon’s loss.

When everybody was assembled, Dragos stepped forward, to the edge of the brazier. Looking down at Constantine’s quiet face, he stroked back the tawny hair. He didn’t speak any words. Nobody said anything.

The soft murmur of voices stilled, and the rest of the Tower went completely silent, except for the sound of the wind and the rain. While the silence seemed strange to Bel, it also felt somehow fitting, as if the Wyr’s grief were too large for words.

Constantine’s body disappeared in a great blaze of fire, and he was released forever to the open sky. A column of smoke appeared briefly overhead, signaling to the whole city that he was gone. A few minutes later, when the blaze died down, the brazier was empty. The dragon fire had blazed so hot, nothing remained.

While they held no wake, they had pared work down to a minimum, only to essential personnel. Graydon was still on medical leave, so after the short, silent ceremony, he and Bel walked back to his apartment. Once inside, he didn’t release her hand.

Instead, he led her to the shadowed bedroom, and she went willingly. There, he undressed her in silence, while she focused on removing his clothes, injecting all the love and compassion she could into each passing caress, until they stood naked, facing each other.

Graydon’s body was as powerful as ever, his massive frame covered with heavy muscles and deeply tanned skin. Vitality poured off him, while inside, she knew his shattered rib cage, breastplate and chest muscles were still strengthening after Pia had healed him.

He could do normal activities, but his surgeon had not yet cleared him for strenuous flights or battle.

A scar like a starburst covered the middle of his broad chest.

She stroked it. The intensity of his silent grief broke her composure. Her face crumpling, she leaned against him and pressed her lips to the shiny scar.

“I’m always going to be grateful to him,” she whispered. “Every single day of my life, I’m going to thank him for what he did for you.”

A shudder rocked his powerful frame. Breathing raggedly, he gathered her close and kissed her.

Everything he couldn’t say poured out of his fingers, his mouth. She felt his pain and need as keenly as if it were her own.

He kissed her so hard and deeply, he bruised her lips. She welcomed the discomfort, kissing him back, meeting his need with her own. His hands roamed her body with restless urgency, cupping her breasts, running down the curve of her spine, gripping her hips.

She pulled away, only to take him by the wrist, fall back on the bed and tug him down with her.

He came eagerly, covering her body with his. His welcome weight settled on top of her, she parted her legs and wrapped them around his hips until his large, heavy cock pressed against her pelvis.

The need drove them both. As she reached between them to grasp his hard erection he lifted up on his elbows, and she guided him to her opening. This wasn’t about sensuality, or taking their time to explore each other’s pleasure points. This was something darker and so much more necessary.

Despite the taut urgency in his body, he pushed in gently, rocking deeper with every thrust, until he had seated himself all the way inside her, filling her completely, not just physically but emotionally.

“I don’t know how I lived without you,” he whispered into her hair, as he moved inside her. “I know I did. There’s a full, complete set of memories in my head of a very long, complicated life. But it’s almost as if those memories belong to another man. A man very like me, but still someone else.”

“I know what you mean,” she murmured stroking the back of his head, his shoulders, the broad, long line of his back. “I have been needing and wanting you for so many centuries, before we even met, I just didn’t know that what I needed and wanted was you.”

He cradled her head in the palm of one large hand, leaning his weight on one elbow as his hips flexed. The hard length of his cock was so big.

He was almost too big, stretching her as far as she could go. It was a deep, good ache that obliterated the cold, empty spot that had existed in the depth of her soul for so long.

She never wanted him to stop. She wanted them to always be joined just like this, moving together, in a rhythm so ancient, so essential it consumed them. They were each among the oldest of their kind, yet this need—this drive—still ruled them.

Gradually, he picked up the pace, and she lifted her hips to meet each thrust gladly. A deep, burning pleasure tightened her body, until it became a high, piercing spike of need.

He reached between them to stroke along the soft petals of flesh at her stretched opening where he penetrated her. Whirls of sensation cascaded through her at each stroke, until he found the tiny bud of her clitoris. When he massaged that small, unbelievably sensitive spot, an explosion rocked her body.

Crying out, she clutched him, shuddering as the ripples of the climax rippled through her nerve endings. He was so beautiful to her—even in the midst of his own grief and need, he gave, he didn’t take.

Rocking his hips so that he kept fucking her gently, he didn’t stop massaging her, drawing out her pleasure until her sensitivity grew so great, she couldn’t bear it any longer.

Pulling his hand away, she pushed at his shoulder and urged him softly, “Roll over, my love. Let me come on top.”

Readily, he complied. Keeping them joined by wrapping an arm around her hips and holding her to him, he settled back against the pillows.

Straddling him, she settled into place. With him inside her, this position made him feel even bigger than before. Spreading her hands on his flat, muscular stomach, she braced herself and began to move.

The look in his eyes. His tight, raw expression.

She wanted to cry for him. But that wasn’t the kind of release he needed. He needed to break free himself. She picked up her tempo, undulating her torso as she gripped his cock as tightly as she could with her inner muscles. Massaging him, working him, silently urging him to cut loose.

Bowing her head, she held his gaze, and her dark hair fell forward covering him like a silken tent.

As she fucked him, he stroked her breasts and fingered her hair. “I love you,” she told him. “I love you.”

Her words seemed to break him out of a trance. Gripping her by the hips he thrust up, and up again, until he pistoned inside her. The friction grew unbearable, and while she had wanted to make this about him, her own pleasure skyrocketed again, until another climax slammed into her body. She flung out her hands and cried out from the force of it.

He grabbed her hands, gripping them tightly, as he shoved into her. His careful tenderness splintered and the expression on his face turned feral.

Then he arched his spine and ground his pelvis bone against hers, groaning. She was stretched so tightly inside, she could feel when his cock began to pulse. He spurted inside of her, shaking.

This time, she knew what to expect. Even as his climax slowed, his face twisted. He growled, “It’s not enough. It can’t ever be enough.”

“Come on,” she invited softly. “Give it to me. Give everything to me.”

He lifted her off his body. Rising up to his knees, with one hand on her back, he urged her onto her hands and knees.

Eagerly, she settled into place, bracing herself for him. It was a frank, carnal position, everything she could possibly want it to be. She had thought he needed to cut loose. She hadn’t considered her own needs, or that she needed to cut loose as well.

He came over her from behind, covering her, and before she could reach between her legs to help guide him in again, she felt the broad, thick head of his cock probing at her entrance. This time, when he slid in, she was slick from both of their pleasure, and she felt him enter her in one long, luxurious thrust that shoved her forward onto her elbows.

She groaned, shaking everywhere. The large muscles in her thighs quivered. Everything civilized that she thought she knew about herself fell away, as he wound both big hands into her hair and pinned her down.

“You’re mine,” he growled. “Say it.”

“Yes,” she gasped.

“I fought for you. I waited for you. I’ll live for you. I’d die for you.” With each sentence, he thrust into her again. “You’re my heart, my soul. Mine.”

“Don’t let me go again,” she sobbed into the bedspread. “Don’t ever let me go.”

“Never.”

He would never give up, never let her go, never stop wanting or needing her. He would always be faithful, always welcoming. The emotional reality of that began to sink in.

Finally, after all the issues that had darkened her life, this devotion, this adamant dedication, was what lay at shadow’s end.

The last of the cold, sharp pain that had haunted her for so long shattered. Tears spilled down her face. She couldn’t climax again. She was spent. But still the pressure built, as he kept up such a patient, steady and oh my gods relentless pace.

Then her gentle, adorable, dangerous lover came down over her back and bit her at the back of her neck, and it was such a possessive, animalistic thing to do, it shocked her right out of her exhaustion and hurtled her into a third climax.

Sounds came out of her. Sounds that she had never heard herself make. She was no longer in control of her body. He was.

He twisted behind her. With a muffled groan, he began to shudder all over as he climaxed again too. He had barely begun to slow, when he gasped, “Again—I’ve got to.”

She was beyond physical words. She breathed, Whatever you need. Take me however much you need. I’m yours.

Totally and completely, devoted to him.

Driven by need, he took her again, and again, until the sun set and the room lay in total darkness. At some point, she felt transformed, existing almost outside of her body, as if she had gone through a crucible to emerge on the other side, a new burnished stranger.

When at last he stopped, he lay on top of her. The weight of his big body anchored her in place, and the heavy beat of his heart slammed into her chest. She could barely muster enough strength to wrap her arms around his neck, but somehow she managed it.

They drifted together, in silence. Unmoored, her mind spun into a lazy journey of disconnected thoughts and images.

Sometimes, when Wyr mated, it enhanced the likelihood of a pregnancy. She managed a slight, exhausted smile. She wouldn’t look for such a rare miracle—very, very long ago, she had learned how to be happy with her own life. All the Elder Races, each in their own way, had to come to terms with the same.

But if it did happen, after all these millennia, wouldn’t that be something?

Pressing a kiss to Graydon’s damp temple, she whispered, “If, by any chance, we are ever lucky enough to have a boy of our own, can we name him Constantine?”

His body went rigid. She had just enough time to think, Oh gods, I’ve said the wrong thing.

Then, in a strangled, broken whisper, he told her, “I would really love that.”

The rigidity in his body fractured in a harsh sob. Shoulders heaving, he buried his face in her neck.

Finally, his grief broke out at last.

Somehow, then, she found all kinds of strength and energy, as she wrapped around him, crooning a wordless comfort, crying with him until neither one of them had any tears left, and together, they took the first steps toward healing.

The next evening was the Masque of the Gods, the huge annual gala event that Dragos held in the banquet hall of the Tower.

Bel had wondered if Dragos would cancel the masque, but he had apparently decided to move forward. Possibly, it would have been too unwieldy to cancel. Dignitaries and tourists had already flooded the city.

More than likely, though, she thought it was a statement of defiance to the rest of the world.

Here we are, the statement said.

We may have been dealt a terrible blow, but we are unbroken.

She didn’t see Graydon at all that day. He had returned to light duty, and he wouldn’t be able to attend her at the masque. When he apologized, she put her hand over his mouth, stopping him in midsentence.

“I know who you are, and I know what you have to do,” she told him. “What’s more, I’ve known it for a very long time. It’s part of what I love about you. Don’t ever apologize to me for doing your job.”

Almost imperceptibly, his expression lightened. He asked, “You’re okay with me being a glorified cop?”

He was so much more than that. She had already seen how other people came to him with their problems and questions, and each time, he did his best to help fix them. Over time, maybe she could help him with that. Maybe people would start coming to her, too, once they grew to know and love each other, and they got used to the fact that she was truly part of their world.

She was even beginning to look forward to doing that again, helping people, listening to them and fixing their problems. When the day came, she would be ready for it.

Reaching up on tiptoe, she kissed him, and said against his mouth, “I’m more than okay. I’m proud of you, and I wouldn’t have you any other way.”

She was far too old and experienced to be under any illusions. There would be hard times, and hard waiting. She knew sometimes she would be scared, and that nothing would make it right again until he walked through the door and came home to her.

She also knew he was more than worth all of it.

When evening came, she went through her clothes, trying to decide what to wear. As a short-term solution to her move to New York, she had ordered her clothes to be shipped from the Elven demesne, and they filled Graydon’s walk-in closet to bursting. She would have to decide what to do with her other possessions—furniture, artwork, etc.—but those were decisions that could be made over time.

Finally, she dressed in a simple dark blue dress with a matching domino. She rolled her hair into a twist, pinned it at the back of her head, slipped on a pair of high heels and kept her makeup subtle.

Others would carry on with the masque as normal, but, for her, in the face of the loss that both the Wyr and the Djinn had suffered, she felt anything more elaborate would be wrong.

Linwe met her at the apartment door. The younger woman had dressed soberly as well. She had also dyed her hair black. The color was much starker than her natural dark brown hair.

The black highlighted her elegant bone structure, and the depth and shape of her dark eyes, although Bel knew Linwe hadn’t dyed her hair for vain reasons.

“Very appropriate,” Bel told her. Gently, she touched the ends of Linwe’s short hair. “Although, I must confess, I’ll miss the pink.”

Linwe ducked her head. “Maybe it can come back someday.”

“Is your apartment okay?” she asked.

She had not been able to dissuade Linwe from coming to New York with her, and the younger woman had been so impassioned about the subject, she didn’t have the heart to try very hard.

In any case, if she were honest with herself, she found a selfish comfort in Linwe’s devotion. While she was ready to make such a deep, overarching change, and she embraced it, leaving the Elven demesne and so many loved ones behind was still hard. It had been her home and her mission for so long.

“This isn’t the Wood,” Linwe said, with a small shrug. “That’s okay. This will be its own thing.”

“I’ll let you in on a secret,” Bel whispered.

A sparkle returned to Linwe’s eyes. She whispered back, “What’s that?”

Bel smiled to herself. Linwe’s sparkle could never be doused for long. She confided, “I’m going to change this Tower for the better.”

“Ooohh?” One of Linwe’s eyebrows lifted. “How so?”

“I’m going to bring in a touch of the Wood,” said Bel. “It’ll take some time—and actually quite a lot of money—but you wait and see. The Wyr will thank me for it.”

Linwe threw her arms around Bel. “We’re going to have such an adventure here!”

She hugged the other woman. “Yes, we are, aren’t we?”

Together, they went downstairs. Linwe kept her company as she searched the crowd for Ferion.

Perhaps inevitably, the task threw her back to the Vauxhall masque, two hundred years ago. She had been so anxious and worried that night as she looked for Ferion.

Now, so many things had changed.

In the latter part of the nineteenth century, the Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens had slipped away into the past. Over the years, King Oberon had grown colder and more distant, until he stopped attending public functions.

She had not seen or spoken to him in a long time. Occasionally she glimpsed one of his knights who attended functions in his stead, but they remained secretive and distant. Francis Shaw, the earl of Weston, had been killed in a terrorist bombing attack in London.

This year, along with so many other Elves, Calondir was dead, and now Constantine and Soren were too.

The Djinn were not in attendance at the masque, not even Khalil, nor was the Oracle present. Bel had heard through Graydon, who talked often with Rune, that Khalil mourned his father’s passing fiercely, despite how they had fought when Soren had been alive.

It felt odd, in an aching kind of way, to look over the crowded hall and no longer see Soren’s tall, Powerful figure, with his distinctive white hair and piercing diamond gaze.

She didn’t know how the Djinn mourned as a society, but she had heard that none of them danced in the western deserts. The great plumes of sand and wind had gone still and silent.

And Malphas had finally, finally been killed. She could not help but feel a fierce relief at that particular change.

In the end, she didn’t find Ferion. He found her.

A hand closed gently on her wrist. She turned in surprise to discover her son standing behind her. He had dressed soberly as well, and had pulled his long blond hair back into a tight braid.

It lent his handsome features a severity that suited him these days. As a nod to tradition, he had brought a domino, but instead of wearing it, he had tucked it into the breast pocket of his jacket.

Linwe touched her shoulder. “I’ll just go . . . Over there somewhere. Text me if you need anything.”

“Thank you,” she said.

As Linwe disappeared into the crowd, she turned back to Ferion. She couldn’t stop herself from putting her hand on his arm and scanning him surreptitiously.

The subtle, corrupt smear of darkness that had been embedded in his soul was completely gone. Finally, her son was free. The Elven High Lord was unfettered, to be whoever he needed to be. Whatever may come of it, only time could tell that tale.

“Mother,” he said.

She threw her arms around him, hugging him with everything she had. “It’s so good to see you.”

“It’s good to see you too.” His lips widening into a smile, he returned her hug. Too quickly, the smile died and he turned sober. “I’m not staying. I only came because I promised you I would.”

Yet another thing that had changed—this time, he had kept his word. Her heart lightened with gladness. “Thank you for coming.”

He told her in a low voice, “I also came because I wanted to try one last time to change your mind, if I could. Don’t stay here. Come home with me, where you belong.”

She shook her head and told him softly, “You know I’m not going to do that.”

“You don’t have to leave Graydon. Bring him with you. We’ll— I’ll deal with it.” He gestured with one hand. “The Wyr are not our enemies any longer. They’ve helped us too many times to maintain hostilities. We’ll make a place for him. Mom, please.”

Unable to help herself, she straightened his lapel, letting her fingers linger as she smoothed the cloth over his hard, lean chest.

“It means so much to me that you said that,” she replied. “But you know Graydon could never fit in down there. They are making a place for me here. Not only that, but this is where I want to be.” She met his gaze. “I don’t belong in South Carolina any longer. Besides, you’re not losing me—you could never lose me. We’ll come to visit, as often as we can.”

His face tightened. “That’s not the same, and you know it. And what do you mean, you don’t belong in South Carolina? Father was the one who cracked the whip, but for so long, you’ve been the heart and soul of our demesne.”

“If that’s true, then it’s past time for someone else to fill that role.” She touched his face. “My heart is here now. Sidhiel and others will be there to help advise you, and I’ll only be a phone call away if you ever need to talk. Think of it, Ferion. You really are free now. The future is yours to take—so take it. Be the wonderful man I know you are, and the kind of leader I know you can be.”

He blew out a breath, looking frustrated. “You can be so stubborn sometimes.”

For some reason that made her laugh, hard. “It’s a good thing I am, don’t you think?”

The normally straight line of his shoulder slumped. “This change has really happened, hasn’t it? You’re not coming home again.”

“No, son.” Her expression softened at the look of loss that came over his face. “I love you with all of my heart. I’m not coming back, and it will be okay. Let’s find a time to talk tomorrow. Give me a call after you get home?”

“Okay, yes.” He nodded. “I have several things I need to attend to, but I can call just before supper. How’s that?”

“It’s wonderful.”

Phone calls would be a good bridge. They might talk daily for a while. Then, gradually, as they both adjusted to the change and found their footing in their new lives, those phone calls would start coming twice a week. Then, maybe every other week.

That was as it should be, although she couldn’t imagine yet how they were going to coordinate the holidays. Still, one step at a time.

He pulled her into his arms. Bending his head, he whispered in her ear, “Father might have cracked the whip, but you have always been my heart and soul too, you know.”

Her heart swelled. Surprised tears sprang to her eyes.

He released her. Even as she opened her mouth to reply, he turned and disappeared into the crowd.

He had barely stepped from her side when Linwe reappeared. The young woman didn’t say anything, but her warm expression and companionship provided support as Bel regained her composure.

Soon other people approached, diplomats and representatives from other Elder Races, and she grew so involved in conversation, she didn’t have time to dwell on Ferion’s departure.

About an hour later, the music stopped.

At one end of the banquet hall, the doors opened, and people moved off the dance floor, making way as the procession of the gods started.

In a masque of any size, seven handpicked actors, dressed as the seven gods of the Elder Races, would walk through the crowd. In smaller gatherings, family members or friends would portray the gods. Legend said that a god attended every masque in secret, but Bel had never known there to be any actual truth to it.

For an elaborate affair like the Tower masque, each of the seven gods was sumptuously costumed. However, unlike previous times, this year, the orchestra did not resume to play a processional.

This year, the gods entered the banquet hall in silence.

A mutter passed over the crowd, then subsided.

Leading the procession was Taliesen, god of the Dance. Part male and part female, Taliesen was first among the Primal Powers because dance is change, and the universe is constantly in motion.

The current Taliesen was portrayed by a slender woman. Following her came Inanna, the goddess of Love; Nadir, the goddess of the Depths or the Oracle; Will, the god of the Gift; Camael, the goddess of the Hearth; and Hyperion, the god of Law.

Last of all came Azrael, god of Death.

Stillness filled the hall as Death walked past. All the Wyr, including every sentinel, bowed to the elegant figure in black.

Every Wyr, except Dragos. He didn’t bow. Bel didn’t think he had it in him to bow to anyone. But he did stand rigidly at attention.

The crowd followed the Wyr’s lead, bowing to Death and paying homage to the sentinel and the Djinn who had fallen. Bel’s gaze filled with moisture, and she bit her lips. As Death came abreast, she bowed as well. The silence remained, deep and profound, until the last of the gods exited the banquet hall at the other end.

The musicians lifted their instruments, music filled the hall once again, and the moment of remembrance was over.

Long after midnight, after everyone had unmasked and the crowd thinned, Graydon came to find her. He looked as tired as she felt. At some point, he had loosened his tie and unbuttoned the first few shirt buttons at his neck.

All of the sentinels, along with Dragos, Pia and Liam, had worn black that evening. While she knew, like Linwe dying the pink out of her hair, that none of them had worn black as a fashion statement, still, the simple formality of Graydon’s suit looked good on him.

The black emphasized the long length of his body, along with the power in the breadth of those wide, muscled shoulders. It also highlighted his colors—the healthy burnish of his deep tan, his tawny hair, and the rich depth in his dark gray eyes.

Even though, she did admit to herself, the cut of the suit managed to achieve adequate.

A rush of love for him washed over her. When he came up to her, she opened her arms, and he walked into them, wrapping her in a big hug, while his presence surrounded her with that nourishing, friendly blaze.

She could never get enough of it, never get tired of his companionship. The fact that she was also overcome with desire and deeply, desperately in love with him sealed her fate, and she was content to never leave it.

Nestling against his chest, she lifted her face for his kiss.

He stroked her shoulders. “We’re gathering up at the penthouse. It’s kinda tradition after the masque, and we’d like for you—I’d like for you to come, if you would.”

Instantly, she put her own tiredness aside. This was her first invitation to an inner circle gathering. She was frankly surprised that it had come so soon. It was too important for her not to go.

And even if none of that had been true, Graydon wanted her there, and that was all the impetus she needed.

“Of course,” she said. As he laced his fingers through hers, and they walked in the direction of the elevators, she asked, “Who will be there?”

“It’s just going to be the sentinels. Rune and Carling, and Pia, Liam and Dragos.” He paused, giving her a sidelong look. “Fair warning. More than a couple of us might get falling down drunk, including me.”

So it would be a very small, select group.

She squeezed his fingers. “Do you need me to stay sober, so that I can get us back to the apartment?”

He shook his head. “I never get so drunk I can’t get home.”

She told him, “Then I may very well join you, because it’s been a hell of a week.”

A spark of surprised approval entered his gaze. He said, “It sure has.”

Not only was this her first invitation to an inner circle gathering, but it would also be the first occasion she spent any time with the sentinels, or the Cuelebres as a family.

Back in January, before the crisis in the Elven demesne had erupted, she had shared a brief visit and a connection with Pia, but she hadn’t spent any time with the other woman since then.

Bel may have been invited, but not necessarily accepted. Not yet. While she had faced countless social challenges before in her long life, this one mattered in a critical way that most of the others had not.

She couldn’t pretend that she wasn’t afraid. She wanted this to go well so badly, not just for herself, but for Graydon too.

While she couldn’t do anything about the fear, what she could do was face the challenge head-on. As she turned to face the elevator doors, she straightened her spine.

When the doors opened with a quiet swoosh, she stepped into the penthouse, Graydon at her side.