Shadow's End

TWENTY

Even though nothing showed but calm composure on Bel’s beautiful face, in the elevator Graydon had caught a hint of nervousness in her scent.

It highlighted how remarkably good she was at managing the stresses of her own internal reality because as they stepped into the penthouse, her entire attention focused on everyone around her.

It also showed him, up close and personal, that she had a hell of a game face too. He had always known it. He had seen flashes of it in the past, but it was one thing to know and quite another to see that game face in action. He already respected her, but over the next hour, that respect deepened exponentially.

Everyone else was already present. The males had removed suits and ties. Aryal had set aside her formal cut leather jacket. Most of the adults were already drinking, and most of the drinks were the hard stuff. Carling nursed a bottle of bloodwine.

Pia refrained from alcohol. Liam drank Coke, and even though there had been plenty of sumptuous refreshments at the masque, the boy was already eating again. He kept his head down, avoiding other people’s gazes.

Like the adults, he had been subdued ever since Constantine’s death. Graydon noted the subtle way that Pia kept her attention on him. He had no doubt that she would make sure Liam got what he needed emotionally.

At first, there were small signs of stiffness around Bel, the telltale behaviors of people who had known each other for a long time as they accepted a near stranger into their midst. Within a half an hour, those had melted away entirely.

Bel and Pia spent some time together, tucked into a corner of the large living room, Bel’s dark head bent close to Pia’s pale blond one. Graydon’s gaze slipped over to them several times. He saw he wasn’t the only to watch the tête-à-tête. All the sentinels did, Dragos most of all. At the end of their talk, the two women hugged.

There was so much obvious affection between them, it felt good. It felt right, like Bel had somehow managed to slip into a place that filled a hole in their lives, one that Graydon hadn’t even been aware that the group had.

Sometime later, somehow, the dam between them all—the one keeping them from talking about Constantine—broke. Graydon didn’t catch how it happened. He hadn’t felt like drinking hard liquor that night after all, so he had walked into the kitchen for a new six-pack of lager.

When he came back to the large living room, he heard Aryal telling Bel, “He was a total asshole manwhore. He chewed through women the way some people go through Tic Tacs.”

“Oh, my.” Bel coughed. “That’s an image that won’t leave my head in a hurry.”

As she spoke, she met Graydon’s gaze. There was so much compassion in her eyes, he was not surprised that it had touched even Aryal’s tempestuous, spiky heart.

Bayne tossed his whiskey back. He said suddenly, “Do you remember that time one of his dates doused his clothes with lighter fluid, set a match to them and threw them out his balcony window?”

“I got a phone call that day,” Rune said. “Traffic control from downstairs told me, ‘Did you know it’s raining men’s briefs, and they’re on fire?’”

A laugh shook out of Grym. It faded into something close to tears. The gargoyle pinched his nose and expelled a hard sigh. “Nicest asshole you’d ever want to meet. If you weren’t a woman.”

“Best, most loyal friend,” Graydon said. His throat closed, and he couldn’t say anymore. Quietly, Bel made her way across the room to put her arm around him. He kissed her forehead, and she leaned against him.

Rune said, “Hell of a fighter. Hell of an investigator too.” He tossed a whiskey back.

Alexander offered in a quiet voice, “I didn’t get the chance to know him as long or as well as the rest of you, but he had become my brother.”

They shared stories about Constantine into the early hours of the morning. No doubt, it wouldn’t be the last time they needed to reminisce, but it felt good—good in a way that made the pain of loss more bearable.

Thank you, he said in Bel’s head.

She looked up at him. For what, my love?

I didn’t catch how you started it, he told her. But I know you did. We needed to talk about him.

The Wyr demesne has never lost a sentinel before, she said softly. It’s going to take you all a while to heal, but have faith. You will.

If anyone knew how to survive loss, it was Bel. He wrapped his arms around her, soaking in the comfort of her feminine presence.

Dragos remained silent throughout the reminiscing. He sprawled in one oversized armchair, drinking brandy steadily while his gold gaze watched everyone. It was impossible to tell what he felt or thought. He kept his face impassive.

Pia had kicked off her heels and curled against his side. Absently, he rubbed one hand back and forth along the curve of her hip.

Nearby, Liam sprawled on the floor, playing a game on a mini tablet. Even though it was almost five in the morning, nobody had suggested that he go to bed. He needed to process the grief as much, if not more, than any of the rest of them.

Eventually, Rune and Carling said good night. They left in a flurry of hugs and good-byes. Rune touched Dragos on the shoulder, and the two men had a brief telepathic exchange. Dragos gave the other man a nod, and the couple left.

Graydon watched, glad that the two men had reconciled enough so that Dragos could accept Rune and Carling as being part of their extended family.

After they had gone, perhaps inevitably, the subject of how to fill Constantine’s sentinel position came up. Quentin said to Dragos, “I suppose you’ve been too busy to give much thought to picking another sentinel.”

Hesitantly, Bel said in Graydon’s head, This might be an ignorant question, but do you think he would consider inviting Rune back?

He shook his head. Not a chance, he told her. They’re recovering their friendship, but Dragos would never allow Carling to get that close to the seat of power in the Wyr demesne. In some ways, Dragos and Carling are too much alike. They’re both schemers.

I guess I should be glad he’s been so accepting of me, relatively speaking, Bel said slowly, her expression pensive. I’ve been so preoccupied by working to accept him that I hadn’t considered that before.

He hugged her tight. Yes, you’re Elven, and yes, you were a major force in the Elven demesne. But trust me, you are an entirely different reality from Carling.

As they shared their private exchange, the others watched Dragos consider Quentin’s question. He said, “Yes, I’ve thought about it.”

Graydon met Aryal’s frustrated gaze. When Dragos wanted to be inscrutable, sometimes getting any information out of him was like trying to pull giant, dragon-sized teeth.

Aryal said, “You’re not going to hold another round of Sentinel Games, are you? Not only was it a hellish expense, but that week was exhausting.”

“No,” Dragos replied. “Doing it once was a show of our strength. Holding public games again, especially so soon after the first time and in the wake of Constantine’s death, sends another message entirely. I’m thinking of a private event, with a short list of handpicked contestants.”

From his position on the floor, Liam said, “It’s my spot.”

Since it was the first time the boy had spoken that night, it took a few moments for everyone to absorb exactly what he had said.

The sentinels looked at each other. Over by the bar, Aryal pivoted abruptly to put her back to the group. Graydon caught a glimpse of her wide-eyed profile as she mouthed oh my fucking god to the wall.

Pia straightened from her position reclining against Dragos’s side. Her expression turned guarded, her sharp gaze intent on her son.

“What did you say?” Dragos said, even though Graydon knew the dragon had heard Liam perfectly. “Sit up straight when you’re talking, and look at me.”

Moving deliberately, Liam did more than sit up straight. He pushed to his feet and turned to face his father.

He didn’t seem angry, Graydon noted. Nor did he act defiant. There was something set in his young-looking, handsome expression, as if he had made up his mind, and nothing in the world was going to change it.

For several months now, everyone had been wondering if and how Liam might act out in teenage rebellion.

Here we go, Graydon thought. He braced himself.

Meeting Dragos’s gaze, Liam said in a calm, steady voice, “That sentinel position is mine.”

“No, it isn’t,” Dragos said. His relaxed impassivity had vaporized. Now, even though he spoke as calmly as his son did, sharp authority had entered his demeanor. “I will give you a great many things, Liam. I will give you a home, and I will give you my love. I’ll give you the best education, and when the time comes, I would be very pleased to give you a strong starting position in my company. But I will not give you this.”

“I didn’t ask you to,” said Liam. His arms hung at his sides, but Graydon noted that his hands had clenched into fists.

Ever since his birth, Liam’s Wyr form, the dragon, had strained to reach full-size. In times of stress or crisis, especially, the boy had gone through several growth spurts already.

Now the Wyr demesne faced another challenge that struck at the foundation of its existence. Did the boy stand a little taller than he had the last time Graydon had seen him? Was he broader now across the shoulders, his voice deeper?

Dragos said, “This conversation is over.”

“Wait,” Pia said unexpectedly. “Dragos, hear him out.”

Of all the people present, Graydon had not expected Pia to be the one who spoke up. She had been deeply shaken the first couple of times Liam had gone through a growth spurt.

She wasn’t any longer. Now as she watched Liam with a fascinated respect, along with so much love, she reminded him of the tireless devotion Bel had given to Ferion.

Dragos gave his mate a considering glance. As Pia slid out of the chair to perch on the arm of the nearby couch, Dragos leaned forward in his seat, leaning his elbows on his knees and staring up at Liam. Somehow, in those simple adjustments, Dragos’s armchair had become a throne.

“All right,” Dragos said to his son. “Speak your piece.”

Liam glanced around the room. “My dragon is already bigger than any sentinel here,” he said. “In fact, my dragon is bigger and stronger than anybody else in this room except for you, and I’m faster than anybody else, except for Mom. The only reason why I don’t win in the training sessions now is because I don’t have enough experience. Yet.”

Dragos raised one sleek black eyebrow. “You are correct on all accounts. And your last point is the essential one.”

“Where will I fit in this demesne when I finish growing?” Liam asked. “And you know I’m going to finish growing soon. What job could I possibly take that will satisfy my dragon?” He paused, his body tight. “How do I get experience if I don’t do anything to earn it?”

Beside Graydon, Bel stirred. The discomfort in her expression threw him back to what she had once said about Ferion living a half life, never allowed to take too much responsibility in his father’s demesne, yet never allowed to roam free either.

Disquieted by the memory, he frowned.

“You ask compelling questions for which we don’t have answers, yet.” Dragos’s voice softened. “We will find answers, and you do have a place and a home where you’re valued and loved, always. Always, Liam. But still, I will not give you that sentinel position.”

“I’m not asking for you to give it to me,” Liam said. “I’ll fight for it. I’ll take it—just like every other sentinel has taken their position. I’ll make it mine. What I want you to do is give me time to get ready for the fight. Dad, don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t want to work in your company. And our demesne is so strong, this is the first time a sentinel has ever died, and this chance isn’t going to come around again, soon or even ever. The only thing that would be worse than not letting me at least try would be to create an eighth position just because I’m your son.”

There was pain in that last sentence, enough pain that when he fell silent, nobody spoke again for long moments.

Finally, Dragos stirred. Telepathically, he asked Graydon, What do you think?

Graydon chose his response with care. He said, I think if you don’t let him try, it’ll create a rift between you that might take a while to heal.

The dragon’s fierce gold gaze flashed to him. I’m concerned about that too, but that’s not enough of a reason, Gray.

Pausing a moment to think, he came at it from a different angle. If he tries and fails, he’ll have done what he needed to do, and he’ll have answered his own question. If he tries and wins, the demesne won’t suffer, and he will have earned a place that I think he needs badly. He doesn’t know how he fits in this world, Dragos. Young people don’t, and in some ways, his situation is harder than most.

Dragos’s dark brows came together as he listened. Graydon couldn’t tell what the other male was thinking, but at least he listened.

He added, And he’s right—if you try to create a position for him, it won’t feel real. Give him a chance. That’s all he’s asking for, just a chance. He took a deep breath. It’ll be a challenge to keep the position open, but we can hire extra staff. If you’ll agree to it, we can somehow make it work.

Dragos’s gaze left Graydon to travel to Pia. After another long pause, she gave him a small nod.

Only then did Dragos turn back to Liam. The boy had never once looked away from his father. As the silence had grown prolonged, he had whitened, and his heart was in his eyes.

Dragos paused, taking in the boy’s desperate entreaty.

He said, “I’ll give you one year.”

Passion leaped into that pale young face, along with an expression of such naked gratitude, Graydon had to drop his gaze.

Liam said fiercely, “Thank you.”

Dragos cleared his throat. The crisp command in his voice turned husky and gentle. “You’re welcome, son.”

Graydon told the dragon, I get that he’s not really a child, not in the way that we normally think of children. But still, I don’t see how a year can be enough.

It’s his chance, and that’s all he asked for, said Dragos. And we don’t really know what he can do. I’ll be interested to find out.

The Tower recovered from the aftermath of the masque. Clean-up crews worked overtime to put everything to rights. Dragos, Pia and Liam traveled back home again, to upstate New York.

None of them would be nearly so fast in recovering from losing Constantine, but Bel was a wise woman, and she was right.

It would take them a while to heal, but eventually they would.

For Graydon, he had to fight nightmares of the battle, reliving again and again those last terrible moments when Constantine had leaped at him and spun him around, away from the deadly threat.

Each time, in the dreams, he shouted and struggled, but something always prevented him from dragging them both away, and he had to watch that long, wicked spike burst out of Constantine’s chest, followed by the gush of so much blood.

Sometimes, he woke himself up shouting. Other times, Bel shook him awake, and he discovered he had been thrashing around in his sleep.

Once, he woke to the sensation of his fist connecting with soft flesh. Comprehension flashed into his mind immediately.

Sickened by the realization that he had struck her, he lunged to turn on the bedside lamp and whipped around to inspect every inch of her body. Despite her protestations that she was okay, he had to see for himself.

He had caught her arm in a glancing blow, and he was beside himself as he watched the welt appear on the delicate skin of her arm.

At first, she was calm, gentle and supportive, but when he began to drown in self-castigation, she quickly turned stern.

“Snap out of it, my love,” she told him, gripping his arm as he sat on the edge of the bed with his head buried in his hands. “It was an accident, nothing more. You couldn’t hurt me if you tried. Trust me. The demon of regret that haunts you now will fade.”

He did trust her, with his life, but it was still a struggle to accept what she was saying. His breath shuddered in his throat. He whispered, “I don’t know how it can. If I had only done something, anything different—”

She came up behind him and leaned against his back, putting her arms around him. Like him, she chose to sleep naked, and the soft press of her breasts against his back was at once soothing and erotic.

“Believe me when I say this,” she whispered in his hair. “You can second-guess yourself for the rest of your very long life, and none of it will bring him back. It was battle. Things happen in battle. People we love die in battle. While it’s terrible, that’s all it is. I may not have been there, but I know this one thing is true—you fought with everything you had. And there was nothing you could have done.”

“How can you know for sure?” He turned his head to one side toward the sound of her voice, and she pressed a kiss to his cheek.

“I know it, because I know you,” she said. “Because you couldn’t have done any differently.”

With that, he was able to let go of that particular nightmare. He turned toward her and made love to her with the all-consuming ferocity that gripped him every time they were together.

Dr. Shaw cleared him for active duty and flight. He went back to work, and for some nights afterward, Bel joined the gryphon as he took long, luxurious flights. That place at his shoulders, the place that had been empty for so long, would never feel empty again.

After a few days, Bel turned inexplicably tense and preoccupied. She became such a nervous wreck, and it was so unlike her, she frankly terrified the shit out of him.

Simple tasks eluded her. She dropped things. Once, she burned a batch of Elven wayfarer bread he had asked her to bake as a special treat. Pulling the pan out of the oven, she burst into tears.

Beside himself, he leaped from the supper table and grabbed her by the arms. “You’re a basket case,” he told her. “Please, tell me what I can do to help!”

Later he had to admit to himself, it was not his finest, most diplomatic moment.

She cried out, “I know I’m a basket case! I’m a complete wreck, and I can’t help myself. Oh gods, Graydon, I think I might be pregnant.”

What?

Realizing he had frozen and nothing had actually come out of his mouth, he made a concerted effort to speak.

So he said aloud, stupidly, “What?”

She took him by the ears and enunciated, “I. Think. I’m. Preg. Nant.”

“That’s impossible,” he whispered. His heart hammered in his newly healed chest.

“Well, clearly it’s not impossible,” she replied. “Just highly—highly—improbable.”

“Oh, dear gods,” he stammered. “Why are you even on your feet? Here, sit down.”

Her pretty mouth fell open. She stared at him as he shoved her into a dining chair, and she sat with a plop.

He told her, “We’ve got to get you to a healer. No, wait.” Even though she hadn’t moved from the chair, he threw out both hands. “You stay put right there. We’ll get a healer to come to you. Have you eaten enough today? Don’t you need vitamins?”

Halfway through his disconnected babble, she started to smile. Remarkably, she seemed to calm down. “You’re moving a little too fast there, darling.”

“What?” He stared at her wildly, kneeling beside her chair. “What about a birthing class? Do you know how to breathe? I’ve never been in labor before. I don’t know anything about breathing.”

“GRAYDON, SHUT UP,” she shouted.

His flow of words stopped. He snapped his mouth shut and stared at her.

She stroked his hair. “I’m not even sure I’m p-pregnant. I’ve never been pregnant before, either, so I’m not sure how it would feel. I can just sense something. Something’s changed in my energy, and I’ve been too scared to say anything, in case it might not be true, and oh gods, I want it so badly.”

She started to shake again. That pulled him together like nothing else had.

Taking her into his arms, he told her gently, “Ssh, it’s all right, Bel. Whatever the answer is, it’s going to be okay. We’ll get through it together.”

She buried her face in his neck. “Promise?”

Cupping the back of her head, he told her in a calm, steady voice, “I swear it.”

With his free hand, he pulled out his cell phone. Behind her back, he scrolled through his contacts until he reached the number for the healer on call that evening at the Tower. With one thumb, he typed out a text:

EMERGENCY, MY APT NOW.

Not five minutes later, he heard running footsteps in the hall. Someone pounded on his door. He distinctly heard Aryal say, “Kick it in.”

So much for his calm and soothing act.

Don’t kick it in! he shouted telepathically.

He was too late. The door splintered. Aryal, Quentin, and the on-call healer—Peter—rushed in.

At the crash, Bel startled violently. She lifted her face from Graydon’s neck to stare at the three intruders. When she spoke, she was back to enunciating again. “What. On. Earth.”

They had upset Bel. He snarled wordlessly at the trio.

Eyes widening, Aryal threw out her hands. “What?! You said it was an emergency!”

“Yes,” he snapped. “I’m sorry.” He turned to Bel. Her mouth hung open again. “I’m sorry,” he told her. Unable to resist her beautiful, astonished face, he kissed her soft mouth quickly. “I’m still calming down. Aryal and Quentin, get out. Peter, come here.”

Quentin and Aryal backed out of the apartment.

“Just you wait,” the harpy said bitterly to her mate as they left. “Like everything else, somehow this is going to end up being my fault.”

Quentin retorted. “Seriously? Somehow, like everything else, this has become all about you?”

“That’s what I’m talking about!”

Their arguing voices faded.

Graydon met Bel’s brimming gaze. Self-consciously, he told her, “I’ll acknowledge I might have overreacted a bit.”

Her face shook. Oh gods, she wasn’t going to burst into tears again, was she?

Laughter pealed out of her. Bright and silvery, the sound danced around the room, like bubbles floating in a glass of champagne. Hanging on his neck, she laughed so hard tears came to her eyes.

It was such a happy sound, it took him over completely. Entranced, he soaked up every delicious, intoxicating moment.

The healer, Peter, had relaxed. Laconically, he said, “I’m pretty sure someone who laughs that hard is going to make their medical emergency worse. Maybe burst a spleen.”

Bel hiccuped and stared at Graydon accusingly.

After a moment, he offered her a small, sheepish grin. “There could have been one. You never know.”

She broke into peals of laughter again.

“Looks like my work here is done,” Peter said. “You’re welcome.”

When he started to edge toward the broken door, Graydon told him, “Not so fast, bucko. Come over here.”

Sobering, Peter strode over and squatted beside them. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

Despite himself, Graydon bristled at the other male’s nearness.

Wiping her face, Bel sobered too. Stroking Graydon’s arm, she told Peter, “Nothing wrong, exactly. I just think I might be p-pregnant, but I can’t tell for sure and we both panicked. Can you help us?”

Like virtually everybody else in the Tower, Peter’s expression softened as he looked at her. “Obviously, I’m not an obstetrician. My specialty is acute trauma—all of the Tower’s on-call healers are essentially ER doctors. But I might be able to give you a simple yes or no, so you can at least sleep tonight. Then you can follow up with a doctor of your own choice. How does that sound?”

“Okay, yes,” she said. “Thank you.”

Peter looked at Graydon. “If I’m going to scan her, I’m going to have to touch her. Get in control of yourself, or leave the room.”

With an unpleasant shock, he realized he was growling, low in his throat. Bel hooked fingers underneath his chin and turned his face back to her.

“Hey, you’ve got this,” she said softly. “You can do it. Don’t drive the nice healer away, especially after you were the one to call him here—stop that, don’t look at him. Eyes here, Graydon. Look at me.”

He concentrated on the sound of her voice, the delicate rose color of her cheeks, the expression of love and lingering laughter in her eyes.

“That’s it, I’m done,” said Peter. As his head snapped around, the healer stood and backed away rapidly, hands up. “All I did was a quick scan—a peek in and out again.” As they stared at him, the healer grinned. “Congratulations to both of you. You are, in fact, pregnant. I couldn’t be happier for you.”

Pregnant. Or, as Bel had said, Preg. Nant.

“Holy shit,” he whispered.

He met her incredulous, joyful gaze. She started shaking again, and burst into tears. As he snatched her close, she started to laugh too. She threw her arms around his neck.

“I’ll let myself out, shall I?” Peter muttered. “It’s not a big deal, especially since there’s just an open doorway to walk through. I’ll pull the pieces of the door sort of back into place for you.”

Now that the other male was well and truly leaving, Graydon ignored him and concentrated on kissing Bel breathless.

Preg. Nant.