Shadow's End

by Thea Harrison

  When Bel opened a small, black leather purse and pulled out a few coins, the boy’s eyes widened and began to shine.

  “Thank you for everything.” She handed him the money.

  “Yes, my lady. Thank you, my lady.” Falling silent, he stared at the coins in his palm.

  One corner of Graydon’s mouth lifted. He murmured to her, “I believe that’s our cue to leave.”

  He held the door open, and she slipped out into the cold, crisp air. In silence, they walked away from the inn.

  She had no idea where they were going. Matching her stride to his, she veered when he veered, following his lead in a daze.

  All she knew was that they were going to someplace entirely new, entirely strange. It was the sweetest place with the sharpest pain, and she did not quite know how she could bear it, yet she didn’t know how she could survive without it.

  When he handed her the food and shapeshifted, she leapt onto his back, and they flew over the town and past the mill. Graydon followed the river and didn’t land again until he had reached a tangled clump of woods, some distance upstream from any property.

  As she dismounted, she took in the place. A thick blanket of winter leaves covered the ground, while the dark outline of the trees overhead was spiky from bare branches. Evergreens dotted the area, giving the scene a sharp pine scent, while the quiet, rejuvenating sounds of the nearby river played at the edge of her hearing.

  It was a clean, undomesticated place. The difference between it and all the other places they had visited in that long night couldn’t have been more dramatic.

  Some unrecognized burden fell from her, and without realizing it, she breathed, “Oh, this.”

  She barely sounded coherent, but he seemed to know exactly what she had meant.

  “Yes,” he said, very low. “This.”

  Together, they gathered wood. She had countless years of experience to draw upon, and he did too. They didn’t even need to speak as they coordinated everything they did with quick, neat economy.

  As she cleared leaves from an area, he collected stones to make a fire ring. She walked down to the river to wash her face and hands, relishing the biting cold water. When she returned, he had a fire started and had even found a fallen log to use as a seat.

  “Thank you,” she said fervently.

  His smile lit up his rough face. “My pleasure.”

  Rolling her tired shoulders, she slipped out of her sword harness, set it aside and sat. Echoing her movement, he joined her on the log. The fire quickly took hold, and flames began to leap, throwing off bright, intense heat.

  She heaved a sigh. “Cities are hard.”

  He had begun to unwrap the food. The glance he gave her was brief and heartfelt. “Don’t I know it.”

  “How can you stand to live right in the middle of one?” she asked, curious.

  “I guess it’s necessary,” he said. He lifted one wide shoulder in a self-deprecating shrug. “New York isn’t nearly as big or as intensely urban as London, and after a time, one gets used to it. There are so many challenges to face every day, which helps, and between all the sentinels, we make sure that we get plenty of time to roam. I’ve felt more cooped up since I’ve been in London than I do at home.”

  The handkerchief held a large chunk of bread, several uneven slices of cheese, and part of a roasted chicken. He offered her the food, and she took the bread, breaking it into two pieces, one much larger than the other.

  Keeping the smaller piece, she gave him the large one, while he set the food cloth on the ground between them and handed her a slice of cheese.

  She took a bite of the bread and cheese. The crust of the bread was golden brown and crunchy, while the softer inside was yeasty rich, and the cheese had a sharp, creamy tang. It was delicious.

  She said around her mouthful, “I don’t think that was the horrible inn.”

  His deep, quiet chuckle vibrated the log. “I don’t either.”

  The fire heated her face and hands, while the cold evening air brushed the nape of her neck. The warmth of Graydon’s steady male presence enveloped her, and the combination was more delicious than the food.

  After a few moments, she grew so warm, she shrugged out of her cloak and draped it on the log beside her. Whenever either one of them moved, his arm or thigh would brush against hers, and the simple, visceral pleasure of his nearness washed over her all over again.

  I’m happy, she realized with surprise. In spite of everything going on, at this point in time I’m actually happy. It’s not that I was unhappy before—but before, I lived with an absence of this intense new feeling.

  And none of it would last past sunrise. This deeply peaceful, nourishing experience was as fleeting as any other, and that was the sharpest, sweetest pain of all.

  After he took the last mouthful of his bread and cheese, he began to pull the roast chicken off the bone and offer her the choicest tidbits.

  She accepted a few bites then declined any more, content to watch him finish the meal, which he did with relish. He had been right. Eating had steadied her.

  His head bent, he kept his gaze on his task. The firelight picked up bright glints in his hair. His hair had a tendency to an unruly wave, and he kept it short and no-nonsense, no doubt, she thought, in some effort to tame it.

  When he finished the chicken, he tossed the bones onto the fire, shook out the handkerchief and wiped his hands on the cloth.

  She had gotten so used to the silence that when he spoke, she startled. He asked, “Do you mind if I ask you a question about something that is really none of my business?”

  She should say no.

  She should politely, gently erect proper social barriers between them.

  She should do a lot of things, but some renegade part of her was growing greedy for any excuse to relate to him, any opportunity to extend and deepen the sense of companionship.

  “Please do,” she said. A tiny, tattered remnant of caution caused her to add, “I may not be able to answer, but you may certainly ask.”

  With that, he looked up, spearing her with his gaze. “Why are you with Calondir? It’s quite clear that you and he do not live in accord.”

  The heat and intensity in his eyes was searing. She could only hold his gaze for a few moments. Jerking her head away, she stared blindly at the fire. She felt shaken to her bones.

  She told him, with difficulty, “That’s a long, very old story.”

  “I have time,” he said quietly.

  She swallowed hard. “We don’t live as husband and wife, and we haven’t since—well, since too many years to count. We’re business partners. Our business is running the Elven demesne, and we do that very well.”

  “You were with him, then you lived apart for some years,” he said. “When you got back together, he had his son, Ferion. That’s really all I know.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” she murmured. Ancient memories played through her mind. “Originally, we did live together as husband and wife. In the beginning, I thought I loved him. He could be so charming and charismatic when he wanted to be, but I think he married me to acquire a prize. At any rate, for me it was a disastrous mistake. After a brief time, I left him. I had no intention of ever speaking to him again. Then he came to me one day with Ferion.” She sighed and rubbed her eyes. “Ferion’s mother had died giving birth to him, and he was so tiny, so completely innocent and new, I could almost hold his entire little body in one hand.”

  “I didn’t realize he was so young,” Graydon said. His gaze never strayed from her face.

  She didn’t mind his scrutiny. It was as warm as a physical caress. “He was only a few days old. Calondir put him in my arms and said, ‘My son needs a mother. If you want him, you may have him to raise as your own. But if you do, you must return to me. I will not let any son of mine live away from me.’”

&nbs
p; He let out a long sigh.

  It sounded so heartfelt, she gave him a sidelong, wry smile. “Well, you can imagine how I felt. I had wanted a child for so long, and you know how rare that blessing is for us. As soon as I held that sweet baby boy, I couldn’t let him go. He became my whole world, and I adored him completely.”

  She had twisted her fingers together in her lap. One large hand came down over both of hers. Graydon said softly, “That happened a long time ago, Bel.”

  “Yes, it did.” She turned her hands over to cup his. He had thick, long fingers and a broad callused palm. His skin was warm. “A very long time ago. Meanwhile other things happened, and tensions grew in various factions among us. None of it is relevant today, except that creating the Elven demesne outside of Charleston was actually my idea.”

  “I didn’t know that, either,” he murmured.

  She shrugged. “The thing was, I had been gone from that particular group—the kernel of what became our demesne—long enough that people looked to Calondir for leadership, not to me. So, we created a charter and set sail, and established our demesne outside of Charleston. It was all very forward thinking and exciting, in its own way.”

  His mouth took on a sour slant. “Calondir became Lord, and you became consort.”

  She nodded. “Ferion grew up, and I planted the seeds for my Wood and nourished it into growing, and it’s been my home ever since. Usually, Calondir and I don’t get in each other’s way, except when it comes to Ferion. Often I go weeks without seeing him, as either one of us might be either in the Wood or in residence in the Charleston home.”

  His fingers tightened. “It’s a business arrangement.”

  “Yes. Except for Ferion, it is.” She sighed. Calondir was actually not that bad as Elven High Lord. He just made a rotten husband and father.

  “That doesn’t bother you?” he asked. “Have you never wished for anything else—for something more?”

  She lifted her eyes to meet Graydon’s dark, steady gaze and whispered, “For the most part, our personal arrangement has never really mattered, before now.”

  He turned toward her, leaning forward. She shifted as well, her face turned up to his.

  Her gaze dropped to his rough-cut, sensitive mouth, and her body pulsed as she remembered the warm caress of his lips on her forehead.

  What would it be like to have those lips cover hers? While everything she had told him was true, no Elven male would dream of trying to touch or kiss the consort.

  For the most part, that arrangement had never really mattered before now either. She could hardly remember what it was like to kiss a man, let alone imagine what it might be like to kiss someone with Graydon’s combination of gentleness and virility.

  The sense of connection she felt to him was becoming almost unbearable, as deep and wild as the wood that sheltered them.

  Of course, she had to go and do something to destroy the moment.

  Before she fully realized what was coming out of her mouth, she said, “Now, it’s my turn to ask you a question. How can you stand to work for Dragos?”

  SEVEN

  The loathing in Bel’s voice was so evident, Graydon shifted position, subtly pulling back.

  He needed to put some physical distance between them. Somehow, he needed to calm the riot of feelings her question roused.

  He couldn’t blame her for how she felt about Dragos. She was, after all, only one of many who felt that way.

  Once, very long ago when the world was new, all of the ancient Wyr had been feral. Dragos had been the most feral of them all, a gigantic predator that did not distinguish between the natures of the creatures he hunted.

  Graydon kept his voice measured as he told her, “Once, we were all more beast than human, but that, too, was a very long time ago. Dragos is not what he used to be. None of us are. He is the one who originally had the vision for the Wyr demesne. He approached each of the sentinels to get our support. He created the laws, and he and the sentinels work together to uphold them.”

  She shook her head. “It’s hard to fathom we’re talking about the same creature.”

  “In a very real sense, I don’t think we are.” He paused. “Yes, he can be a challenge, but I believe in everything he has accomplished. Just as you feel with the Elven demesne, I believe in our demesne and what it stands for. So much so, I’ve dedicated my life to protecting it and upholding its laws.”

  The delicate skin around her eyes tightened. She said, “With my head, I can understand what you’re saying. But my heart remembers the terror of watching the Great Beast fly overhead, and the anguish of loss I felt at the people he slaughtered. I’ll always remember that he is a killer.”

  Her words felt like a slap. He turned his face away. As the evening had progressed, his feelings for her had grown richer and more complicated. They shared such a deep love for the woods, and he understood how passionate she felt for her son, but now he felt chilled with the realization of what real distance lay between them.

  He said, “Bel, I am a killer.”

  After a moment, she touched his averted face, her warm, slender fingers cupping his chin and urging him to turn back to her. With reluctance, he complied.

  “I see what you are, gryphon,” she told him. “You’re proud, and incredibly strong, and courageous, and you’re very dangerous, precisely because you are also so good and kind that people might forget the reality of everything about your nature. Even considering all that, you could never be like him, not in a million years.”

  As he looked into her eyes, her large gaze was so full of warmth it banished the chill almost completely.

  Almost, except for the knowledge of the distance lying between them.

  The wild part of him that fought against any kind of restraint rebelled against the awareness. Just as it had driven him through the air to her, it drove him forward now.

  Moving with gentle care, he took hold of her hands, holding her so lightly, she could pull away from him with a single easy gesture. Like the rest of her, her hands were beautifully formed, the bones slender and graceful.

  She didn’t pull away.

  Bowing his head, he pressed his mouth to her fingers.

  They were on a runaway coach, hurtling nowhere.

  She would never be able to live in New York, so close to the dragon.

  He would never be able to live in the Elven demesne, so close to Calondir. Even if Graydon would consider leaving his duties, the Elves would never accept a former Wyr sentinel in their midst.

  As Constantine had said, she was the very definition of unobtainable.

  Yet he still reached for her.

  “Look at us,” he said against her fingers. “You with your commitments, and me with mine. We live a world apart from each other.”

  A tremor ran through her. “Graydon,” she murmured. “What are we doing?”

  He lifted his head. He could drown in eyes such as hers, so wide and dark, yet so full of light. “Bel, tell me not to kiss you, before I do something we might both regret.”

  “I can’t,” she whispered. “I want it too much.”

  Her unsteady confession struck away the last of his resistance. Holding his breath, he lowered his head to the pure, plump arc of her lips.

  Then he was touching her mouth with his.

  He was kissing Beluviel, the unique woman who personified that first, unique breath of spring, while the warmth and giving softness of her lips shaped to his, and oh my gods, she was kissing him back.

  That single caress was so damn shocking, he nearly came in his pants, and that shocked him with a raw pulse of adrenaline that ran like fiery liquor over his skin.

  Slowly, not believing his remarkable fortune, he let go of her hands and slid his arms around her long, supple torso. She nestled closer, and the way her muscles relaxed and curved into him was downright miracu
lous.

  She was so far above him, so far beyond his reach, he wasn’t entirely sure any of it was real, except his body knew differently. His muscles grew tight and his heart pounded as if he were racing, while his starving lungs forced him to suck in air, and the desperate ache in his hardened cock felt like a mortal wound.

  He had crossed so many boundaries in himself, he had no idea what this new, foreign place held for him.

  Stroking his fingers down her long, silken braid, he eased away to look down at her. A dark rose color flushed her cheeks, and her eyes shimmered. At the sight, a thread of alarm streaked through him. She wasn’t teary, was she?

  She made a soft, urgent sound at the back of her throat, took his head in both hands, and reached up to kiss him a second time.

  This time, she slanted her mouth over his and touched his lower lip with her tongue. The caress was so intimate, so needy, shock washed over him again.

  It was all the invitation he needed. Crushing her against his chest, he ravaged her mouth, plunging into her with his tongue over and over.

  Her fingers worked against the back of his skull, threading through his short hair, while she matched his kiss eagerly. Only half aware of his actions, he took hold of her long braid and wound it around one hand until he made a fist at the nape of her neck.

  He was burning, burning. He felt too big for his clothes, on fire for her. Every goddamn breath he took was filled with her luscious, feminine, unique scent. Suddenly starving for every new sensation, he pulled away from her mouth and ran his lips along the petal soft skin of her cheek.

  Either he was shaking, or she was, or perhaps they both were. He held her tighter.

  “Bel,” he whispered, drunk on the delight of saying her beautiful name. “Beluviel.”

  She shuddered and sobbed out something in his ear. What she said, he didn’t know, but the sound of her trembling voice snapped him back into himself.

  He could have pretended it hadn’t. Clearly she wasn’t rejecting him, so he could have pressed on. He didn’t want to stop, but he lifted his head anyway.