Kinked (Elder Races, #6)

It was a beautiful room, clearly the jewel of the entire house. Loving care had gone into every detail, from the bright treasures of tapestries that hung on the walls, to the handmade toys, the books, and the three gold and jeweled animals that sat on a shelf.

The most precious jewel of all lay in the beautifully carved cradle, his tiny body dressed in soft, embroidered silk. His skin glowed, bright ivory and peach. From his delicate, rosebud mouth to his miniscule, pointed ears, he was perfect in every way. Like all dead Elves, he looked as if he had fallen asleep moments ago.

Quentin’s jaw worked.

She said, her voice hoarse, “The door was shut. Not the door to the house—that was unlatched. This door. I think that’s why he’s still so perfect. None of the wildlife could get in here.”

He turned his head and looked at her. His eyes were reddened. “All of them? All of the babies are dead.”

Her mouth worked again, and two tears spilled over. Damn it. “Any child that was too young to enthrall must have been left behind, which means any child too young to fend for itself.”

She had seen horrible things in her life, but this was one of the most appalling and heartbreaking. Children were rare to the Elder Races, as if nature compensated for their long life spans, and they came most rarely to the Elves. Sometimes Elves longed for children for thousands of years, and they greeted the birth of each one with joy.

The death of any single baby or child, of any species, was a terrible tragedy. The death of all the Elven babies and young children in Numenlaur was simply unspeakable.

His chest moved, a quick, involuntary movement. He whispered, “I thought before they were crippled from everything that has happened to them. This will have cut out their heart. No wonder so many are committing suicide.”

When she had opened the door, she had been totally unprepared for what was inside, and the sight had slammed her so hard she had tried to run away from the pain. Now, she did the opposite. She walked into that beautiful room and sat on the stool beside the cradle to gaze at the baby’s face. Her face tickled. She wiped at it, and found that her cheeks were wet.

“I don’t know how to walk away from him,” she said. She picked up one of the gold animals, a frog with emerald eyes, and turned it over and over in her hands. It was small and heavy, and something in her mind told her that it meant something significant, but she couldn’t figure out what it was. “It feels wrong to leave him lying here unprotected. What if something manages to get in? And we can’t bury him. That would be stealing even more from his parents, if either one of them survived. They can’t come back to just find their baby gone.” Her voice broke. “Goddammit.”

As he had done when they had talked about the Elven horses, Quentin spun to turn his back on the room, but this time he turned around again as if he couldn’t help himself. He walked toward her, every line of his body speaking of reluctance.

She wiped at her eyes again. “It’s not that I haven’t seen bad shit before. Battlefields with thousands of dead, and thousands more injured and dying.” She barked out a dark-sounding laugh. “My gods, have I seen bad shit. I just haven’t seen this kind of bad shit before.”

He knelt beside her and looked at the occupant in the cradle. Quentin’s face was still clenched as he fought with his emotions. In a barely audible voice, he said, “I want Amras Gaeleval alive again so I can hurt him. A lot.”

She put a hand on his shoulder, gripping him tightly. His muscles were rigid. “Now you sound like me.”

He glanced at her, pain pooling in his eyes. Then in a gesture that seemed as natural as breathing, he took hold of her hand and leaned his forehead against it.

Had she really reached out to him, and had he really accepted it?

Wonders never ceased.

She looked at his bowed head and slumped, broad shoulders. This wasn’t fun pain. This was the bad kind of pain, and nothing about it was like brandy and chocolate. This was more like taking a knife to the gut and then watching yourself bleed out.

Something welled deep inside. She supposed it was compassion. Or maybe empathy. Whatever it was, it moved her to set the frog on the floor and reach out with her free hand to stroke Quentin’s soft, dark gold hair.

He looked at her over their clasped hands, a raw, direct look. When she met his gaze it was with a shock of connection that shifted something important inside.

Then he squeezed her fingers and let her go. “I can seal the door,” he said. “If there’s anyone with magic sense in the area, that’ll pretty much tell them we’re here.”

“If it leaves him protected, so be it,” she said. “Besides, I know we chose to be wary but I’m no good at *footing around.”

A ghost of a smile played over his firm, well-cut lips. “I’m glad you saw fit to tell me, because otherwise I never would have known.”