He stirred. “Tell them I’m on my way.”
He went down the elevator and through security, to the tunnel entrance onto the main floor of the arena. The Games manager was a Wyr gray wolf named Sebastian Ortiz, army retired. Like most gray wolves, Ortiz’s hair had turned salt and pepper as he had aged. He had a lined face, sharp yellow eyes, and a lean, tough body that said the old wolf could still be dangerous. Ortiz and Talia were waiting for him just inside the tunnel entrance, along with a few security Wyr.
All of the contestants were already lined up along the arena floor. Talia handed Dragos a field microphone. He nodded to her, gestured to Ortiz and strode into the arena while the Games manager followed.
As he cut across the floor, making the first tracks in the pristine raked sand, the crowd shouted. The sound grew until it rang in his ears. Somewhere a rhythm began. It swept through the arena, turning into a chant: “Dragos—Dragos—Dragos.” And: “Wyr—Wyr—Wyr.”
Then Dragos caught a whiff of a long-familiar scent, one single thread of identity in a mélange of over twenty thousand other scents, and it was so unexpected, his stride hitched. Almost immediately he controlled himself to move forward until he stood in the center of the arena. He pivoted, inhaling deeply as he looked over at the crowd. The hot, white blaze of lights was no deterrent for his sharp, raptor’s gaze that could detect small prey from over two miles away.
He took his time as he searched. The thunderous roar of the crowd continued for several minutes then began to die away. A heavy anticipation pressed against his senses.
There.
His vision narrowed. He clenched his jaw to bite back a snarl.
High in the stands, his former First sentinel Rune sat quietly with his mate. Rune leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees and chin resting on his laced hands, his expression quiet and serious. His mate Carling sat back in her seat, also watching with a serious expression, one hand resting on Rune’s back.
Rune and Dragos had not talked privately since an ill-fated cell phone conversation six months ago when they had parted badly. They had not seen each other since an early morning confrontation in a meadow soon after.
Dragos heard updates, of course. He knew that Carling’s quarantine had ended successfully, and that Rune and Carling had settled in Miami. He also knew that a trickle of bright minds and talents had begun to gather in Florida—the Oracle who had once lived in Louisville, a brilliant medusa who was a medical researcher, a sharp legal mind from one of the premier law firms in San Francisco, along with others—enough talent so that disconcertment was beginning to ripple through the seven demesnes. Dragos also knew that the other sentinels kept in touch with Rune, and he did not forbid it.
He had not forbidden Rune or Carling from entering the Wyr demesne either, so he should not have been surprised that they would attend the Sentinel Games.
A strange, tangled knot of emotion gripped him. He felt the urge to shapeshift and attack, along with something heavier, something like sadness or regret.
Or maybe it was the weight of all the years they had worked together in partnership, years that had flown by to become centuries. They had accomplished so much together. For a very long time their different natures and talents had showcased each other’s so well that Dragos had once told Rune he was his best friend.
Or perhaps it was the burden of words they had left unsaid. Words like “I’m sorry,” and “how are you.” And, “you should have fucking said something sooner.”
And especially, “you left the demesne—OUR WORK—for a woman.”
And not just any woman. The former Queen of the Nightkind, one-time Elder tribunal Councillor, fellow Machiavellian thinker and occasional ally. The one woman in the entire world Dragos would not completely trust as mate to his First.
Which meant that even if Rune wanted to, Dragos would never let him work as one of his sentinels again.
All of those words and more strangled unsaid in his tightened throat, because if it had been him and Pia, he would have done the same thing. Unquestionably. He would have left anyone and anything for her, and he still might over the long unknown years of their future. For Pia he would walk away from what had turned out to be his life’s work, the Wyr demesne, if he ever had to, and he would do it without a second’s hesitation or a second look back.
Gods damn it.
Rune was looking back at him, lion’s eyes steady.
He realized he had crushed the field microphone as he clenched his hands into fists, and twenty thousand people had fallen into silence.
He gave his former First a curt, slight nod, and despite the distance, he knew that Rune’s own sharp gaze would have caught it. Rune returned the nod.
Then the Lord of the Wyr turned his attention to his waiting people.
He projected his voice so that it filled the arena.