The second male was from the Wyr demesne in New York. Dragos Cuelebre, Lord of the Wyr, had sent his First sentinel, Graydon. A gryphon in his Wyr form, Graydon was a massive figure, easily the largest of all seven of the Wyr sentinels, who were famous throughout the world for their superlative fighting skills.
Graydon was also one of the first generation of the Elder Races. Born at the beginning of the world, he carried an intense aura of Power just as Soren did, but whereas Soren’s Power felt sharp and clear, like a piercing white light, Graydon’s felt warmer and golden, like a hot summer evening.
Normally Graydon’s rough, weather-beaten features wore a mild, good-humored expression, but now, his gray eyes held a sober, sharp look.
Julian’s sense of dread increased. He had thought he was being irrational, but the arrival of the other two males escalated the unknown issue to something more extreme than he had been capable of imagining.
Graydon crossed the room to shake hands. “Julian,” the other man said. “I caught your press conference yesterday about the attacks. How has the search been going?”
“It’s early in the investigation,” replied Julian. “But we’ve got a search protocol laid out. We’ll catch who’s responsible.”
With a keen gaze, Graydon searched his expression. “You said you had over a hundred dead, and most of the casualties were human?”
“Yes.” Unwilling to talk details, he braced himself to field off more questions.
But Graydon surprised him, as the other man shook his head. “That’s unacceptable. I’m sure you have plenty of resources at your disposal for the search, but I want you to know Dragos is prepared to send you Wyr trackers, if you think you’ll need them.”
Julian had been in battle mode and coping with adversarial issues for so long, the simple offer of help caught him off guard. Surprised, he said slowly, “Thank you. I don’t have an answer for you right now, but I appreciate the offer very much.”
“Just say the word, and I’ll send a team.” Graydon paused. “I guess you being here is too much for coincidence. Did Tatiana ask you for help too?”
“Yes.” Julian looked from Graydon to Soren. “Do either of you have any idea what this is about?”
The Djinn shook his head. “I was going to ask you the same thing. The only thing we know is that Tatiana asked me to bring Graydon here as soon as I could.”
Graydon walked over to the large windows, his gaze roaming over the placid scene outside. “We would have arrived sooner, except I can rarely get away at a moment’s notice these days.”
Julian nodded. Recently, at the Sentinel Games in January, Graydon had assumed the duties of First sentinel, and as a result, his workload had to have increased exponentially.
He said, “I guess Tatiana will tell us why we’re here as soon as she can.”
On impulse, he pulled out his cell phone, scrolled to Melly’s contact information and punched the call button. He wasn’t expecting much. When he had recently tried to call her about the blasted trade agreements, she hadn’t answered his phone calls or messages. Still, he felt the need to try.
The phone call didn’t ring but rolled over immediately to voicemail, which meant nothing other than Melly’s phone was turned off. For all he knew, she was busy consulting with her mother over whatever crisis the Light Fae demesne faced. As Tatiana’s heir, Melly would undoubtedly be involved to some extent.
Not bothering to leave a message, he disconnected the call, all too aware of Soren’s piercing, curious gaze lingering on him.
While the other two men talked quietly, Julian moved to the far side of the large room. His nerves were jumping with tension, and making even the pretense of polite conversation was beyond him. Closing his eyes, he let himself go completely still as only a Vampyre could do, while in reality, his muscles were so tight, he felt ready to lash out at a moment’s notice.
It’s been over twenty years since she betrayed me, he thought. I shouldn’t care this much. I shouldn’t care at all.
The fact that he did made him feel trapped and angry, and for one reason or another, he had been feeling that way for far too damn long.
For almost two hundred years, he had held steady against his sire Carling’s increasingly erratic behavior and contradictory commands. What had once been an affectionate, respectful business arrangement had turned sour, then descended to bitterness and finally outright hostility, while he fought to hold the Nightkind demesne together despite the several selfish, predatory bastards who sat on the council.
Born a Roman slave, he had won his freedom in the arena as a gladiator. Then he had fought his way to the position of general in Emperor Hadrian’s army. And then he had fought some more, for years upon years. War, in one form or another, was all he had ever known.
When Carling had offered him the unimaginatively long life and the Power of a Vampyre, he had leapt at the opportunity. After all, he’d had one master or another his whole life. Becoming eternally subject to Carling as his sire had seemed easy.
But it was a hell of a lot easier to talk about living through eternity than it was to actually live through an endless parade of years. Decades. Centuries.