Shadow's End (Elder Races #9)

Fortunately, this adventure of theirs would be brief, and it had a built-in conclusion. Beluviel would go back to her life, and he would return to his. Perhaps that was why he felt the need to grab onto this experience. This might be the only chance he ever got to share any time with her.

After glancing around at the darkened, deserted street to make sure they were unobserved, he shapeshifted and crouched to assist her in mounting onto his back. Once she had settled firmly at his shoulders, he launched. Lifting his head as he sliced through the air, he relished leaving the heavy urban smell of London below. Her soft, delighted laugh made his soul smile.

The flight was another short one. Soon, he spiraled down toward the park at Grosvenor Square. It was one of the most affluent and fashionable areas of the city. Telltale sparks of Power dotted the neighborhood. Several magic users were in the vicinity.

Taking care to keep a good distance from them, he landed near a large old oak tree. She slid from his back. He told her telepathically, I’ll be quick.

Thank you. Her gaze flashed up to his. I will too.

Meet me in this spot when you’re ready, he said.

Yes. She paused and unexpectedly stroked her fingers down the feathers of his neck.

He froze. She couldn’t know how intimate that seemed, or how sensitive he was to her touch even through the sleek covering of eagle feathers. Pleasure at being petted ran down his spine.

He should say something or step away. He did neither. Instead, ever so slightly, he leaned into her touch.

It was wrong of him, but his wrong button seemed to be broken, and he didn’t care.

When she stepped away, for a moment, he felt bereft. He lingered long enough to watch her stride toward one of the houses that contained several sparks of Power.

As she left, it became harder for him to see her. Within a few more steps, she disappeared completely from sight, and he realized she had a serious talent of her own for cloaking.

With no further excuse to linger, he turned away and launched again, heading back to Vauxhall and the masque.

This time, without Beluviel, he didn’t care if he was observed. He landed inside the Gardens, shapeshifted and took a main path that led to the dancing area.

Midnight had come, and everyone had removed their masks. Quickly, he strode past several groups of drunken partygoers as he searched for Weston.

He found the earl in close conversation with a striking redheaded woman dressed as Athena, the Greek goddess of wisdom. Walking past the couple, he said telepathically, Weston, forgive me for interrupting. May I have a word?

Of course, replied the other male. Give me one moment.

While Weston made his excuses to his companion, Graydon wandered over to the refreshment area. The cocktail fountains were still flowing with brandy and champagne, and plentiful heaps of food remained on the tables.

Helping himself to a large plate of sausages, he ate with quick economy.

From behind his shoulder, Weston said, “You look like you’re eating to store energy for a flight, not for enjoyment.”

Weston was an avian Wyr. Graydon shouldn’t have been surprised that the other man was so astute.

He chose not to respond to that observation. Turning away from the table, he said, “What do you know about Malfeasance?”

Weston’s mild expression never flickered. He was a tall man, although not as tall as Graydon, with chestnut brown hair, aquiline features, deep-set eyes, and a mouth that was tilted, more often than not, in a slight, ironic smile.

Known as a private man, Weston held a quiet Power. Graydon liked and respected him. He also knew that a number of people feared Weston. But a number of people feared him too.

As Graydon watched, the other man took a plate and helped himself to a meringue and a savory jelly, and then he turned to face the crowd.

Weston said, “I doubt very much you would enjoy what Malfeasance has to offer, my friend.”

Graydon switched back to telepathy. Are you aware that they hold women against their will and sell children for sex?

The earl’s aquiline features remained impenetrable, but instead of taking a bite of his meringue, he set it carefully on his plate. Nothing about the man revealed what he was thinking. Not even his pulse had increased.

One might almost have thought Weston truly indifferent to the news, or that he already knew, but Graydon had been acquainted with the earl for a very long time. He didn’t believe that Weston had known, because if he had, he would have already done something to stop it.

No, this was news of a most tragic, revolting sort, and yet still Weston never exposed his reaction. Graydon admired his iron self-control.