Shadow's End (Elder Races #9)

And the most dangerous consequence of all—Ferion had inherited the power and title from his deceased father.

Now Malphas held the lien on the soul of the Lord of the Elven demesne. Any hope Graydon had entertained of finding some way to renegotiate the terms of their bargain had died along with Calondir. Malphas would never give up the possibility of control over a demesne ruler.

In fact, in Graydon’s jaded opinion, it would be downright miraculous if Malphas hadn’t already forced Ferion to commit stealthy, nefarious acts that furthered the Djinn’s own interests without giving him away.

If they could only catch him reneging on the bargain, they would have enough to take to the Djinn, who could forcibly sever Malphas’s connections on Graydon and Beluviel, and might even be able to lift the lien on Ferion. But it would be foolish to hope Malphas would make a mistake that catastrophic.

It didn’t matter how sharp an eye Bel tried to keep on Ferion’s actions. Nobody could watch someone else all day, every day for years on end. With the power shift that had occurred earlier this year, Ferion could set any number of obstacles in her path to keep her from getting too close to him.

One grim consolation lay buried in the midst of tragedy. The Elven demesne had faced so many challenges in recovering that Ferion—and through him, Malphas—hadn’t had time to do more than pick up the pieces.

Also, throughout the summer months, the Elder tribunal had maintained a constant physical presence in the demesne, erecting Quonset huts as temporary medical and psychiatric hospitals to aid the recovering wounded.

Large quantities of other kinds of aid had poured in from all over the world in the form of food, clothing, temporary propane-powered generators, and tents to house the Elves who had recovered enough to leave the hospital. Even a cell tower had been built a few miles away to facilitate in coordinating the relief efforts.

The tribunal had only removed its presence when autumn came, and the surviving Numenlaur Elves had been ready to travel home again. Still, as a community, the Elves who remained in South Carolina would be raw and jumpy.

Linwe had exaggerated on the phone, but only a little. Like all the other demesnes in the United States, the Elven demesne covered a large area, including Charleston, and Graydon could enter it quite easily.

What he couldn’t do as easily is approach the main Elven home, the nucleus of their society, without permission.

While he considered recent events, the gryphon stole over the South Carolina Elven border in the early hours of the morning.

Because he had been part of the events in January, he was familiar with the geography. He knew exactly the moment when he flew over the Wood.

He had been expecting to find the area still mostly deadened by fire damage. Instead, to his surprise, he saw that much of the debris had been cleared away. In its place, he sensed a new wild Woodland presence.

The new growth covered a massive area. It wasn’t nearly as large as the previous Wood had been, and he didn’t think it was sentient.

At least, not yet. It was too young for that.

But it was burgeoning with rich, abundant life, and it was indisputable evidence of a strong, positive, restorative force.

The Lady of the Wood had in no way been idle or incapacitated over the last six months.

The gryphon did not know how to cry, but the man who lived inside the Wyr beast felt inexpressibly moved and fiercely relieved.

Passing over the heart of the Elven home at high altitude, he saw firelight dotting the area. Even though it was the early hours of the morning, a few people were awake.

The old, sentient Wood no longer acted as guardian over the Elven home. They would feel that vulnerability keenly and keep watch through the night. At least, he knew he would if he were in their shoes.

He arrowed away until he reached a bluff beside the shoreline. There, he landed, changed into his human form once again and walked along the edge of the Wood. Locating a likely spot on the beach, he descended to lean his back against a boulder, and stare over the dark ocean at foam-capped waves.

Where was she sleeping? Had she taken other lovers?

Something deep in his chest twisted at the thought, although he couldn’t blame her if she had. Two hundred years was a long time, even for those as long lived as the Elder Races.

He had burned for her, but that didn’t mean she had burned for him.

He had lain awake countless nights, reliving over and over every detail of their too-brief lovemaking. The scent of her hair. The taste of her soft nipple against his tongue. The look in her eyes and arch of her body as she orgasmed.

But that didn’t mean she had.

He had longed to talk to her, many times over the years, just simply talk, as one would to a treasured friend.

And yet, that didn’t mean she had.