Shadow's End (Elder Races #9)

So was Graydon.

It was impossible to quell the irrational hope that surged as soon as the thought occurred to her. She could not imagine Graydon would come. Ever since Wembley, they had seen each other only in public. Even after the battle with Gaeleval, he had carried her away from the scene, straight to a team of healers and then he had disappeared.

Gazing at him at political functions, watching his shuttered expression from a distance, nodding and smiling as though there were nothing at all between them, no history of intimacy, no empty ache deep inside of her . . .

Malphas had seen how to get revenge on them with a particular kind of cruelty.

With a discipline born of long practice, she set the thought aside.

Since she was considering the possibility of the Wyr, she could think of no reason for Dragos to have come south either. While he had invaded the Elven demesne before, he must be busy in New York with the business meetings and preparations that surrounded the masque.

Shaking her head at her own foolishness, she stepped back indoors to dress in trousers, boots, a loose, comfortable shirt and a quilted jacket. Hesitating over the thought of carrying weapons, the thought of the Wood’s youth and inexperience caused her to slip into her sword harness, just in case.

She considered waking Linwe, or taking one of the night guards with her, but after studying the Wood’s alert, calm interest, she decided not to. She could always raise an alarm later, if necessary. For now, she trusted her ability in cloaking her presence.

Her rooms were located at one end of the building. A private stairway led from the balcony to the river’s edge below. The guards on duty were much younger than she. None of them noticed as she strolled from the clearing.

What do you have to show me? she asked the Wood, only not quite in so many words. Her question was more of a nudge and a sense of inquiry.

The Wood tugged her along narrow paths, toward the coast. Other races might have had difficulty following the nearly invisible paths, but they were her design. She knew them like she knew the back of her hand.

As she hiked, a sense of peace and freedom came over her, two things she no longer felt when she resided at the Elven home.

Soon, she realized the Wood was taking her further than she had expected. Her old Wood had covered miles. This new one would be no smaller by the time it finished growing.

She began to run. Her Elven nature gave her tremendous stamina. If necessary, she could run for days, although if the Wood continued to urge her in the current direction, she would run out of land.

She ran out of land.

When she neared the shoreline, a sense of freshness brushed against her cheek, damp with the breeze that blew off the ocean. Breathing deep, she scented the water, refreshing and brisk, and carrying a hint of brine.

The path curved, taking her out of a sparse line of new saplings that would soon, with her encouragement, take on the aspect of a large, old-growth forest.

The path followed the top of a long bluff. Favored by the Elven guards, it provided a good vantage place to look out over the shoreline and water.

At the highest point on the bluff, she paused to scrutinize the view. Moonlight cascaded over the scene, gilding the water and the edge of shadowed clouds with ivory and silver.

Below, at the edge of the beach, a half-hidden figure of a very large man reclined against a large boulder.

Her heart began to pound. Her stupid, stupid heart.

She couldn’t be right. The man was too far away. The lighting was too uncertain for her to recognize his identity at such a distance.

Still, she wanted it so badly to be true. Keeping her cloaking spell tight around her body, she made her way down the side of the bluff to the beach below.

Walking toward the relaxed figure, she stared without blinking, until details became clear.

The man wore jeans and a jean jacket. A battered pack rested beside him. His arms were crossed, as were his legs at the ankles. The cascade of moonlight glinted off wavy, tawny hair. He had let it grow some years ago.

With his chin tucked to his chest, his face remained in shadow, but every line of his rough, sun-kissed features was stamped indelibly in her memory.

“Graydon,” she whispered, disbelieving and, for one moment, deliriously, unutterably happy.

When he whipped to his feet with catlike speed, she let go of her cloaking spell.

He walked toward her, stepping out of the boulder’s shadow. The ivory moonlight touched his cheekbones, his jaw, the masculine curve of his lips.

As he grew near, the Power of his presence enveloped her. She felt nourished again by a warm, friendly blaze. Just as she had in the Vauxhall Gardens, all those years ago, the same crazed desire to fling herself into his arms and nestle against his chest washed over her.