Shadow's End (Elder Races #9)

A year and a half ago, Dragos had lost two of his sentinels, Rune and Tiago, because they had mated with women elsewhere. It had taken months to choose two new sentinels, and for the Wyr demesne to stabilize again from the change.

Graydon found he had room for a wry smile. If only Dragos knew how unlikely it was that he might run the risk of losing Graydon to mating.

“As soon as I can tell you anything, I promise I will. I’ll ask for help too, if it becomes appropriate.” He met Dragos’s gaze steadily. “As long as I am alive and able to do so, I’ll always come back. This is my home. I’ve made that commitment to you, and to here.”

And besides, she wouldn’t have me, anyway.

His jaw tightened. Like he had with the vision, he shoved the thought out of his head.

Managing to look curious, frustrated and mollified all at once, Dragos angled out his jaw. “Fine,” he said. “Go.”

Giving him a grateful nod, Graydon turned away.

A heavy hand fell on his shoulder, causing him to stop in his tracks. Dragos’s grip clenched, almost to the point of pain.

Normally, Dragos was not demonstrative with anyone other than Pia and Liam. Moved, Graydon angled his face away. After a moment, he reached up to grip the other man’s hand in return. Only then did Dragos’s hold ease and allow him to continue on his way.

He strode out of the penthouse, pausing only to collect the rifle. He could go to his apartment, grab his pack, and if the goddamn vision would only loosen up so that he could see to fly, he could be in the air inside of fifteen minutes.

In just a few hours, he could see her again. His world ground to a halt as he finally allowed himself to think of it.

He could see for himself how she was healing. Life’s cuts had wounded her deeply, but she had a strong, unique spirit, forged most elegantly and tempered by adversity and time.

After everything they had endured, he had grown a bone deep, unshakable faith in her. She was true, her spirit clean, straight and strong. She knew how to stand her ground and hold steady, no matter what the odds.

That much had become clear as he had watched her covertly over the centuries, knowing he could only ever catch glimpses of her, because anything else, everything else between them, had become far too dangerous.

Even though the evening had grown late, the elevators and hallways in the Tower were crowded with late-night revelers and the personnel that had pulled third-shift security. Several times, people stopped Graydon, either to ask him questions or exchange pleasantries.

He gave each of them his unhurried attention, while inside him everything strained to be on the move. His head was beginning to pound from the effort of maintaining control, but he would not be ruled by either his visions or his desires.

She had taught him that kind of iron, ruthless self-control. Sometimes he had hated her for it, with a private, passionate insincerity that disturbed him profoundly.

Once he finally reached the privacy of his apartment, he flipped on the lights. All of the sentinels had apartments in the Tower, although some, like Quentin and Aryal, only chose to use them sometimes.

Graydon was different. He chose to live full time in his Tower apartment. To a man of his simple tastes, it was more than luxurious and met all of his needs. While it was only a one bedroom, it had been built with such spacious dimensions, even someone his size could sprawl out and feel comfortable.

Floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room and bedroom gave him a panoramic view of the New York skyline, and he had a private balcony where he could enjoy quiet dinners or launch for a quick flight to clear his head after work.

A giant Jacuzzi tub in the bathroom could soak away most aches and pains after a brutal day at work, and a professional decorator had made sure the furniture was good and the colors didn’t suck.

He had laundry service, housekeeping service, and the Tower cafeteria kept his fridge fully stocked with excellent cooked meals, freshly made, whole grain sandwiches stuffed with meats and cheese, and his favorite kind of beer.

It was a fine enough place, a good enough place, most of the time.

“This is my home,” he whispered through clenched teeth. He could hear the desperation in his own voice. “This is where I belong. I will keep all of my promises. I will hold true.”

Right now the apartment felt like a cage. He thought about smashing his fist into the plate-glass window, just to see it shatter and to feel the wild wind rush in.

He closed his eyes. Swiftly like a predator, the vision of his death struck. This time it would not be denied.

The white ground, black rocks, and red drops of his heart’s blood growing on the ground like blooming roses. He lost himself in the sensation of liquid warmth flowing between his fingers.