Shadow's End (Elder Races #9)

Spinning on his heel, he stalked into his bedroom, dragged on black sweatpants and a sweatshirt with a hood and pockets. Tucking the hard drive into one of the pockets, he strode back into the living room to face his tenacious friend.

Constantine had stretched out on the couch, boots propped on the coffee table, balancing his hot drink on a flat stomach. He had set another full, steaming mug on a coaster in front of a nearby chair and had put the bottle of scotch beside it.

Growling underneath his breath, Graydon sat in the chair. He inspected the mug. Constantine had made him a cup of coffee. After having drunk so much coffee already, he almost set it aside. On second thought, he grabbed the neck of the scotch bottle to splash some into the drink.

He took a swallow. The hot coffee-liquor mixture burned all the way down.

He said, “I’m giving you fifteen minutes. Not a second more. After that, I’m booting you out and going to bed.”

“Fair enough, fair enough.” Constantine narrowed one eye at him. After a moment, he said abruptly, “It was Beluviel, wasn’t it? Back then. Even though I said to you at the time that she was the definition of unobtainable, something caused you to fly straight at her like a moth to the flame.”

Graydon drank his hot drink and said nothing.

“She was married. She was the Lady of the Elven demesne. She was all kinds of inappropriate.” The other man paused. “Is it Beluviel this time too?”

Graydon finished his drink.

“You’re not going to say, are you?” Constantine looked half-admiring and half-annoyed. “What the fuck, Gray? You said you’d give me fifteen minutes.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Didn’t say I was going to talk. Just said I’d give you that much time.”

The other man’s wry smile faded. Constantine said, “While I can respect your level of discretion, I’m trying to help you, man.”

The other gryphon didn’t sound like his feelings had been hurt, but still, his direct, quiet words shook Graydon’s resolve. Shoulders slumping, he rubbed his face.

Con was one of his oldest friends and coworkers. To say they had a friendship was a misnomer. He was more like a somewhat irritating, good-hearted brother. He was also loyal to the point of death, and while currently he was being intrusive, he didn’t deserve a cold shoulder.

“Con,” he said, setting aside his mug and leaning his elbows on his knees, “I appreciate you poking your nose into my business.” To make sure his words didn’t carry any sting, he gave the other man a sidelong look and a smile. “I’m trying to keep a strong separation between all this”—he made a vague, all-encompassing gesture that included Constantine and his surroundings—“and a long-standing issue that is really, mostly not mine to tell.”

Silence fell between them. Then Con shifted his boots off the table, took the scotch bottle and poured more into his empty mug.

He said, “You know what I think?”

One corner of Graydon’s mouth lifted reluctantly. “I have a feeling you’re about to tell me.”

Constantine didn’t even blink. He pointed the top of the bottle at Graydon. “Maybe this has to do with Beluviel, and maybe it doesn’t. After all, whatever happened in London was a long time ago. But I do believe you wouldn’t be trying so hard to compartmentalize if you weren’t involved in something dangerous.”

Like Graydon had said. Smart as a whip.

Constantine said softly, “You’re trying to protect everybody, aren’t you?”

Oh, fuck it. He reached for the bottle again, and the other gryphon surrendered it to his grasp. He muttered, “I’m trying to keep the Wyr demesne from getting involved in any fallout, but I can’t protect everybody.”

And people were going to die. Closing his eyes, he took a pull straight from the bottle.

“You’re such a stupid shit,” Constantine told him affectionately. “Every single one of us, including Dragos, Pia and Liam, would go to the mat for you.”

“But I don’t want you to,” he said in a very quiet voice. “I want you all to thrive and be happy, and totally ignorant of any trouble. I don’t want any of you to get hurt because of something I got involved in a long time ago.”

“Well, you know what? You don’t get to choose that.” Con tilted back his head and tossed off the last of his drink. “Okay, here it is. It’s true enough that some of us have had more than enough shit hit their fans over the last eighteen months. But I’m not one of them. So you cut me in on the secret, and as long as I can help watch your back, I’ll also help you keep it quiet.”

Moved, he said, “Con, there’s no need for you to get invo—”

“On the other hand,” said Constantine, cutting him off with a charming, ruthless smile, “if you don’t cut me in, I’ll tell Dragos and the other sentinels everything that I know, or at least everything I’ve surmised thus far. Then you can try fighting your way out of the pile all of us will make as we sit on you until you spill everything.”

“You wouldn’t,” growled Graydon.