Shadow's End (Elder Races #9)

She also knew he was more than worth all of it.


When evening came, she went through her clothes, trying to decide what to wear. As a short-term solution to her move to New York, she had ordered her clothes to be shipped from the Elven demesne, and they filled Graydon’s walk-in closet to bursting. She would have to decide what to do with her other possessions—furniture, artwork, etc.—but those were decisions that could be made over time.

Finally, she dressed in a simple dark blue dress with a matching domino. She rolled her hair into a twist, pinned it at the back of her head, slipped on a pair of high heels and kept her makeup subtle.

Others would carry on with the masque as normal, but, for her, in the face of the loss that both the Wyr and the Djinn had suffered, she felt anything more elaborate would be wrong.

Linwe met her at the apartment door. The younger woman had dressed soberly as well. She had also dyed her hair black. The color was much starker than her natural dark brown hair.

The black highlighted her elegant bone structure, and the depth and shape of her dark eyes, although Bel knew Linwe hadn’t dyed her hair for vain reasons.

“Very appropriate,” Bel told her. Gently, she touched the ends of Linwe’s short hair. “Although, I must confess, I’ll miss the pink.”

Linwe ducked her head. “Maybe it can come back someday.”

“Is your apartment okay?” she asked.

She had not been able to dissuade Linwe from coming to New York with her, and the younger woman had been so impassioned about the subject, she didn’t have the heart to try very hard.

In any case, if she were honest with herself, she found a selfish comfort in Linwe’s devotion. While she was ready to make such a deep, overarching change, and she embraced it, leaving the Elven demesne and so many loved ones behind was still hard. It had been her home and her mission for so long.

“This isn’t the Wood,” Linwe said, with a small shrug. “That’s okay. This will be its own thing.”

“I’ll let you in on a secret,” Bel whispered.

A sparkle returned to Linwe’s eyes. She whispered back, “What’s that?”

Bel smiled to herself. Linwe’s sparkle could never be doused for long. She confided, “I’m going to change this Tower for the better.”

“Ooohh?” One of Linwe’s eyebrows lifted. “How so?”

“I’m going to bring in a touch of the Wood,” said Bel. “It’ll take some time—and actually quite a lot of money—but you wait and see. The Wyr will thank me for it.”

Linwe threw her arms around Bel. “We’re going to have such an adventure here!”

She hugged the other woman. “Yes, we are, aren’t we?”

Together, they went downstairs. Linwe kept her company as she searched the crowd for Ferion.

Perhaps inevitably, the task threw her back to the Vauxhall masque, two hundred years ago. She had been so anxious and worried that night as she looked for Ferion.

Now, so many things had changed.

In the latter part of the nineteenth century, the Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens had slipped away into the past. Over the years, King Oberon had grown colder and more distant, until he stopped attending public functions.

She had not seen or spoken to him in a long time. Occasionally she glimpsed one of his knights who attended functions in his stead, but they remained secretive and distant. Francis Shaw, the earl of Weston, had been killed in a terrorist bombing attack in London.

This year, along with so many other Elves, Calondir was dead, and now Constantine and Soren were too.

The Djinn were not in attendance at the masque, not even Khalil, nor was the Oracle present. Bel had heard through Graydon, who talked often with Rune, that Khalil mourned his father’s passing fiercely, despite how they had fought when Soren had been alive.

It felt odd, in an aching kind of way, to look over the crowded hall and no longer see Soren’s tall, Powerful figure, with his distinctive white hair and piercing diamond gaze.

She didn’t know how the Djinn mourned as a society, but she had heard that none of them danced in the western deserts. The great plumes of sand and wind had gone still and silent.

And Malphas had finally, finally been killed. She could not help but feel a fierce relief at that particular change.

In the end, she didn’t find Ferion. He found her.

A hand closed gently on her wrist. She turned in surprise to discover her son standing behind her. He had dressed soberly as well, and had pulled his long blond hair back into a tight braid.

It lent his handsome features a severity that suited him these days. As a nod to tradition, he had brought a domino, but instead of wearing it, he had tucked it into the breast pocket of his jacket.

Linwe touched her shoulder. “I’ll just go . . . Over there somewhere. Text me if you need anything.”

“Thank you,” she said.