Lord's Fall (5 page)

The door slammed open. Dragos looked over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised. One of his sentinels exploded into the suite. The harpy Aryal’s furious gray gaze fixed on him and she stormed toward him. In her human form, she was a six-foot-tall, powerfully built woman with dark hair that was tangled more often than not, and she had a strange, gaunt beauty that had nothing to do with dieting. In the harpy’s Wyr form, both strangeness and beauty were accentuated.

Naturally it would be Aryal who dared to storm and seethe around him that day. Chick was crazy, but no doubt that was axiomatic. All harpies were.

Dragos turned back to the arena, which was mostly full and still filling. Fifteen minutes to showtime. He said, “What is it?”

“I just saw the final list, and I cannot fucking believe my eyes.” Aryal stopped at his side and glared at him. “Quentin Caeravorn is
PART WYR
?”

“Yes.”

“How can he be Wyr without any of us knowing it?”

“His dampening spell was just that good, Aryal. And recruiters saw him change. If his Wyr side is strong enough for him to change, he’s eligible to enter the Games.”

“He’s a goddamn criminal!” she snapped. “You
know
he is!’

“I gave you six months to close down an investigation on him,” Dragos said, “and you’ve not been able to pin anything on him. His qualifications and references are impeccable. The law says he can compete.” Besides, he was extremely interested in what Caeravorn’s possible motives could be for competing. Those motives would surface eventually, if Caeravorn was given enough time. And rope.

“Screw the law!”
she shouted. “
You’re
the law. You can disqualify him, for crying out loud—or won’t you do that because he’s Pia’s former boss and special
friend
?”

He pivoted to stare at her with a molten gaze and cold face. He growled, “I created that law, and I will abide by it. So will every other Wyr in my demesne. And so will you, or I will take you down myself right now, so hard you will need much more than a week to heal.”

They stared at each other. Aryal’s fists were clenched, the muscles in her jaw leaping with furious tension. If Dragos put her out of commission, she wouldn’t be able to fight, which would disqualify her from the Games—and that meant she would not be considered as one of the final seven.

Dragos waited a pulse beat. He said softly, “Now if you’re quite done, get the fuck out of my face.”

Aryal hovered on the edge a moment longer than any other living creature would have dared to. Her particular brand of insanity included an insane kind of courage, he would give her that.

Dragos tilted his head. He flexed a hand.

Her gaze dropped. She looked like she was about to explode, but she held her silence as she whirled and stormed out of the suite.

It wasn’t a bad thing to force her to confront her own reckless temper without Grym around to pull her back from the brink. The two sentinels had developed an odd kind of relationship, a nonsexual friendship where Grym took it upon himself to haul Aryal back from whatever trouble her tempestuous nature got her into. But Grym wouldn’t be there for her in the Games.

In the end, the arena was like facing the dragon—it was every one for herself.

“Sir, it’s time,” Kristoff said quietly from behind him.

He stirred. “Tell them I’m on my way.”

He went down the elevator and through security, to the tunnel entrance onto the main floor of the arena. The Games manager was a Wyr gray wolf named Sebastian Ortiz, army retired. Like most gray wolves, Ortiz’s hair had turned salt and pepper as he had aged. He had a lined face, sharp yellow eyes, and a lean, tough body that said the old wolf could still be dangerous. Ortiz and Talia were waiting for him just inside the tunnel entrance, along with a few security Wyr.

All of the contestants were already lined up along the arena floor. Talia handed Dragos a field microphone. He nodded to her, gestured to Ortiz and strode into the arena while the Games manager followed.

As he cut across the floor, making the first tracks in the pristine raked sand, the crowd shouted. The sound grew until it rang in his ears. Somewhere a rhythm began. It swept through the arena, turning into a chant:
“Dragos—Dragos—Dragos.”
And:
“Wyr—Wyr—Wyr.”

Then Dragos caught a whiff of a long-familiar scent, one single thread of identity in a mélange of over twenty thousand other scents, and it was so unexpected, his stride hitched. Almost immediately he controlled himself to move forward until he stood in the center of the arena. He pivoted, inhaling deeply as he looked over at the crowd. The hot, white blaze of lights was no deterrent for his sharp, raptor’s gaze that could detect small prey from over two miles away.

He took his time as he searched. The thunderous roar of the crowd continued for several minutes then began to die away. A heavy anticipation pressed against his senses.

There.

His vision narrowed. He clenched his jaw to bite back a snarl.

High in the stands, his former First sentinel Rune sat quietly with his mate. Rune leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees and chin resting on his laced hands, his expression quiet and serious. His mate Carling sat back in her seat, also watching with a serious expression, one hand resting on Rune’s back.

Rune and Dragos had not talked privately since an ill-fated cell phone conversation six months ago when they had parted badly. They had not seen each other since an early morning confrontation in a meadow soon after.

Dragos heard updates, of course. He knew that Carling’s quarantine had ended successfully, and that Rune and Carling had settled in Miami. He also knew that a trickle of bright minds and talents had begun to gather in Florida—the Oracle who had once lived in Louisville, a brilliant medusa who was a medical researcher, a sharp legal mind from one of the premier law firms in San Francisco, along with others—enough talent so that disconcertment was beginning to ripple through the seven demesnes. Dragos also knew that the other sentinels kept in touch with Rune, and he did not forbid it.

He had not forbidden Rune or Carling from entering the Wyr demesne either, so he should not have been surprised that they would attend the Sentinel Games.

A strange, tangled knot of emotion gripped him. He felt the urge to shapeshift and attack, along with something heavier, something like sadness or regret.

Or maybe it was the weight of all the years they had worked together in partnership, years that had flown by to become centuries. They had accomplished so much together. For a very long time their different natures and talents had showcased each other’s so well that Dragos had once told Rune he was his best friend.

Or perhaps it was the burden of words they had left unsaid. Words like “I’m sorry,” and “how are you.” And, “you should have fucking said something sooner.”

And especially, “
you left the demesne—
OUR WORK
—for a woman
.”

And not just any woman. The former Queen of the Nightkind, one-time Elder tribunal Councillor, fellow Machiavellian thinker and occasional ally. The one woman in the entire world Dragos would not completely trust as mate to his First.

Which meant that even if Rune wanted to, Dragos would never let him work as one of his sentinels again.

All of those words and more strangled unsaid in his tightened throat, because if it had been him and Pia, he would have done the same thing. Unquestionably. He would have left anyone and anything for her, and he still might over the long unknown years of their future. For Pia he would walk away from what had turned out to be his life’s work, the Wyr demesne, if he ever had to, and he would do it without a second’s hesitation or a second look back.

Gods damn it.

Rune was looking back at him, lion’s eyes steady.

He realized he had crushed the field microphone as he clenched his hands into fists, and twenty thousand people had fallen into silence.

He gave his former First a curt, slight nod, and despite the distance, he knew that Rune’s own sharp gaze would have caught it. Rune returned the nod.

Then the Lord of the Wyr turned his attention to his waiting people.

He projected his voice so that it filled the arena.

No speechwriter had written what he said. It was unpolished, blunt, straight to the point and televised.

“A long time ago, I made you a promise. I said there would be law in this demesne, and I said it would be a fair one. I told you there would be protection for those of you who could not protect yourselves. As a result, the Wyr demesne remains one of the strongest Elder Races demesnes in the world, and the sentinels are a key part of that promise.

“Six months ago I put out the call, and Wyr from all over the world answered. Every candidate who will fight in this arena has chosen to be here, including each of my current five sentinels who have already served both you and me for a very long time. They could have taken the opportunity these Games presented to retire with honor. None of them chose to do that.

“Of the others, we have screened each applicant carefully until only the most qualified Wyr will enter this arena. They’re smart, experienced and capable, and I would be proud to have any of them stand at my side. But not all of them will. The only thing we have left to discover is which of these contestants are the seven strongest. Those will be the Wyr who stand by my side on Friday. They will keep the peace, uphold the law, protect our borders and
both they and I will hunt down anyone foolish enough to try to harm the Wyr in any way.

“That continues to be my promise to you and to the rest of the world. Today we start with four hundred and forty-eight contestants—the best and the brightest of the Wyr. Each will fight, and if they lose, they’re out, including my current five. Tomorrow we start with two hundred and twenty-four. Friday morning, there will be fourteen left. By Friday evening, the Wyr demesne will have its seven. That way everyone will know beyond a shadow of a doubt that the strongest and the best Wyr hold this demesne safe.”

Then he took a deep breath, filling his lungs. He brought his Wyr form close to the surface and let it glow like lava in his eyes.

With enough Power to shake the entire building, the dragon let out a deep roar.

“LET THE GAMES BEGIN!”

Both the crowd and the contestants surged to their feet and roared with him. He walked off the floor while the Games manager took over. It was a strong beginning to the week, a show of Wyr solidarity to the watching world and no doubt it made damn fine TV.

And, bloody hell, he was glad it was over.

Because he couldn’t wait for nightfall.

Pia had better be able to get to sleep. If she couldn’t, their plans were fucked.

THREE

T
he rest of the road trip down to Charleston held more challenges for Pia, after she and the others piled back into the SUVs. Despite the antinausea charm she wore almost constantly, the concentrated smell of so much greasy meat from the many breakfast sandwiches the others had ordered from McDonald’s, combined with traveling in the passenger seat, caused her a miserable spell of nausea.

She never actually vomited, but they had to roll down the windows and let frigid air blow through the vehicle until the others had consumed their food. Then they had to stop again to throw away the bags so the smell would really dissipate from the SUV. She couldn’t even stand to keep the hash browns they had bought for her. McDonald’s used “natural beef flavor” in their hash browns, and she couldn’t tolerate how they smelled.

Eventually the group could roll up the windows again. In sharp contrast to the barbed tension and outright antagonism from earlier, the others were really very good about it all—patient and concerned, and without a hint of irritation.

So at least she had made some progress.

The temperature warmed as they traveled south, but the day never brightened. They drove into a steady drizzle, again in almost perfect contrast to her previous trip. This time too there was no need to stop at a superstore for supplies—a pair of mated Wyr had traveled down a couple of days earlier to prepare the estate Dragos had rented. The couple would keep house and provide any cooking that the group would need, which included high-end catering for any guests Pia might invite. They were especially versed in vegan cuisine and coached to provide meals for Pia that were high in protein.

Charleston was a gray smear of rain-dulled cobblestone streets, the windows of gracious homes shining with warm, golden light.

The estate had a large historic home that was beautifully built and attractively positioned on an acre of land, and surrounded by a decorative black wrought-iron fence. She knew the details, at least on paper, and she had seen several digital photos. There were six bedrooms, four full baths, a large dine-in kitchen, a full formal dining room, a formal living room/parlor, a family room with a fireplace, a back terrace and an “in-law” apartment over a detached garage where their housekeeping Wyr would stay.

As the group pulled up the driveway, Johnny pointed out that the house was also positioned well for defense, with a minimum of landscaped foliage around the bottom of the building. She pretended to listen, but mostly she was busy soaking in the sight of their own golden lights shining in welcome in the windows.

Miguel, Hugh and Andrea went into the house first while the rest of them waited, their SUV idling halfway down the drive in case they needed to pull out quickly. As soon as Miguel appeared again in the front doorway and waved an all clear, they headed in.

The interior was a blur, and so were the two Wyr who waited with expectant smiles to greet her. She was sure the whole place was perfectly, outrageously splendid, because gods forbid that the Lord of the Wyr’s mate stay anywhere else. Dragos had probably bought an entire house full of linens, housewares, antiques and crazily expensive artwork just for the duration of her stay. In fact she would bet money on it. He wouldn’t allow any Elven guests—or potential spies—to witness anything differently.