Kinked (Elder Races, #6)(12)

He paused to study Aryal’s bone white face and Quentin’s rigid posture.

“You have continued to put extra strain on everybody else, right when they could have used a break,” he said. “So if you make it back successfully and you manage to hold on to your jobs, you are going to work double time until all the other sentinels have had a vacation. That’s how you’re going to make this up to them. For today, you’re going to pack light. Get your affairs in order. Tend to your wounds. Return here at five o’clock for your assignment. Maybe by then I’ll be able to tolerate the sound of your voices. Now, get out of here.”

Seething with reaction, Quentin managed to keep his clenched face turned away as he limped toward the door and Aryal followed.

Not less than two weeks. Not more than a month.

Banished.

With the hellion. Maybe he should just hang himself and be done with it, except he would not give the bitch that kind of satisfaction.

I’ll win this game, he thought. Just like I’ve won every other game I’ve played in my life. Besides, with any luck, the assignment will be dangerous; she’ll get herself killed and save everybody a world of hurt.

Then his eyebrows rose.

He cocked his head.

Of course if that happened, it would have to be obvious to everybody that either her death was accidental, or somebody else had killed her.

There might be some merit to pursuing this train of thought.

“Oh, and one more thing,” Dragos said.

They jerked to a pause and swiveled to stare at him.

In a blast of heat and Power that knocked them back against the wall, the dragon roared, “DO NOT FIGHT AGAIN TODAY OR YOU BOTH LOSE YOUR SENTINEL POSITIONS.”


You know, some days things went wrong in all the right ways.

As soon as she and Caeravorn hit the hall, they shot apart in two different directions. Neither one of them could get away from the other fast enough.

Banishment, with Caeravorn. On some sort of assignment.

With any luck, it would be a really nasty, dangerous assignment.

How horrible. How peeeerrrrfect.

She couldn’t wait to find out what terrible fate Dragos had in store for them, because when would she ever get a chance like this again? Caeravorn was going to be a tough bastard to kill, but she was really good at improvising.

She just had to be absolutely sure his death occurred in some way that allowed her to say with perfect honesty that she didn’t do it, because when she returned to New York either with his (preferably mangled) corpse or alone, those with truthsense were going to be all over her asking questions.

Ugh, her body ached all over. Dragos had purposely stomped down hard when he planted his boot in the middle of her back, and it hurt to breathe. The side of her face was so swollen she could see her cheek out of the corner of her eye. It wouldn’t do to go on assignment already injured, so as soon as she could, she needed to find a healer.

But first, she had something else she needed to do. She went to find Graydon.

He was in the cafeteria, eating breakfast with Sebastian Ortiz, the Wyr wolf who had managed the Games. Ortiz was retired army but still active in civilian work, and he managed security for the parking garage underneath the Tower.

The cafeteria had grown crowded with the breakfast rush. One of the many perks of being a sentinel was an automatic pass to the head of any line, since sentinel business was often urgent and their mealtimes cut short.

Even though she was starving, this time Aryal bypassed the food lines to grab a cup of coffee. When she approached Graydon and Ortiz’s table, Ortiz gave her a civil nod, said a quick good-bye to Graydon and rose from the table. Aryal slid into the seat he had vacated.

Graydon sat back in his seat and shoved his half-full plate of food away. He looked at her bruised cheek, the expression on his craggy face cool and shuttered.

She bit her lip then said, “I’m sorry.”

He crossed his arms and remained silent. Her stomach clenched and her shoulders sagged. He never used to look at her like that.

“Okay, I’m really sorry,” she said softly. She turned her coffee cup in circles. “Did Grym tell you what happened?”

“He told me what he saw,” said Graydon, his voice flat. “You guys had met on the roof, and you were going to get some breakfast when Quentin appeared and went after you like the wrath of God. No talking, no escalation. Boom. So you and I both know that’s not everything that happened. You did something to set him off. Of course you did.”

She didn’t bother to dispute it. She didn’t actually know what had set Caeravorn off, but she didn’t doubt that she had done something. Much as she hated him, she had to concede, he didn’t randomly attack people he disliked.

“I am sorry for the extra strain this has been on everybody, and I will fix it. I swear it, Gray. There’s going to be a rotation of vacation time, and all the sentinels are going to get a break.” She braced herself. “But first Dragos is going to send Caeravorn and me on assignment, and we can’t come back to New York until we work shit out between us.”

At least one way or another.

Inwardly wincing, she waited for an explosion of swearing or at least some kind of expression of disgust. Nothing happened. Graydon didn’t even look surprised.

Her eyebrows rose. “You knew already?”

“I was the one who suggested it,” Graydon said. “Dragos called me to talk over ideas when he put the baby down. His ideas involved more broken bones and bloodshed. At least this way, the conflict is going to get resolved one way or another—you will both work it out, or you’ll be out. We can’t have the sentinels at war with each other, Aryal.”