Lord's Fall (Elder Races #5)(32)

Despite her quick plummet into sleep she tossed and turned. Several times she came partly awake, frustrated and searching. She couldn’t find the right connection. Every time she reached for Dragos, all she could see was a male with green eyes. He held out his hand and beckoned to her, but it was much too dark where he stood. Every time she saw him, she shuddered and turned away.

Then she came awake in a rush.

Disoriented, she thrust out of bed and went to the window. The sky was growing lighter. It was early in the morning, and she hadn’t dreamed of Dragos.

They hadn’t dreamed.

Panic throbbed like a migraine at her temples. She strode to the door and snatched it open. James and Andrea were talking quietly, keeping watch in the common room. Both came to their feet at her appearance.

James put a hand on his sword. He asked, “Everything all right?”

“No,” she said. “Get Eva.”

“I’m here,” Eva said from one of the other doorways. She was barefoot but otherwise dressed in black cargo pants and an army green T-shirt that fit snugly against her lean torso. She strode across the room quickly, black eyes sharp. “What up, princess?”

She said to Eva in a low voice, “Dragos has been casting spells so that he and I can dream together, and I didn’t dream last night. Something’s wrong.”

And she couldn’t make a simple, goddamn phone call to see if he was all right.

Eva’s gaze had widened as she talked. “Okay,” the captain said. “Let’s talk it through. Has he ever had problems dream casting before?”

“We’ve only done it together a couple of times,” Pia said. She rubbed her mouth and tried to get in control of her panic, to force herself to think logically. “The Power in the Wood interferes with phone calls. Maybe it can disrupt Dragos’s spell.”

“He’s Powerful as shit and older than dirt,” Eva said, her voice steady and not unkind. “Rather than something happening to him, it’s much more likely that the Wood interfered with his spell, don’t you think?”

Suddenly Pia grew calm. “That makes sense, but he doesn’t know that, and last night was important. We had things to discuss.”

What would Dragos do now?

He would be doing the same thing that she was doing, working his way through the possible reasons for their missed connection. She had the advantage. She knew he went to bed safe in his home territory, whereas to him, she was deep in the heart of enemy territory.

Would he watch and wait for word? If he didn’t—if the Elves discovered that he had crossed the Elven border again without permission, she didn’t think there was anything she could say then that would repair the treaties, and they might not be able to avoid war. The Elves had been quite clear: they would treat any further trespass from him as an act of invasion.

She said, “We need to send someone out and hope they get out of the Wood in time to make a phone call before Dragos decides to come in after us.”

Eva’s eyebrows rose. “Sounds like we better get someone out fast.”

• • •

Throwing their bed against the wall hadn’t done anything to improve Dragos’s mood. He knew Pia felt stressed about the trip, and he had no intention of arguing via text messages, but he was utterly furious with her.

How dared she rebuke him, leave their dream and turn off her cell phone? How dared she bring up that old issue of servants and employees, and throw Rune in his face?

Did he not allow her to do as she wished in most things?

How dare she disobey him?

Yeah, he heard that.

He tossed the king-sized bed back into place, showered, dressed in black fatigues and a thin, black silk sweater, and left the Tower.

Another heavy day of fighting was scheduled for that day, so the bouts started at five A.M. Despite the early beginning, all the seats were filled. Tension had ratcheted up. One hundred and twelve contestants would start the day. By tonight there would be fifty-six.

When Dragos arrived at the mobile office, he told Kris and his other assistants, “Find somewhere else to work today.”

None of them asked questions. They took one look at his expression and scattered, leaving him to prowl the supersuite and fume in isolation.

All the sentinels were scheduled for early combat. By some trick of chance, none of them had yet drawn Quentin Caeravorn as an opponent. Aryal, Grym and Bayne had cycled through their fights already, and now Constantine was on the floor.

Con was brawny and blond, as were all the gryphons. He was also what his fellow gryphon Bayne liked to call a “man slut.” It was a testament to Constantine’s actual skill set that he was so effective at his job while remaining so aggressively promiscuous, because from what Dragos heard, Con never got a full night’s sleep.

His current opponent in the arena was one of the gargoyles, and both contestants had shifted into their Wyr form for the fight. The gargoyle had morphed from a mild-looking man into a seven-foot winged monster, with a demonic face, huge batlike wings and a tough, stony gray body.

Their fight caught even the raging dragon’s attention. Dragos paused at the window to watch.

A human would have had a difficult time following the fight without the benefit of instant replay and slowing the action down, but Dragos had no trouble at all making out every detail.

Con was not Graydon. He had broken one of the gargoyle’s legs and a wing, and now, catlike, he played with the guy, letting him get close and then batting at him with a giant paw. Constantine was just plain nasty in a fight, whether he was in gryphon or human form. The gargoyle was done for, but apparently he was too stupid or stubborn to quit.