Lord's Fall (Elder Races #5)(86)

“Ouch!” He glowered at her and rubbed his chin. “You asked if I saw any prayer beads, and I hadn’t. The Machine had taken the form of a perfect diamond. It was f**king gorgeous, Pia, and it was almost the size of my fist. So I put it in my pocket and cloaked it, and then we had a shitload of things to do, and when I knew that you were home, safe in bed, I threw it away.”

She chewed her lip, her forehead wrinkled. “I don’t suppose there was anything else to be done,” she said at last.

“There wasn’t. It can’t be destroyed, and it was far too dangerous for us to hold on to. Eventually it will work its way back into the world. I just wanted you to know what I’d done.”

She considered him for a long moment. Then she laid her head back on his chest. “You’re going to make such a splendid husband.”

His arms closed around her again, possessively. “I am, which is a good thing, because I’m the only husband you’re ever going to get.”

She closed her eyes, soaking up the sensation while she inhaled his masculine scent. “I can live with that.”

The fighting in the arena that day was savage, and most of the contestants—except for Quentin again—got bloodied one way or another. Mostly Pia pretended to watch. She put on a good show, although more often than not her gaze rested on the Elven demesne’s box that remained empty. At the end of the day, there were fourteen contestants left, including all five of the original sentinels. Again, Pia could tell that Dragos was pleased.

“They all want it,” he said. “They’re going to win through again.”

She devoutly hoped that was a good thing, as she looked down on the top of Aryal’s head.

The next day the rounds started early, and nobody could predict how long they would take. Pia joined Dragos at the window for the first half hour.

After she had put in a public appearance, she fled to one of the other rooms where she signed cards and wrapped presents for Beluviel and Linwe, and she wrote a letter of condolence to Ferion, the new High Lord.

Eva remained out by the window, and Dragos and Kris didn’t even bother to pretend to work. They took turns calling out the name of the winner to Pia at the end of each fight.

Graydon.

Bayne.

Constantine.

Aryal.

Quentin.

At that, Pia had to sit down because her damn legs had turned shaky. She put her elbows on the table and her head in her hands. Quentin, who she knew disliked Dragos intensely. Aryal, who disliked her intensely.

And the gods knew, along with everybody else, how much they hated each other.

“What are we doing?” she whispered.

The last two names were almost an anticlimax. Almost, except compared to some of the others, they were a goddamn relief. Grym, quiet but always present, always reliable. And Alexander Elysias, the pegasus, who by all accounts was a peaceful man. She had a feeling they were going to need that peacefulness in the upcoming days.

She could hear the roar of the crowd through the sound system, and feel Dragos’s charged energy moments before he strode into the room. He looked at her. “It’s finally done. The Games are over. I’m going down to announce the new sentinels. Will you come?”

She stood immediately. “Of course.”

He held out his hand to her, and she walked over to take it.

Somehow they would all have to figure out how to get along.

What are we doing? she thought. Why, we are doing what we must.

Dragos inclined his head to her.

She mouthed at him, “And then we get a weekend off.”

He grinned, and together they strode out to their people.

NINETEEN

A couple of months later, a very large young man said to Pia, “Mom, you’re just gonna have to trust me. I promise everything’s going to be all right.”

She bit back a smile. Now, where had she heard those words before? Like father, like son. “I trust you, baby,” she told the young man as he lounged against the kitchen counter. “Of course everything’s going to be all right.”

She was in the middle of pouring birthday cake batter into a pan in a bright, airy kitchen with plenty of windows for natural light and a butcher-block island.

Then she stopped. Wait a minute. This wasn’t the kitchen at the penthouse. Where the hell was she this time?

And why was she baking a birthday cake?

She set the batter bowl down carefully and turned to her son, who was killer gorgeous. He had to be nearly as tall as Dragos, broad shouldered and slim hipped, with long, strong legs encased in torn, faded jeans.

Every single one of the gods had to have been in a good mood when this boy was made. His features were not as rough-hewn as Dragos’s, but the strong bone structure was still there, and he had her dark violet eyes. A thatch of white blond hair tumbled down his forehead.

Killer. Gorgeous.

She felt punch-drunk. All she could think of was the robot from the old TV show Lost in Space whenever it waved its arms in alarm and shouted, “Danger, Will Robinson, danger.”

She could see the future coming toward her, like the lights of an oncoming train. They couldn’t take away his car keys. He had wings. They were going to have to institute a citywide curfew, maybe throughout the entire state. Eleven P.M. Lock up all your daughters, folks. No, better make the curfew ten P.M.

In the meantime, who was going to protect this beautiful boy from all the predators that were going to think he was their next tasty morsel? Oh geez, she and Dragos had their jobs cut out for them.