Lord's Fall (Elder Races #5)(9)

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 f**king 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 f**k 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.