Shadow's End (Elder Races, #9)(11)

The disappointment was ludicrous and inappropriate. She was her own unique person. The purpose of her existence was not to bring him pleasure. He shoved the feeling aside and studied her more closely.

That was when the vision of the white ground, black rocks, and the red of his blood swept over him for the first time.

With an instinct born from long experience, he held still, enduring the image until it faded enough so that he could glance around surreptitiously to see if anyone had taken note of his odd stillness.

Neither Francis nor Constantine appeared to have noticed that anything was amiss. The two other men had turned their attention to the refreshments table and were piling plates high with food.

As they returned to his side, Francis asked, “Aren’t you going to eat?”

Shaking his head, he put effort into making his voice sound normal. “I stole some sausages earlier off one of the tables. I might have more to eat in a bit.”

As he spoke, he watched Bel send away her attendants, and her brief conversation with Oberon. How could Oberon flirt with her and not see that something was wrong? Was the Daoine Sidhe King that shallow and self-absorbed?

The taut, delicate set of her mouth, and the fist that she made of one hand then pressed against her thigh, as if to hide it in her skirts . . .

Something about her distress—or what caused it—mattered so much that it had triggered an image of his heart’s blood dripping between his fingers.

The second sight was a tricky bitch. If he chose to ignore Bel and turned away to focus on his own life and concerns, would that indifference trigger events that would lead to the vision coming true?

Or, if he stepped forward to involve himself in whatever troubled her, would that lead to the incident?

Action or nonaction—there was literally no way to be sure. He could waste his life trying to second-guess everything he did, but that was no way to live. A very long time ago, he had decided to set aside second-guessing for the useless endeavor that it was.

He had not become a sentinel by worrying about what he should or shouldn’t do. He would live or die as he always had, by making decisions he knew to be right.

If Beluviel truly was in some kind of distress, there was no way in hell he could walk away from her. That would be like closing the door on spring to spend his life hiding indoors.

Graydon didn’t hide from life. He flew at it with everything he had.

He glanced at Beluviel’s husband. Lord Calondir looked like he was enjoying himself, as he bent his head close to his female companion.

The physical and psychic distance between the smiling Elven Lord and his tense wife couldn’t have been more apparent. They existed in two completely separate realms.

What’s going on, Gray? Constantine asked telepathically. Appearing to have not a care in the world, the other sentinel popped a fantastically shaped meringue into his mouth.

So his behavior had not gone unnoticed after all. He wasn’t really surprised. Constantine was an observant son of a bitch. After working together for so long, he knew Graydon much better than Francis did.

I don’t know, he said. Dismissing Calondir, he turned his attention back to Bel. Something.

Constantine glanced in the direction of his gaze then swiveled his whole body to face Graydon. His handsome face turned sober. That, my friend, is the very definition of unobtainable.

A rare surge of anger flashed through him. He bit out, That’s not what this is about.

A pause. Graydon could almost see the other male’s mental shift.

Okay, said Constantine. His mental voice remained neutral. What is this about?

It was about decency and concern for another being’s welfare. It was about living his life to the fullest, and making the right decisions in defiance of any potential future harm that may or may not come to him.

He told Constantine, I don’t know, but I’m about to find out.

He took his leave of the other two men and strode forward. Whatever this challenge was, and whether or not the vision came to fruition, he would approach this like he did the rest of his life—with everything he had.

If he was strong enough, smart enough, if he fought hard enough and tried long enough, he could win through.

? ? ?

Several minutes later, as he escorted Bel away from the dance floor and along a main path, a sense of rightness settled into his bones. They might be mere acquaintances—he had only ever exchanged pleasantries with her and they had never shared a tête-à-tête—but it felt delightful to have her hand tucked into the crook of his elbow, and to shorten his stride so that he matched hers.

His enjoyment of her company, in the face of whatever was causing her hardship, seemed as inappropriate as his earlier disappointment. Deliberately, he turned his attention away from the pleasure and focused on other details of his surroundings.

Nearby, a Daoine Sidhe knight stood in the middle of a group of inebriated partygoers. The knight’s identity was cloaked behind a full mask with two faces, one facing front and the other facing backward. The forward-facing face was dark, while the backward-facing face was light.

Graydon recognized the costume. It was Janus, the Roman two-faced god, with one face looking forward into the future, and the other face looking backward into the past.

The mask mirrored too much of what Graydon was thinking and feeling. Unease tried to ripple through his body, but ruthlessly, he shoved it away. He had lived with the second sight for far too long to read omens into everything.