Shadow's End (Elder Races, #9)(40)

“That would be wise of you.” Graydon used the most neutral tone he could manage. At the moment, his control was fragile at best. If the Elf had started down that path, he didn’t know what he would have done. He said, “If this hasn’t made you hit bottom so you realize you’ve got to change, I don’t know what will.”

“It did.” Ferion’s voice was so quiet, even Graydon almost didn’t hear him. “It happened when Malphas confronted me. When I truly realized I had no other way to pay my debt. Nobody else could take my fate from me, and he—fixed the lien inside of me. I—I didn’t realize such a low point could exist.”

As he listened, unwilling sympathy took hold of him, dissipating his rage.

Ferion whispered, “Always before, this voice inside my head compelled me on and on. I convinced myself that when I won, I could pay any debt I accumulated. I could even pay back my mother everything she had spent on my behalf. Once I won that big, I could quit whenever I wished.” His raw gaze cut sideways to Graydon. “I knew that voice was crazy. I just couldn’t seem to stop listening to it.”

Graydon rubbed the back of his neck, trying to ease the knot of tension that had taken residence between his shoulder blades. He acknowledged, “I reckon I have a version of that voice in my head too.”

Only his voice had urged him to make plans to fly down to South Carolina once a month. It whispered to him that somehow the arrangement would have made it acceptable for him to mate with her, that he would survive each interminable month, as long he knew he would get to see her again.

Even as part of him had known better—that eventually something about the arrangement would have crumbled—it hadn’t stopped him from trying because he would have done almost anything to be with her again, including mating in silence and giving her a kind of devotion she had not asked for, and likely wouldn’t have welcomed had she known.

“Whatever happened between you and my mother,” Ferion said, “I’m doubly sorry about that.”

“We’re not going to talk about that,” Graydon said between his teeth.

Off to one side of the house, Beluviel came into view. She walked toward them.

Ferion whispered, “I saw how you looked at each other. I also know she hasn’t chosen to be with anybody in a very long time, so while we might not talk of it, I wanted you to know—I’m so sorry for that too. More than anyone else I know, she deserves to be happy.”

As soon as Bel had come into sight, Graydon’s attention fixed on her. Hungrily, he soaked in every aspect of her appearance.

She looked composed and calm, her dark gaze focused. As he took in her settled demeanor, he recognized the distance that had been growing between them was now complete.

He told her telepathically, You realize Ferion can no longer be trusted. Malphas might not be able to resist compelling him to do small, sneaky things. Whatever he thinks he might be able to get away with, he’ll do.

The full, generous curve of her lips tightened. She replied, I know. I’ll have to keep watch.

If there is anything I can do to help, don’t hesitate to send for me.

Giving him a steady look, she shook her head and told him in a gentle voice, You are good-hearted and generous to the very end. I will not send for you, Graydon. It would hurt too much to see you.

A violent pain flared. How sensible she sounded, how emotionally honest and yet dismissive at the same time.

In one corner of his mind he knew he wasn’t being fair, but the uncivilized beast he fought to hold in check wasn’t interested in fairness. It wanted to snatch at her and rage against the world.

But she was not Wyr. She couldn’t know how his beast rebelled at the thought of being sensible. Of leaving her.

He made himself breathe evenly and loosen the fists he had pressed against his sides. “So, we hold our ground.”

“And Malphas wins,” said Ferion bitterly.

Bel gave her son a look of rebuke. “Holding one’s ground is not passivity. It takes its own kind of strength. Sometimes the hardest part of a battle is holding one’s ground. At most Malphas has gained a standoff. He has not won anything yet.”

“Nor will he,” said Graydon. “Although this may turn into a very long war. Have patience.” He looked up. Dark smoke was beginning to billow out of the manor’s windows and chimneys. “We should leave. I can take you both back to London.”

“I can’t abandon the horse,” Ferion said.

That small, selfless statement helped Graydon feel a little more kindly disposed toward the other male.

“It’s a hired horse, yes?” When Ferion nodded, he said, “Tie the reins to the hitching post beside the stable doors. It’s far enough from the house, it’ll be safe from the fire, and you can be certain that Wembley’s constable will be up here momentarily, along with many other people. They’ll make sure it gets returned to the stable where it belongs.”

Ferion did so. Within moments, both he and Bel settled astride on the gryphon’s back.

The return flight to London was mostly made in silence, each one of them wrapped up in thought. When Graydon landed in Grosvenor Square, it had just turned midmorning. The sun had begun to take the chill out of the frigid air.

Tradesmen crowded the streets, conducting business, although many who had attended masques the night before would still be abed. Graydon maintained his cloak. He sensed Bel’s cloaking spell as she did the same.