Shadow's End (Elder Races, #9)(48)

While the world had changed and Calondir was dead, Bel’s feelings for Dragos ran deep and bitter, and with good reason. Dragos’s help in January might have mitigated some of that bitterness, but it couldn’t have erased all of it.

As he considered the obstacles that lay between them, he looked around the diner.

The most generous way to describe the restaurant would be to call it retro. Still sporting much of the original décor from the 1970s, it was worn, outdated and definitely working class.

Faded green linoleum covered the floor, while the booths and barstools were covered in orange vinyl. The cracked seat on his own barstool had been patched with a strip of duct tape.

The tables were covered with a layer of faux wood, which was nearly as worn as the floor. The food was hearty, not designer cuisine, but it was well cooked and savory. He felt comfortable in this place, at home. It wasn’t fancy, but neither was he.

He tried to imagine Bel enjoying the diner.

It wasn’t that she was stuck-up. She was the exact opposite. She was attentive to others, and genuine, and her graciousness caused people from all walks of life to gravitate toward her.

She also wore clothes that were handsewn—jackets covered with a fortune in delicate embroidery and seed pearls, along with handcrafted boots, and silk shirts. Everything about her screamed money and class.

He looked down at himself. His jean jacket, jeans and boots had certainly seen better days, and his plain gray T-shirt had come from a plastic multipack of shirts he had bought at a superstore.

As he rubbed his tired face, he encountered stubble on his chin. The catlike part of his nature was obsessed with cleanliness, but he wasn’t sure when he had last shaved.

Wednesday? Maybe Tuesday?

Resting his elbows on the bar, he propped his head in his hands. He didn’t know who he was trying to fool. If you took away the extraordinary events that had thrown them together so long ago, in real, ordinary life, he and Bel were pretty much like oil and water.

“Job getting you down, Gray?”

He looked up at Ruby, the owner of the diner. She was an elderly human woman, around seventy years old. Slim and energetic, with dyed red hair and tortoiseshell glasses, she stayed active in the daily running of her business, claiming her customers kept her young at heart.

He told her, “My job’s a piece of cake.”

She snorted as she filled his coffee cup. “Pull the other one, why don’t you?”

One corner of his mouth tilted up. “Well, some days it’s a piece of cake. Other days . . . hey, it’s why they pay me the big bucks, right?”

“You need a good woman to make your life easier.” Ruby rested her coffee carafe on the counter beside him.

Over the years, they had bantered many times like this before. His smile turned genuine. “You applying for the job?”

“Oh, sweet cheeks, if I was about forty-five years younger and a whole lot more stupid, I would hog-tie you and fight off all comers.” She gave him a wink. “But you would always be leaving in the middle of the night. Or you would come home scratched up and bloody, and not say a word about what happened. Some people can handle being the spouse of a cop or a soldier, yet I never was one of them. But we woulda had a lot of fun, you and me, before it all went to hell.”

Laughing, he pulled out his wallet. “We sure would have.”

“Put that away.” She tapped him on the shoulder with a gnarled finger. “You know better than that. Your money’s no good here.”

“I’ve always gotta offer, Ruby,” he said, although he tucked his wallet back into the pocket of his jeans.

She nodded with a grin. “That’s one of the many reasons why I would have hog-tied you. My ex? I had to take him to court for child support, and he always waits for somebody else to pay in a restaurant.”

“That’s not right.” He shook his head. “If I had a wife and child, I would do everything in my power to make their lives good, and they would never want for anything.”

I would fight for them, live for them.

Die for them, if need be.

The words sounded melodramatic over morning coffee, so while he thought them, he didn’t say them aloud.

“That’s another reason why I would have hog-tied you.” Smiling, Ruby looked at him over the rim of her glasses. “I don’t hafta tell you that people get crazy around masque-time. Be careful out there, and come back to see me real soon.”

“I will,” he promised.

Predictable as it had been, the exchange had lightened his mood, while the food had given him a surge of much-needed energy. Stepping out, he walked down the street, watching his surroundings carefully until he was certain he was a good half block away from anyone else, and he could sense no nearby magic.

Only then did he take out his cell phone and scroll through his contacts until he found the right one. He punched Call.

Voicemail kicked in. It was a robo-message, giving only the number, no name or any other identifier. He hung up without leaving a message and dialed again.

This time, the Vampyre Julian Regillus, the Nightkind King, picked up. “Graydon. Let’s save some energy and pretend you and I have already had a conversation about what time it is.”

In the background, Graydon heard a familiar feminine voice. Melisande, the Light Fae heir and Julian’s lover, said, “Did you say that was Graydon calling? Tell him hi for me.”