Shadow's End (Elder Races, #9)(5)

He gave each of them his unhurried attention, while inside him everything strained to be on the move. His head was beginning to pound from the effort of maintaining control, but he would not be ruled by either his visions or his desires.

She had taught him that kind of iron, ruthless self-control. Sometimes he had hated her for it, with a private, passionate insincerity that disturbed him profoundly.

Once he finally reached the privacy of his apartment, he flipped on the lights. All of the sentinels had apartments in the Tower, although some, like Quentin and Aryal, only chose to use them sometimes.

Graydon was different. He chose to live full time in his Tower apartment. To a man of his simple tastes, it was more than luxurious and met all of his needs. While it was only a one bedroom, it had been built with such spacious dimensions, even someone his size could sprawl out and feel comfortable.

Floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room and bedroom gave him a panoramic view of the New York skyline, and he had a private balcony where he could enjoy quiet dinners or launch for a quick flight to clear his head after work.

A giant Jacuzzi tub in the bathroom could soak away most aches and pains after a brutal day at work, and a professional decorator had made sure the furniture was good and the colors didn’t suck.

He had laundry service, housekeeping service, and the Tower cafeteria kept his fridge fully stocked with excellent cooked meals, freshly made, whole grain sandwiches stuffed with meats and cheese, and his favorite kind of beer.

It was a fine enough place, a good enough place, most of the time.

“This is my home,” he whispered through clenched teeth. He could hear the desperation in his own voice. “This is where I belong. I will keep all of my promises. I will hold true.”

Right now the apartment felt like a cage. He thought about smashing his fist into the plate-glass window, just to see it shatter and to feel the wild wind rush in.

He closed his eyes. Swiftly like a predator, the vision of his death struck. This time it would not be denied.

The white ground, black rocks, and red drops of his heart’s blood growing on the ground like blooming roses. He lost himself in the sensation of liquid warmth flowing between his fingers.

When he could finally see again, he found himself kneeling on the floor, shoulders hunched. That damned scene hung like an albatross around his neck, until he almost wished it would go ahead and happen, just so that he could get it the f*ck over with.

He had carried that albatross for almost two hundred damn years—exactly from the moment when he had responded to a damsel in distress and had embroiled himself in another man’s curse.

And wasn’t that too much to swallow as a coinkydink.

It was all connected. He knew it.

Stiffly, he forced himself to his feet, walked to a cupboard and pulled out a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue. After taking several deep pulls from the bottle, he scrolled quickly through the contacts on his phone until he found the right one.

He punched the call button.

Despite the late hour, the person on the other line answered almost immediately. “Hello?”

The feminine voice sounded cautious and guarded. In the background, he could hear sounds of Elven music, quick moving and passionate.

“Linwe,” he said. He didn’t bother to introduce himself. Linwe knew very well who had called her, even if she refused to say his name aloud.

Over the connection, he heard quick, light footsteps, and the music faded. His mind constructed an image from the sounds. She was walking out of the great hall in the Elven home.

“What do you want?” Linwe asked.

He drank scotch. “She doesn’t answer my phone calls or texts.”

“She doesn’t answer anybody’s phone calls or texts.” The young Elven woman kept her voice low. “She doesn’t carry her phone anymore, not since . . . not since what happened in March.”

He held his phone tightly. “How is she?”

“She’s recovering, like everybody else in the Elven demesne. Look, I shouldn’t talk to you about her, or tell you things. It doesn’t feel right. You need to stop calling me.”

“You’re right,” he said. “I do need to stop.”

When he closed his eyes, he saw the colors. White, and black, and red like roses. Those colors looked a lot like destiny.

“It’s nothing personal,” Linwe said, her voice softened. “You saved her life. All of us are grateful to you for what you did.”

“Tell her I’m coming,” Graydon said, keeping his voice as soft as Linwe’s. Soft, courteous and inexorable. “I’ll be there by morning. She and I have things to discuss.”

And a demon to exorcise once and for all.

Her indrawn breath was audible. “I absolutely will not. She’s gone to bed, and I’m going soon too. Graydon, you can’t come into the Elven demesne without permission.”

“Fine,” he said. “Just whatever you do, don’t tell Ferion.”

He hung up, turned off his phone and went to stuff things into a backpack. Weapons, clothes, basic toiletries, cash and credit cards, and a couple sandwiches for the road. When he was finished, he jogged up the stairwell to the roof, shapeshifted into his gryphon form and launched.

Usually the city of New York shone with panoramic brilliance, but the snowfall had grown thicker and obscured much of its brightness. As he flew through the keen sharp night, his obligations to the Tower fell from his shoulders, and in the silent, solitary space that remained, other images came in.