Shadow's End (Elder Races, #9)(79)

Soren had solidified enough to drop Melly and Bel onto the ground. As Malphas began to retreat, Soren melted into pure Power and launched after him.

The two Djinn collided overhead. A concussion of Power burst out like a bomb blast, exploding nearby trees and knocking everybody to the ground. With a huge, yawning noise, a nearby chimney stack collapsed, throwing billows of snow and dust into the air.

A screaming whirlwind rose as the two Djinn fought. Hurricane force winds lifted a column of water out of the Long Island Sound.

Carling and other Peacekeepers struggled to haul a lax body out of the heaving, foaming water. Once again, Bel’s stomach bottomed out. She caught sight of Rune trying to lift his head. He was alive.

Melly grabbed Bel’s arm so hard, she left bruises. Her expression agonized, the younger woman shouted something, but Bel couldn’t hear the words over the shriek of the noise.

Melly raced away, slipping and sliding over the treacherous ground. Bel followed the trajectory of her sprint. As her perspective shifted, she realized there was a figure prone on the ground. The figure wore Elven armor, which made it blend into its surroundings. Shaking convulsively, it held up blackened hands. Julian.

But where was Graydon? Bel stood on tiptoe, straining to find him.

A Peacekeeper raced past, yelling at her, “Get down! Get down!”

Ignoring him, she stumbled forward, driven by the need to find Graydon. Debris whistled through the air, shards of bricks and trees turning into deadly missiles as the Djinn’s battle raged overhead.

Inside, hope had twisted into a despairing cry. If she didn’t find Graydon alive, she would lie down right then and there, and die.

Then, as the swirl of running figures parted, she saw two men, sprawled together, covered in blood.

So much blood.

Two tawny heads, so different, and yet so alike. Pain exploded in her chest. Blind to everything else, indifferent to the gargantuan fight tearing apart the night sky, she lunged toward the men.

As she drew close, details struck at her.

Constantine lay on his back. His body was soaked with blood from neck to groin. Graydon crouched over him, cradling the other sentinel’s head in his arms and shielding him from the deadly debris.

Bel fell to her knees beside them. In one horrified glance, she took in Constantine’s handsome, still face, the rictus of agony that twisted Graydon’s. Suddenly there weren’t enough tears in the world.

“Oh, my darling,” she said brokenly.

She gathered Graydon into her arms. He was too big. She couldn’t hold all of him, but, with all the love in the world, she tried.

As soon as she put her hands on him, she sensed his struggle to breathe. It snapped her into knifelike focus. Running a sharp gaze over his hunched figure, she realized that not all of the blood was Constantine’s.

She screamed, “WE NEED A MEDIC HERE!”

Overhead, another colossal concussion blew out with such force, it split the earth. Peacekeepers fell screaming into huge cracks.

She threw herself over Graydon and Constantine to shelter them both. As the concussion dissipated, she realized—one of the Djinn was gone. Staring skyward, she strained to find Malphas, but she couldn’t sense him anywhere.

The overwhelming noise from the howling wind died. She could hear people shouting to each other.

Low, over the water, the ragged presence of a single Djinn drifted, like a ship foundering at sea. It carried a dull, faint thread of Soren’s Power.

Across the beach, where medics were working on Rune, Carling stood. Her voice filled with such Power, the words rocketed down the beach. “Khalil, bring Grace! Your father needs you!”

Bel’s heart pounded. Once. Twice.

It couldn’t have been longer than a moment.

But so very much could be lived, and lost, in a single moment.

Even as the signature whirlwind of an approaching Djinn blew onto the beach, Soren’s thin, ragged presence dissipated into the night with a final sigh.

? ? ?

A thick layer, like cotton wool, surrounded Graydon, disconnecting him from everything else, except Bel.

Shock. Or lack of air.

The broken bones in his chest shifted as he tried to draw in a breath. He thought maybe one of his lungs had collapsed.

She cupped his face, her beautiful eyes fierce and determined. Her lips formed the words, “Hold on, love. You’re going to be okay.”

I am, he thought. I’m holding on.

He clenched one hand on her wrist, held onto Constantine with the other.

His vision narrowed as pain tried to turn the world black, but he fought it off. As he snapped back to consciousness, she was lowering him flat on the ground.

Peacekeepers ran up. Someone tried to pry Constantine from his grip. He bared his teeth in a silent snarl, resisting, until Bel bent over him, her face filling his vision.

She told him gently, “They’ll take good care of him. The very best care. Please, let them help.”

His arms loosened, and they lifted Constantine away. Someone pulled an oxygen mask over his face, while another person cast a spell that took away the grinding pain.

He began to drift again.

“My lady, you need to move away and let us work on him,” said one of the Peacekeepers.

That got his attention. Rousing, he growled. Talons sprang out on his hands, and his teeth lengthened. The medics’ eyes bulged and they pulled back.