Shadow's End (13 page)

A figure solidified in front of her. It took on the appearance of a handsome man, with a face like an angel, with golden hair and eyes that shone like sparkling diamonds, but the appearance was a lie. He was no physical man, but a Djinn.

Fear crawled through her body. Normally, when the Djinn appeared, they did so in a whirl of Power like a tornado. This Djinn had masked his Power to creep up on them like a predator stalking its prey.

Movement blurred at the corner of her vision as, with a gigantic spring, Graydon leaped to her side.

“What an interesting scenario I have stumbled upon,” said the Djinn. “One of the Wyr sentinels having a tender moment with an Elven lady who is not his.” He gave them both a glittering, hard smile that vanished in the next moment. “If I am not mistaken, it is the very same sentinel and lady who visited my establishment late last night. An establishment, I might add, that I had grown quite fond of, and that, as of this morning, is no longer in existence. Coincidence? I do wonder.”

“You're Malphas,” Graydon growled. He stood so close to her, their shoulders touched, and his energy bristled with protectiveness and aggression.

“Indeed, I am,” said Malphas. “I believe I'm in possession of something you want.”

She bit out, “Where is my son?”

The look he gave them was so hostile and full of rage, Bel controlled an entirely useless impulse to lunge for her sword. Swords were useless in a battle against the Djinn. “He is up at the manor, but then you already knew that, or you wouldn't be here. He's had a rough night, and he's sleeping it off.”

Rage washed over her, obliterating the fear. As she lunged forward, Graydon's arm snaked around her waist, and he held her back. She cried,
“What did you do to him?”

“You'll have to come see for yourself,” said Malphas. “No doubt you can find your own way up the hill to the manor. Don't expect breakfast, and be prepared to beg when you arrive.”

The Djinn vanished.

She whirled to face Graydon. “What was he talking about? Malfeasance no longer exists?”

He had paled until he looked bone white. “Get your things. Hurry.”

She didn't need any further urging and leaped for her sword and cloak, while beside her, Graydon did the same. Shrugging into his coat and sword harness, he shapeshifted. She leaped onto his back.

Only when he had lunged into the air did he speak.
They were selling children
.

What?
She felt so crazed with worry, what he said didn't make any sense.

At Malfeasance
, he said.
They were selling children.

It took a moment longer for his words to sink in. When they did, she rocked as if he had physically struck her.
Oh GODS.

I didn't want you to know.
His telepathic voice sounded more bestial than human.
I'm from the New York demesne. If I had destroyed any establishment here, it could have
been interpreted as an act of war, yet I couldn't stand aside and do nothing. I paid for the children before we left. When I went back to the Gardens, I approached Weston and told him—not about you. Weston said he would rescue the children and shut down the business. That was when I left.

The more she heard, the more ill she felt.
I don't have any words.

While he'd been talking, he had climbed so steeply into the air, within a matter of a few moments she could see for miles. Any other time, she would have been enchanted by the view of the picturesque English countryside crowned with the new light of day. Winter colors wreathed the land in browns, golds and oranges, and trees rose out of a low hanging mist.

Almost immediately, a manor came into view. Just as the stable boy had described, it sat on top of the hill overlooking the town's mill. She noted bitterly that it was a sprawling, palatial-looking residence. Owning a gambling hell appeared to have paid high dividends for the Djinn.

We're almost out of time,
Graydon said as he descended.
Listen—Malphas can't be certain that we were behind whatever happened to Malfeasance.

You paid for the children,
she said numbly.
Then Weston came to take them away.

Yes, but he can't know anything for sure. Weston and I spoke telepathically. I didn't say a word to anyone else. Remember that. Let's not give him more fuel for his anger. We'll get Ferion, and then we'll get out.

I understand. Just get me down there!

She leaped from his back before all the gryphon's paws fully touched the earth. As she ran to the front doors, Graydon shapeshifted and raced after her. His Power roiled as it had back at the gaming hell, with a towering fury.

The large, double oak doors stood open. Neither she nor Graydon hesitated. They plunged inside and paused in the great hall.

To her right, through an open doorway, a fire blazed in the fireplace of the front receiving room. Turning by instinct
toward the heat and light, she started to sprint forward, only to be brought to an abrupt halt when Graydon gripped her arm. He gave her a grim look of warning.

Her spirit raged at the restraint, even as she recognized the wisdom in his caution. She gave him a curt nod. Together they stepped forward, looking around warily.

The room was decorated with colors that had been in fashion a decade ago. A blue velvet armchair had been positioned strategically by the fireplace, facing the front hall.

Malphas sat in the armchair, legs crossed. His demeanor was as regal as if he sat on a throne. He rested his elbows on the arms of the chair, fingers steepled in front of his mouth, eyelids lowered over piercing, starlike eyes.

Ferion sat cross-legged on the floor in front of him. He was beautiful in the way that Elves could be, his lean and graceful frame holding a tensile strength. Long blond hair fell past his shoulders, pulled back from his temples and tied with a strip of leather.

His lean, handsome face was blank, while dark purple shadows like bruises ringed his eyes.

As soon as Bel's gaze fell on her son, renewed rage and worry swept common sense aside. She tried to rush forward, but Graydon still gripped her arm. His fingers tightened, halting her in midstep.

“Look who has come to visit this morning,” said Malphas. “The adulterers have arrived. Ferion, did you realize your mother has been unfaithful to your father? Faithful . . . unfaithful . . . Those words don't mean anything to me, but I know they matter a great deal to some people.”

“You have no idea what you're talking about,” Ferion whispered. His dull gaze met hers. “Mother, I am so sorry—”

“Shut up,” Malphas ordered.

Ferion's words cut off, as abruptly as if Malphas had stuffed a gag in his mouth.

“You lied,” Graydon growled. “There was no exclusive game here. Nobody's here except for you and Ferion.”

What did he mean? She glanced around the room again. This time, she noticed other details.

Cobwebs draped in corners of the ceiling. The armchair in which the Djinn sat looked bright and fresh, but the other furniture was dull with dust. On the floor, footsteps clearly showed on the worn, faded carpet.

“Don't mistake me,” Malphas said. “I
can
and
do
lie when it suits me, but I didn't lie about this. There was an exclusive game. It was with me. Yes, we could have played it in London, or anywhere else, for that matter. I just like to see how hard people will work for it.” He shrugged. “Of course the only people I invite here are the ones who can't resist the game.”

She gave the Djinn a look filled with loathing, and then dismissed him to concentrate on her son.

“Ferion, never mind what has happened,” she said, struggling to keep the anger from her voice. “We need to leave. We also need to talk, but we can do that away from here.”

“I don't believe you understand yet why you need to beg,” Malphas said. “So, I'll show you. Ferion, go to your mother.”

Graydon said telepathically,
Bel, be careful. I don't know what he's doing.

His words didn't hold any real meaning for her. They fell far outside the urgency in her mind. As Ferion pushed to his feet and approached, she pulled her arm from Graydon's grasp and rushed forward.

Malphas said, “Put your hands around her neck and squeeze.”

She had already moved to throw her arms around Ferion when she heard those words. Before she could recoil, Ferion's hands snaked around her neck. He began to choke her.

Suddenly, she couldn't breathe. Pressure pounded in her eyes.

Instinct took over. She tried to yank back, but Ferion was extremely strong, and she couldn't dislodge his hard fingers.

Even as she arched away and attempted to twist out of his hold, snarling filled her ears. A powerful blow slammed into her chest. Graydon drove his big body between them like a battering ram, and through sheer force, he shoved them apart.

Gasping for air, she stumbled back, fell over one end of
the sofa and sprawled on the floor. Ferion slammed into the nearby wall.

Two booted feet planted themselves on either side of her head, as Graydon straddled her prone body.

Coughing, she rubbed her throat as she stared up at his towering figure. The angles of his face and hands seemed strange and wrong, his fingers tipped with talons and his mouth distorted with fangs.

She had heard of such a thing, but she had only witnessed it from a distance. When they were under extreme duress, sometimes Wyr shapeshifted partially.

Even as she stared, he bared his fangs at Malphas and roared. The sound blasted through the house and shook the floorboards. She felt it vibrate in her chest.

It sounded like a lion's roar, but it was more than mere physical sound. As he roared, his Power boiled out from him in a raw blast toward the Djinn sitting in the armchair. Malphas's figure dissipated under the force of it.

This confrontation had dissolved into catastrophe so fast, it sent her reeling. Flipping over to her hands and knees, she pulled into a crouch at Graydon's feet. Across the room, she saw Ferion do the same.

His expression was filled with the same look of horror she felt twist across her own face. He said telepathically,
I would never—I could never—

I know,
she told him.

The Djinn's energy coalesced in the doorway leading to the front hall.

“Now you begin to understand,” Malphas said. “But not, I think, fully enough. Ferion, stop breathing.”

Slumping back against the wall, Ferion's gaze met hers. His shoulders hunched and his face darkened, as his body struggled.

In a complete panic, she sprang across the room. He clawed at his own neck. She flung her arms around him as she frantically searched for some way to help him. She could find nothing, nothing.

Nothing except an odd frisson buried deep in his body.
To her mind's eye, it felt like a darkened smear across the brightness of his soul.

Graydon roared at Malphas,
“Release your hold on him!”

I love you,
Ferion said in her head. His eyes reddened as blood vessels burst in the whites.

If she could strike a blow at the Djinn, she would, with all the terrified fury raging in her heart. But while she could fight very well in a physical battle, at his essence, Malphas was not a physical creature. She was considered one of the most Powerful of her kind, but most often, Elven Power was connected to the elements of the earth.

Her Power connected her to wild, living things. It was the kind that ran slow and deep, and took years to build. By working with natural forces like vines, trees and other foliage, given enough time, she could destroy a city. She had an array of other specific spells, like misdirection and cloaking, but she had no real Power to use against a creature of spirit.

The only weapons she had of worth in any conflict against the Djinn were things like connections and political influence. Those, too, were weapons that could be wielded very effectively, but only over time.

In that moment, though, there was only one thing she could think to do that might work quickly enough to save Ferion's life.

“You want begging.” She didn't even recognize her own voice. “Fine, I'm begging you. Please stop this. Do you need to see me on my hands and knees? Look, I'm already here.”

Cold satisfaction settled into Malphas's face. He said to Ferion, “Breathe.”

Instantly, Ferion's body arched as he sucked in a huge breath of air. Wheezing, he closed his arms around her.

Graydon strode across the room to stand protectively over them. Staring at the Djinn with open hatred, he snarled, “You've made a massive mistake.”

“Have I?” said Malphas. He strolled into the room. “Pray tell, how did I do that? Did I force Ferion to come into my establishment to gamble? Did I make him accrue the kind of debt that he cannot repay?” He looked down at her son.
“Ferion, did I compel you to ride out here to take part in a game? Answer.”

As she stared down into her son's face, shame darkened his features. He kept his gaze downcast as he whispered, “No.”

“There you have it.” The Djinn shrugged. “By making a series of choices—not just one—he created a situation where he cannot keep his side of a bargain. I might be a pariah, but that single fact adheres to the very heart of Djinn culture. By Djinn law, I am well within my rights to force a satisfactory conclusion to the bargain by taking some kind of recompense.”

“You preyed on him,” she said hoarsely. “He's a good man with a bad weakness, but instead of recognizing that, you gave him credit to continue to gamble, when you knew he couldn't pay.”

“Irrelevant,” Malphas told her. “At any point, he could have said no and walked away, paid his debt and been done with the exchange. Now I've called in my markers, his debt has come due, and he cannot pay it.”