Lord's Fall

TWO

After seeing off Pia’s mini-cavalcade, Dragos flew back to the city.

He missed her ferociously already, the ache so bad it hurt his chest. Each wing stroke that took him further away from her felt wrong as hell. They had not separated since they had come together and mated last May.

Wyr could survive separations from their mates, sometimes for years if necessary, but it always felt like privation. He almost called her back to him a half-dozen times. Only the thought of their shared mission kept him silent, although his massive jaws ached from how hard he clenched them.

When he reached Manhattan, he spiraled down through the frigid air to land in a large, cordoned-off area in a parking lot by Four Pennsylvania Plaza. After he shimmered into a shapeshift, he let go of the cloaking spell and strode toward the main entrance of the massive, round Madison Square Garden building.

He glanced up as he approached. The banner had gone up weeks before. It was several stories tall and very simple. It read SENTINEL GAMES, with the dates for this week down below, along with the simple graphic of a gigantic, crimson dragon rampant.

That’d do.

The twenty-thousand by ten-thousand-foot arena seated 19,500 and it had all the latest multimedia technology, with giant television screens to show spectators in close-up the details of what occurred down below. The arena had undergone extensive renovations over the last several months, heavily subsidized by Cuelebre Enterprises, down to and including the Cuelebre Enterprises Executive Suite, which perched above the rest of the arena like an aerie.

All the tickets for the week of the Games were long gone. The tickets were for four-hour slots and had been free on a first-come/first-serve basis to any Wyr or resident of New York State who applied. The first ones to go were on the last day, when the final round of contests would take place and he would name his next seven sentinels. A limited amount of seating and suites had also been made available, for an exorbitant price, to any of the other races who were willing to pay.

And they were all willing to pay. Dignitaries from all the other Elder Races, along with many human nationalities, would be attending.

People would watch the Games for a variety of reasons. Some would be evaluating the strength of the Wyr demesne and making notes of the personalities involved. The week would showcase a lot of talent, so no doubt some, including Cuelebre Enterprises, would be headhunting for a selection of opportunities that lay outside the sentinel positions.

Also, many Wyr would gain a sense of security from knowing their demesne remained strong and capable of handling any threat. Still others would watch for the blood sport, which was barbaric, of course, but Dragos had never made any bones about the fact that the Games themselves were barbaric. They were supposed to be. PETA members were completely outraged and utterly confused.

The weeklong event would also be televised on pay-per-view cable worldwide, which would help to defray some of the massive cost, but the bottom line was the Games still remained the single most expensive project he had personally sponsored in generations.

In this case, profit was not the point. This was governance, a calculated, lavish display of wealth and an exercise of raw, brutal strength.

Just as humans had many different countries splattered across the globe, all the other Elder Races had different demesnes—in the continental United States, in Europe, Asia, Africa and other places.

All except for the Wyr. The Wyr had different communities, such as the gargoyles in northern Scotland, the wolves of the Great Steppe in southwestern Russia, the gazelles of the African plains and the mysterious, ancient kraken of the North Atlantic who rarely interacted with others or came to land.

But there was only one Wyr demesne, one Wyr ruler.

Cuelebre, the Great Beast.

And there had been only one event like this in the last thousand years. That had been the first Sentinel Games, when his original seven had fought their way to their current positions. Then, he had recruited the most Powerful of the Wyr throughout the world. They had come together to establish who was the strongest amongst them, and they had fought for the chance to rule by his side.

He had been working toward this point since Tiago and Rune had left their positions last summer. This time the worldwide recruiting and screening effort had been conducted electronically. Notices had gone out, job application forms had been posted, and an entire team of recruiters and HR personnel had spent the last several months screening and checking references for all the applicants.

They had arrived at a short list of 448 contestants, and most of those were predator Wyr. There were any number of lions, of course, and several gargoyles. Dragos liked the gargoyles. They were community minded, and when they changed into their Wyr form, their stone-like surface was almost impossible to penetrate in hand-to-hand combat.

There was one of the two other known thunderbirds in existence aside from Tiago, a clash of harpies, and a very interesting, rare individual who was mixed race but whose Wyr side was strong enough that he could shapeshift. Most interesting of all to Dragos, there was a rare pegasus. While Powerful immortals, as herbivores pegasi were peaceful creatures, and it was unusual for one to seek out such a public, potentially violent position.

All-predator sentinels made for a hawkish group, a fact that was brought home to him when Pia, with her more peaceful outlook, began to sit in on conferences and voice her opinions. It might not be a bad thing to have a pegasus as a sentinel—as long as he could establish his prowess in physical combat. If he couldn’t fight worth shit, there was no point. The pegasus could go push some pencils in a bureaucratic position somewhere. Right here? It was call of the wild, baby.

The shortlist of contestants also included all five of his current sentinels, who had to participate in the Games to prove they were still the strongest and the best, because while the Wyr demesne adopted modern technology, legal concepts and principles, at its heart it was still a feudal system. It had to be; his sentinels needed to be the strongest and most capable of taking down any other Wyr who might go rogue, and they also had to be capable of leading a world-class defense against any potential attackers.

Might did not always equate with right, but it did provide damn strong security in an uncertain, often brutal world.

Still, the participation of the five sentinels was probably just a formality. Probably. The only stipulation Dragos had made was that they fight other contestants, because the point of their inclusion wasn’t to find out which of them was the strongest against each other. The real question was, were they stronger than anybody else?

Everyone was on edge, and more tempers than just his had flared frequently over the last few weeks. Crews had been laboring overnight to put the last touches on the combat arena. It was a simple area, a huge cordoned-off space with a sand-covered floor. The sand could be raked in between bouts to get rid of the blood.

Because there would be blood.

With all the paperwork and formalities out of the way, the Sentinel Games had just one objective: beat your opponent by any means possible. One fight, Wyr to Wyr. No weapons, no second chances, no holds barred.

There was just one rule: don’t kill anybody.

At least not on purpose.

Nobody wanted to talk to Dragos these days. No doubt it had something to do with him being so snarly. He was liable to bite off somebody’s head if they so much as looked at him funny. That wasn’t winning him any friends.

Which was all right with Dragos. He didn’t need friends, and he didn’t want to talk to anybody else, anyway. He could probably stand to not talk to anybody for the entire length of Pia’s trip away.

Yeah, that could potentially save lives and maintain inter-demesne alliances. Unfortunately, that strategy wasn’t on his agenda for the foreseeable future.

Approximately twenty thousand spectators were on site, along with countless staff and security, a team of medical personnel on standby for the week, the four hundred and forty-eight contestants, a gaggle of assorted dignitaries, some protest groups and a shitload of press.

Whenever his five current sentinels were not competing, they would be working with Wyr divisions in NYPD to maintain an extra-sharp vigilance throughout the city. This week would be particularly challenging for them, for they would have virtually no downtime between rounds in the arena, other than what they might need to physically heal from any injuries. They were all taking the rigors of the week as their own personal challenge to excel.

Lines went down the street. It was taking a while to usher in all of the people. While Dragos liked putting on a show, he really hated crowds, even when he was the one who instigated the gathering. He clenched his fists and kept a stern hold on his temper, turning his face away when someone pointed a camera at him.

Cuelebre Enterprises’ new head of PR, Talia Aguilar, was already on site and talking with several camera crews in the main lobby area. Talia was a selkie, a seal Wyr, with a sinuous rounded body, golden skin, brown hair and large, soulful eyes that the camera loved. She had been part of Tricks’s staff when Tricks had been Head of PR.

Last summer Pia herself had recommended Talia for the position, after she had briefly considered whether or not she wanted or even could do the job.

“Why her?” Dragos had asked.

“Because not only is Talia qualified, she’s freaking adorable,” Pia told him. “Have you noticed her? People fall over themselves to do things for her. They open doors for her and shit—and she never says shit. And Dragos, as much as I love you I have to say, you need someone who is really adorable in that position.”

“You’re adorable,” he said.

“Really? Aw.” Pleasure sleeked her down. She gave him a creamy smile. “I’m not, you know. But, aw.”

“Why shouldn’t you take the position?” he asked, curious as to her reasoning.

“For one thing, I’m not qualified,” she said.

“So?” He didn’t care if Pia wasn’t qualified. In this instance, he was fully prepared to act in unabashed nepotism. She would learn the job in time if she wanted it, and in the meantime she wouldn’t screw up too badly.

Pia sprawled across his body, her head on his chest. She liked to draw light circles around his nipples with her soft, gentle fingers while they talked. It drove him absolutely crazy. Plus they had just finished making love. At that point he was inclined to give her anything she wanted. He was most amused to note she didn’t seem to be aware of that fact.

“For another thing, you’ve got people on staff who actually are qualified and deserve the promotion, like Talia,” she told him.

He kissed her forehead, almost closing his eyes as he inhaled her beautiful scent. When they were intimate, he always insisted she take off the cloaking spell that hid her full nature from anyone else. Her pearly luminescence filtered through his dark lashes and lit all the dark corners inside of him.

He said, “I’m still at the ‘so?’ part of this conversation.”

She yawned and told him, “Third, I believe it’s a big mistake to take any position that would make me your employee. You’ll just think it gives you that much more right to run roughshod over me.”

He whispered huskily, “Is that what I do when I’m over you?”

Her throaty chuckle was barely audible. It brought to the forefront of his mind fevered images of what they had just done together. What he had done to her. What he would do to her, with her, again soon. “Seriously,” she said. “I may be your lover and your mate . . .”

“That’s not all you are.” He gathered up her left hand and kissed her fingers where the diamond in the ring he had given her gathered all the light in the room and threw it out in a spray of rainbow sparkles. “You’re going to be my wife too, as soon as we have time to do it right.”

She paused, then said, “Okay, I’m a little intimidated by what you mean when you say ‘do it right,’ and I’ll be your wife at some point, but the real point I’m trying to make is that I have no idea how to be your partner. I think that job is the wrong way for us to go.”

“Fair enough,” he said. And that had been that.

Now he strode through the crowded space of the arena, and Talia registered his presence with a quick, smiling glance, but she never stopped speaking to the reporters in front of her, and he maintained his distance. The selkie was all right, he supposed, as he maneuvered through the crowd to the elevators. There was just one big problem with her: she was scared to death of him.

While that might be a reasonable reaction to him, her fear saturated her scent whenever they were within proximity of each other. He didn’t know a single Wyr who would believe anything she had to say when she was in that state, so at the moment they were limited to televised appearances together—and Dragos almost never did televised appearances.

Plus there was another unfortunate consequence. Her fear drove him crazy. Not a tolerant male at the best of times, he felt the urge to smack her upside the head whenever they got in the same room. It made for a poor working dynamic.

When he reached the Cuelebre Enterprises Executive Suite, he surveyed it with satisfaction. It had been customized perfectly to his specific requirements.

The interior would have surprised anybody outside his inner circle. Most suites at the arena were designed for high-end entertaining, either personally or for business clients. Cuelebre Enterprises had taken over the arena’s new “supersuite” that had the capability of entertaining up to three hundred people, with comfortable lounge-style furniture, stylish decor, kitchens, full bars and fireplaces.

For the duration of Dragos’s use, however, the supersuite was currently furnished as a mobile working office, with secure laptop systems that had been personally couriered over by his assistants, office desks and chairs and a lounge area by the windows. It was fully plugged in, with high-speed internet, phones, and fax, print and scan capability. After several months of hard work and negotiations, they were finally at the end stages of some critical business deals. The office would allow Dragos to maintain a presence at the Games without losing a full week of work he could ill afford to lose.

One of his assistants, Kristoff, was already present and hard at work, talking on his phone while he typed on his keyboard. No matter how well dressed Kristoff was, he always appeared to be slightly shaggy and shambling. Kristoff was an ursine Wyr whose untidy, self-effacing demeanor disguised a sharp, quick wit and the kind of sturdy disposition needed to work around Dragos on a daily basis. Not only that, Kris was a Harvard-educated MBA who thrived on aggressive corporate maneuvering. Dragos paid him well for those traits.

Nodding to Kris as he strode in, he went immediately to the window look out over the arena. The sand on the combat floor was pristine, all footsteps raked smooth.

The door slammed open. Dragos looked over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised. One of his sentinels exploded into the suite. The harpy Aryal’s furious gray gaze fixed on him and she stormed toward him. In her human form, she was a six-foot-tall, powerfully built woman with dark hair that was tangled more often than not, and she had a strange, gaunt beauty that had nothing to do with dieting. In the harpy’s Wyr form, both strangeness and beauty were accentuated.

Naturally it would be Aryal who dared to storm and seethe around him that day. Chick was crazy, but no doubt that was axiomatic. All harpies were.

Dragos turned back to the arena, which was mostly full and still filling. Fifteen minutes to showtime. He said, “What is it?”

“I just saw the final list, and I cannot fucking believe my eyes.” Aryal stopped at his side and glared at him. “Quentin Caeravorn is PART WYR?”

“Yes.”

“How can he be Wyr without any of us knowing it?”

“His dampening spell was just that good, Aryal. And recruiters saw him change. If his Wyr side is strong enough for him to change, he’s eligible to enter the Games.”

“He’s a goddamn criminal!” she snapped. “You know he is!’

“I gave you six months to close down an investigation on him,” Dragos said, “and you’ve not been able to pin anything on him. His qualifications and references are impeccable. The law says he can compete.” Besides, he was extremely interested in what Caeravorn’s possible motives could be for competing. Those motives would surface eventually, if Caeravorn was given enough time. And rope.

“Screw the law!” she shouted. “You’re the law. You can disqualify him, for crying out loud—or won’t you do that because he’s Pia’s former boss and special friend?”

He pivoted to stare at her with a molten gaze and cold face. He growled, “I created that law, and I will abide by it. So will every other Wyr in my demesne. And so will you, or I will take you down myself right now, so hard you will need much more than a week to heal.”

They stared at each other. Aryal’s fists were clenched, the muscles in her jaw leaping with furious tension. If Dragos put her out of commission, she wouldn’t be able to fight, which would disqualify her from the Games—and that meant she would not be considered as one of the final seven.

Dragos waited a pulse beat. He said softly, “Now if you’re quite done, get the fuck out of my face.”

Aryal hovered on the edge a moment longer than any other living creature would have dared to. Her particular brand of insanity included an insane kind of courage, he would give her that.

Dragos tilted his head. He flexed a hand.

Her gaze dropped. She looked like she was about to explode, but she held her silence as she whirled and stormed out of the suite.

It wasn’t a bad thing to force her to confront her own reckless temper without Grym around to pull her back from the brink. The two sentinels had developed an odd kind of relationship, a nonsexual friendship where Grym took it upon himself to haul Aryal back from whatever trouble her tempestuous nature got her into. But Grym wouldn’t be there for her in the Games.

In the end, the arena was like facing the dragon—it was every one for herself.

“Sir, it’s time,” Kristoff said quietly from behind him.

He stirred. “Tell them I’m on my way.”

He went down the elevator and through security, to the tunnel entrance onto the main floor of the arena. The Games manager was a Wyr gray wolf named Sebastian Ortiz, army retired. Like most gray wolves, Ortiz’s hair had turned salt and pepper as he had aged. He had a lined face, sharp yellow eyes, and a lean, tough body that said the old wolf could still be dangerous. Ortiz and Talia were waiting for him just inside the tunnel entrance, along with a few security Wyr.

All of the contestants were already lined up along the arena floor. Talia handed Dragos a field microphone. He nodded to her, gestured to Ortiz and strode into the arena while the Games manager followed.

As he cut across the floor, making the first tracks in the pristine raked sand, the crowd shouted. The sound grew until it rang in his ears. Somewhere a rhythm began. It swept through the arena, turning into a chant: “Dragos—Dragos—Dragos.” And: “Wyr—Wyr—Wyr.”

Then Dragos caught a whiff of a long-familiar scent, one single thread of identity in a mélange of over twenty thousand other scents, and it was so unexpected, his stride hitched. Almost immediately he controlled himself to move forward until he stood in the center of the arena. He pivoted, inhaling deeply as he looked over at the crowd. The hot, white blaze of lights was no deterrent for his sharp, raptor’s gaze that could detect small prey from over two miles away.

He took his time as he searched. The thunderous roar of the crowd continued for several minutes then began to die away. A heavy anticipation pressed against his senses.

There.

His vision narrowed. He clenched his jaw to bite back a snarl.

High in the stands, his former First sentinel Rune sat quietly with his mate. Rune leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees and chin resting on his laced hands, his expression quiet and serious. His mate Carling sat back in her seat, also watching with a serious expression, one hand resting on Rune’s back.

Rune and Dragos had not talked privately since an ill-fated cell phone conversation six months ago when they had parted badly. They had not seen each other since an early morning confrontation in a meadow soon after.

Dragos heard updates, of course. He knew that Carling’s quarantine had ended successfully, and that Rune and Carling had settled in Miami. He also knew that a trickle of bright minds and talents had begun to gather in Florida—the Oracle who had once lived in Louisville, a brilliant medusa who was a medical researcher, a sharp legal mind from one of the premier law firms in San Francisco, along with others—enough talent so that disconcertment was beginning to ripple through the seven demesnes. Dragos also knew that the other sentinels kept in touch with Rune, and he did not forbid it.

He had not forbidden Rune or Carling from entering the Wyr demesne either, so he should not have been surprised that they would attend the Sentinel Games.

A strange, tangled knot of emotion gripped him. He felt the urge to shapeshift and attack, along with something heavier, something like sadness or regret.

Or maybe it was the weight of all the years they had worked together in partnership, years that had flown by to become centuries. They had accomplished so much together. For a very long time their different natures and talents had showcased each other’s so well that Dragos had once told Rune he was his best friend.

Or perhaps it was the burden of words they had left unsaid. Words like “I’m sorry,” and “how are you.” And, “you should have fucking said something sooner.”

And especially, “you left the demesne—OUR WORK—for a woman.”

And not just any woman. The former Queen of the Nightkind, one-time Elder tribunal Councillor, fellow Machiavellian thinker and occasional ally. The one woman in the entire world Dragos would not completely trust as mate to his First.

Which meant that even if Rune wanted to, Dragos would never let him work as one of his sentinels again.

All of those words and more strangled unsaid in his tightened throat, because if it had been him and Pia, he would have done the same thing. Unquestionably. He would have left anyone and anything for her, and he still might over the long unknown years of their future. For Pia he would walk away from what had turned out to be his life’s work, the Wyr demesne, if he ever had to, and he would do it without a second’s hesitation or a second look back.

Gods damn it.

Rune was looking back at him, lion’s eyes steady.

He realized he had crushed the field microphone as he clenched his hands into fists, and twenty thousand people had fallen into silence.

He gave his former First a curt, slight nod, and despite the distance, he knew that Rune’s own sharp gaze would have caught it. Rune returned the nod.

Then the Lord of the Wyr turned his attention to his waiting people.

He projected his voice so that it filled the arena.

No speechwriter had written what he said. It was unpolished, blunt, straight to the point and televised.

“A long time ago, I made you a promise. I said there would be law in this demesne, and I said it would be a fair one. I told you there would be protection for those of you who could not protect yourselves. As a result, the Wyr demesne remains one of the strongest Elder Races demesnes in the world, and the sentinels are a key part of that promise.

“Six months ago I put out the call, and Wyr from all over the world answered. Every candidate who will fight in this arena has chosen to be here, including each of my current five sentinels who have already served both you and me for a very long time. They could have taken the opportunity these Games presented to retire with honor. None of them chose to do that.

“Of the others, we have screened each applicant carefully until only the most qualified Wyr will enter this arena. They’re smart, experienced and capable, and I would be proud to have any of them stand at my side. But not all of them will. The only thing we have left to discover is which of these contestants are the seven strongest. Those will be the Wyr who stand by my side on Friday. They will keep the peace, uphold the law, protect our borders and both they and I will hunt down anyone foolish enough to try to harm the Wyr in any way.

“That continues to be my promise to you and to the rest of the world. Today we start with four hundred and forty-eight contestants—the best and the brightest of the Wyr. Each will fight, and if they lose, they’re out, including my current five. Tomorrow we start with two hundred and twenty-four. Friday morning, there will be fourteen left. By Friday evening, the Wyr demesne will have its seven. That way everyone will know beyond a shadow of a doubt that the strongest and the best Wyr hold this demesne safe.”

Then he took a deep breath, filling his lungs. He brought his Wyr form close to the surface and let it glow like lava in his eyes.

With enough Power to shake the entire building, the dragon let out a deep roar.

“LET THE GAMES BEGIN!”

Both the crowd and the contestants surged to their feet and roared with him. He walked off the floor while the Games manager took over. It was a strong beginning to the week, a show of Wyr solidarity to the watching world and no doubt it made damn fine TV.

And, bloody hell, he was glad it was over.

Because he couldn’t wait for nightfall.

Pia had better be able to get to sleep. If she couldn’t, their plans were fucked.