Very few humans were invited to attend the King’s masque, although Bel noticed one or two in the crowd. Usually they were fantastically rich or well favored in Power or political standing. Oberon liked to cultivate opportunity wherever he might find it.
Worry nipped at her heels as she approached the dance floor and walked along the border, her gaze darting over the dancers.
The evening was young, well before midnight, so everyone went masked. Some wore plain dominoes, while others wore masks as fantastical as their surroundings, along with costumes of brilliant color that stood out against the black-and-white background.
The masks made it difficult to identify anybody at a distance with any surety. Magic swirled and eddied, dizzying the senses. Her attention caught on a trio of males, standing beside one of the brandy and champagne fountains.
The Great Beast might not have arrived, but two of his sentinels had. Over the millennia, the Beast had acquired a name, Dragos Cuelebre. Then he had become a Lord and ruled over his own demesne of Wyr, an event the Elves considered an act of outrageous ill fortune.
Of the Beast’s seven sentinels, those attending the masque were two of his most Powerful—gryphons Constantine and Graydon. They stood talking with another Wyr, the ever-courteous and enigmatic Francis Shaw, the Earl of Weston.
Despite her preoccupation, Bel paused to consider the men. No matter how she felt about Dragos personally, overall she enjoyed the Wyr. They had a sense of wildness and a connection with nature that appealed enormously to her.
Reputably, Weston was the one Wyr whom Dragos could not persuade to join him in governing the Wyr demesne in New York. Nicknamed the Eighth Sentinel, Weston had chosen instead to remain loyal to England, and to the family title which he had inherited many years ago. In recent years, he had worked tirelessly in the War Office against Napoleon.
Whatever truth was behind the story, there did not appear to be any ill feeling between the earl and the gryphons. As she watched, Constantine threw back his head and guffawed at something Weston said, his handsome face creased with laughter.
Beside him, his fellow sentinel Graydon grinned as well, his rugged features creased with good humor. While Weston’s slim height hinted at a falcon’s grace, the gryphons were heavier and taller, the rangy bulk of their muscles indicative of their Wyr form’s lion bodies.
Of the three men, Graydon was the biggest. He towered over the other two like a lazy-seeming, good-natured mountain, his masculine form broad and powerful. In defiance of the masque’s tradition to go masked until midnight, he had pushed his plain, black domino down so that it hung loosely around his neck like an extra cravat.
Caught by Graydon’s easy, relaxed demeanor, Bel’s gaze lingered on his face.
There was something about his expression, a kindness perhaps, that touched a place inside of her that had gone cold and quiet a very long time ago. Troubled at the deep, distant ache, she frowned and pressed a hand to her chest.
Unexpectedly, Graydon’s gaze shifted. He looked directly at her. In contrast to his relaxed demeanor, his eyes were sharp and alert.
Caught off balance, she felt stabbed by his scrutiny. She heard herself suck in a breath.
The humor faded from his expression. Subtly his posture shifted, until he looked intent, tense.
Even . . . concerned.
That was totally unacceptable. Forcing her spine ramrod straight, she schooled her features so that nothing of her inner turmoil showed. Giving him a polite nod, she turned away to focus on the two young Elven women hovering at her elbow.
“Damn Oberon’s need for ostentatious display,” she muttered. “Do either of you see Ferion anywhere?”
In defiance of convention for the chilly masque, Bel’s attendants, Alanna and Lianne, eschewed the warm woven brocades and thick furs. Like Bel, they wore light, silk gowns with short, bell-capped sleeves, the delicate blue and green colors evocative of a brighter, warmer season.
The King’s wintry magic had no power over Bel. As long as the two younger women remained with her, they stayed as comfortably warm as they would if they were in the Elven great hall. All three wore delicate dominoes made of transparent silk that did nothing to mask their identities and everything to enhance the feminine shape of their faces.
In answer to her question, both Alanna and Lianne shook their heads wordlessly.
The sharpness of Bel’s anxiety dulled to a leaden disappointment.
She said, “Retrieve your cloaks and weapons, and go search for him. Be careful if you go off the main paths. The dark places here are kept so intentionally. If you find him, tell him I need to see him immediately.”
“My lady, I don’t think we should leave you,” Lianne replied.
While Bel’s attendants had young-looking faces and slender figures that gave the impression of gentle, wide-eyed innocence—and they were, in fact, youthful Elves—in reality they were several hundred years old and experienced members of the demesne’s military guard.
Even though Lianne questioned her orders, Bel didn’t waste energy on frustration or getting angry.
Instead she said in a gentle voice, “I’m in the heart of the masque. This area is well lit and populated, and I know the names of almost everyone present. Many are friends of mine. Besides, I can take care of myself. Do as you’re told, and be discreet about it.”
“Yes, ma’am,” replied Alanna, bowing her head.
They had barely taken their leave, when a deep, masculine voice said from behind Bel, “It has been so very long since the Elven Lord and his Lady have arrived together at a function that almost no one remarks upon it any longer.”
Briefly, her mouth tightened in annoyance, before she made her expression ease. She turned to face the Daoine Sidhe King.
Whatever else one might say about Oberon, he certainly made a compelling figure.
Bel was tall, but he was taller still. His tailored evening coat and waistcoat fit his powerful frame like a second skin, the cloth made of an intricate, silver brocade. His mask was also silver and just as elaborate, with a sharp pointed nose and an outward flare like wings at the temples.
The outfit provided a striking contrast to his dark, glittering eyes. Light from a nearby bonfire shimmered over his raven hair, giving it a blue-black sheen.
Raising one eyebrow, she replied coolly, “Indeed, the subject of how my husband and I choose to attend parties is so boring, the only thing remarkable is that anyone would wish to discuss it at all.” She waited a heartbeat to let whatever small sting from her words sink in. Then she offered her hand to him in greeting. “Oberon.”
Gracefully, he bowed. Instead of brushing the air over her fingers, he touched her skin with his lips. At the same moment, his cold Power brushed alongside hers, like a massive snow cat sliding along her legs, its fur chilled from the winter’s night.
“Beluviel,” he murmured against her fingers in a deliberate caress. “As always, your radiance is nonpareil. No matter how I might try to outdo myself at these masques, you remain the brightest star in my night. How your husband can dance with others without giving you so much as a single glance is quite beyond me.”
She flicked her forefinger against his full lower lip in rebuke for his forwardness. “You pay far too much attention to that which does not concern you.”
His mouth compressed in a smile as he straightened. “I disagree. The whereabouts of every beautiful woman’s husband is of immense concern to me. My darling radiance, this year, please say you’ll be mine.”
He was so outrageous, despite herself, she felt her lips pull into a responding smile. “You only want what you can’t have.”
“You never know,” he said, with dangerous gentleness. “Eternity might be captured in a single kiss.”
“Not your eternity,” she told him dryly. “And not my kiss.”
“If I still had a heart,
it would be broken at how you spurn me,” he murmured. “I could give you so much pleasure, more than you have ever dreamed of, if only you would let me.”
Her eyes narrowed. She remembered Oberon when he was much younger, but something had happened to him over the course of the centuries. Perhaps it was an event, or maybe it was just the inevitable march of time.
Whatever had caused the change, the young, smiling Fae King that he had once been was gone. He had grown icy and distant, and his dark eyes glittered like hard onyx. She had heard whispers that his cold, compelling Power could bring his lovers to a screaming ecstasy, only to leave them at dawn, shattered and weeping in desolation at his absence.
She had been shattered enough in her time. She had no intention of deliberately choosing to experience that again.
Easing her fingers out of his grip, she glanced sidelong across the dance floor at the stern profile of her husband, Calondir, High Lord of the Elven demesne, as he talked with a couple wearing matching satyrs’ costumes. As Oberon had observed, Calondir did not glance once in her direction.
She was quite content that it remain that way.
“Don’t worry,” said Oberon, catching the direction of her attention. “He has displayed a perfectly perplexing indifference to my flirtation with you.”
Calondir wasn’t the only one who was displaying a perfectly perplexing indifference to Oberon, who was tantalizing and goading in return. Again, she was reminded of a snow cat, batting at her in frustration with one paw. It wanted to play with prey.
But she was not, nor would she ever be, Oberon’s prey.
“I can’t think of a single reason why either Calondir or I should be troubled by your flirtations.” She gave the Unseelie King a bland look. “Your party is beautiful as always, Oberon. You should go enjoy it while you can.”
His nostrils flared, and he exhaled with some leisurely force, emitting a barely audible growl. “Before I go, tell me—what would it take to win you?”
For a brief moment, her troubles fell to the side, and her smile widened into real amusement. “My dear winter’s night, you ask an impossible question that cannot be answered. There’s nothing that could win me.”
Behind the silver mask, his deadly gaze narrowed. “We’ll see, my darling radiance. Eternity gains more answers from us than we might wish.”
Despite her best effort at maintaining appearances, her smile slipped. She knew the worn anxiety she felt showed in her expression, but as luck would have it, Oberon’s attention had moved on.
As he stepped away, she moved also, picking up her pace as she strode along the edge of the dancing crowd.
Magic sparked and eddied, so thick and plentiful from the many types of Power present, that no matter how she tried, she couldn’t sort through it to find the one life spark she sought.
Certainty chilled her veins. She didn’t need Alanna or Lianne’s return to confirm what she already knew.
Ferion hadn’t come. He had broken his promise, and she knew where he had gone—to the one place he had sworn he wouldn’t. The place that would destroy him, if she could not find a way to stop him.
Determination hardened her jaw. If he couldn’t keep his promise to show up, why then, she would go to fetch him, by force if necessary.
She would need Alanna and Lianne in order to pull it off. Calondir mustn’t discover what was happening.
He might ignore Bel all he wished—and, the gods only knew, she welcomed his neglect—but she had said she would attend the masque, and if he realized she had gone missing, he might start asking questions that nobody wanted him to ask.
Intent on finding her attendants, she pivoted to go in the direction of the paths they had gone to search.
A lazy-seeming, good-natured mountain stepped in front of her. The wintry, elaborate masque disappeared from her sight, to be replaced by a waistcoat that covered a broad expanse of powerful chest. At the same moment, she was enfolded by a golden warmth.
All of the first generation of the Elder Races carried something of creation’s first fire. Graydon was no exception, and his Power rippled around his body in an invisible corona.
While Oberon’s chill Power might have no hold over Bel, stepping within the radius of Graydon’s warm aura was like coming close to the comfort of a warm, bright fire, and she felt her breath leave her in an involuntary sigh.
To be honest, the tailoring was rather indifferent on that very large waistcoat of his. It was so unlike Oberon’s or Calondir’s glittering elegance, she felt the most ridiculous desire to pat it.
She lifted her gaze to Graydon’s face. Smooth, classic handsomeness had passed him by. He had rough features, with a strong bone structure.
Eschewing the current fashion maintaining a pale, indoors complexion, he was clearly a man who relished the outdoors. The fact was stamped in the athletic shape of his muscular body and deeply suntanned skin. The sun had also lightened his short, tawny hair, and faint lines fanned out from the corners of his eyes.
It was a good face, she thought, in somewhat of a daze. A kind face that liked to smile often. Masked by a relaxed demeanor, his dark gray eyes looked sharp and intent, and she felt stabbed all over again.
She could tell he knew something was deeply wrong.
“Good evening, my lady Beluviel,” Graydon said. The rumble of his deep voice was quiet and gentle. “It’s a pleasure to see you, as always.”
A wild upsurge of emotion shocked her. It poured out of her chest, from the deep, distant ache of the place that had gone cold and quiet so long ago. She felt a sudden urge to fling herself against his chest and huddle close.
The urge wasn’t to fling her problems at him in the hopes that he might fix them. She always fixed her own problems. The urge was for the simple comfort of that warm, companionable blaze.
Of all the impulses she could possibly experience, this had to be the most inappropriate. Appalled, she nearly recoiled but caught herself in time.
“Graydon,” she said stiffly. Hearing how that sounded, she reached for more warmth. “It’s always good to see you too. I’m very sorry, but I’m afraid I don’t have—”
As she spoke, he held out one large hand. Automatically, she curled her fingers around his in greeting. Instead of bowing, he turned and tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow.
While keeping a strong, steady grip on it.
She had room inside for one more flicker of amusement that lived the life of a moment before it died. “I believe you’ve absconded with my hand,” she told him. “Perhaps you’ve retained it by mistake.”
“Walk with me,” he said. His easygoing smile had disappeared.
“I don’t have time to visit right now.” As she spoke, she glanced around.
Calondir had escorted a woman dressed in a Grecian costume onto the dance floor. Smiling at each other, they swirled with the other dancers. Weston and Constantine had busied themselves at the refreshments table. Virtually no one paid attention to Graydon and her.
Underneath the cloth of his coat, the massive arm muscle underneath her fingers bunched. He began to stroll away from the main crowd on the dance floor.
Due to the strong grip he maintained on her hand, she either had to fall in step beside him or cause a stir.
And since calling attention to herself was the very last thing she wanted, she went with him.
At least that was why she told herself she went with him.
“I know you’re distressed, and something is wrong,” he said quietly. “It’s clear that Calondir either has no knowledge of it, or the issue doesn’t concern him.”
Possible responses flitted through her mind.
I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about. But the companionship of his presence was too warm and alluring, and the memory of that one shared glance between them still stabbed at her. And she couldn’t bring
herself to utter such an untruth.
You are too forward, sir. But while she would not have hesitated to say such a thing to Oberon, the power of Graydon’s simple kindness was such she could not find it in her heart to rebuke him.
The tension in her throat muscles made it difficult to swallow. “I don’t suppose it would do any good to deny it.”
He had dropped all pretense of lightheartedness, and the glance he gave her was both piercing and troubled at once. Gently, he brought them to a halt and turned so that he faced her.
“I’m well aware that I’m crossing boundaries, and my overtures might be unwelcome,” he said quietly. “You’re the Lady of the Elven demesne. I’m just a Wyr sentinel in the demesne that borders yours, and the Wyr and the Elves aren’t always on the friendliest of terms.”
“That’s never personal, Graydon,” she said quickly.
He nodded. He had stopped gripping her fingers, yet somehow her hand still remained in the crook of his arm. She regarded her offending limb with some annoyance. While she felt she should do something to rectify the situation, she couldn’t seem to make herself withdraw.
“I know it’s not personal.” Graydon patted her hand. “But historically, the Elves and Dragos have been enemies before, so you can deny that anything’s wrong, and you can send me away with a word—and if you do, I will respect your wishes and never speak of this again. I just couldn’t stand back and say nothing, not when you’re under such distress. Is there anything I can do for you?”
She averted her gaze as she tried to decide how to respond. As she looked around, she saw that he had chosen the spot with care.
They now stood some distance away from the dancers and the densest part of the crowd, but they were still well visible, just not in the thick of things. It was a good choice for a sensitive conversation, offering both privacy and respectability at once.
She glanced back up at him. “What gave me away?”
He lifted one massive shoulder in a shrug. “I thought there seemed to be some tension as you talked with your ladies, but I only really knew for sure when I walked up and could sense the stress in your scent.”