Aryal made a face then winced and fingered her swollen bruise.
“Your wildness is actually one of the reasons why so many people love you in spite of the headaches you cause. Why Dragos loves you, even though I know he’s never said it. Some Wyr are more tame than others, but we all recognize something of our own wildness in you. Did you know that too?”
Quentin’s gaze narrowed, frowning as he listened. Grym talked quietly, the pitch of his voice clearly intended to exclude Quentin. But the other sentinel could also have talked to her telepathically, so he intended for Quentin to witness but not participate.
Aryal looked up at Grym, questions shimmering in her eyes.
Gripped by a compulsion he couldn’t control, Quentin cheated.
Renewed fury blazed in her face. She started to push away from the desk, but Grym slammed his hand down on her shoulder and held her in place. Then he glared at Quentin suspiciously and pointed his Glock at him.
Quentin didn’t want to laugh. His ribs sent a stabbing pain right through his chest. He couldn’t believe Aryal didn’t return fire telepathically. Perhaps she didn’t trust herself once she got going. He sure as hell didn’t trust her. She was crazypants at the best of times, let alone when she got angry.
He also hated the appearance of intimacy that Grym had created, and the obvious deep affection Grym and Aryal had for each other. Not only did it speak of long years of intimacy between them, but it highlighted qualities in Aryal that Quentin didn’t want to acknowledge might exist.
He wanted to block out Grym’s voice, but he couldn’t, as the other sentinel turned back to Aryal. “I have a point to make here. There’s a reason why Dragos has given you so much free rein. In a way, you’re kindred spirits. Like you, he has his own hellish temper to grapple with and he creates as many problems as he solves. He knows you love him too, and you’re committed to the Wyr demesne with every bit of that considerable passion you carry inside of you. So if Dragos says you’ve used up all the free rein he’s given you, Aryal, you’d better listen to him, because he meant every word he said out in the hall. I really think this could be it for you. Be careful how you act when he gets down here. Okay?”
The harpy’s angular features sobered as she listened. She nodded.
Grym straightened and turned to face Quentin, his expression growing colder. “Now for you,” he said. “Dragos meant every word he said to you too. You haven’t earned any free rein. A lot of people like you, and it’s probably a lot more than who like Aryal. Most of the sentinels like you. I like you. We also all know that she’s been investigating you for a long time. Dragos knows, because
All vestige of Quentin’s sardonic humor vaporized as Grym’s words hit him like individual blows. Maybe they shouldn’t have hit him so hard. He had known that some people were suspicious of him just because there had been an investigation. In fact, he had been expecting it. But somehow by what Grym said, or in the way he said it, the other sentinel held up a mirror for him to look in and the reflection was pitilessly uncompromising.
What the hell are you doing here, Quentin?
That was the question. That was the heart of every question.
The office door slammed open. A volcano in the shape of the Lord of the Wyr poured into the room. The walls contracted, and suddenly the office was much smaller than it had been a few moments ago.
Clearly Dragos’s self-imposed, ten-minute time-out hadn’t improved his mood very much.
Dragos looked at Grym and jerked his head toward the door. Grym didn’t say another word. Inclining his head respectfully to Dragos, he holstered his gun, and shot one look at Aryal and another one at Quentin as he walked out, easing the door closed behind him as he went. Aryal straightened from the desk and opened her mouth.
“I have not given you leave to speak,” said Dragos before she could start. “You will both remain silent. I don’t care what he did.” Blazing gold eyes speared Quentin as Dragos said, “I don’t care what she did. I. Do. Not. Give a shit.”
Anger churned in Quentin on a fast boil, and he almost didn’t contain it. He had always bristled at Dragos Cuelebre’s particular brand of dominance. The two worst aspects of becoming a sentinel were facing him in this room, and he held himself clenched like a fist, shaking with the desire to spit in their faces and storm out.
What
Hands on his hips, the dragon studied him and waited.
Quentin returned Dragos’s gaze bitterly and shook his head. No you don’t, you arrogant son of a bitch, he thought. You will not drive me away that easily. I’ve won my way into your Tower by your own rules. If I leave, it will be because I choose to do so for my own reasons, and not because you manipulate me into it.
Something strange flickered across Dragos’s face. If Quentin were pressed to describe what he had seen, he would have said that the dragon almost smiled.
Whatever that subtle expression really was, it was gone almost immediately. Dragos strode behind his desk and turned to face them.
Dragos said, “Do you know what I was doing this morning? I was walking Liam so he would fall back asleep and let Pia stay in bed for a little longer. Then I came across you two jokers brawling all over the hall. I should add, brawling in one of the main hallways of the upper floors in the Tower. You had no idea I was there, did you? You were fucking oblivious to everything else outside of your own vendetta. What if I had been someone else babysitting Liam and taking him for a walk—say, Talia, for example?”
Talia Aguilar was a Wyr selkie and the new head of PR for Cuelebre Enterprises. Sleek and delicately rounded, with soulfully large eyes, Talia was gentle to the bone and didn’t have a single fighter reflex in her.
Sourness churned in Quentin’s stomach. As viciously as they had been fighting, they could easily have plowed into someone like Talia and caused major injury, if not death. A quick glance at Aryal’s tight expression told him that she realized it too.
“I’m banishing the two of you from New York,” Dragos said.
Quentin moved sharply while shock bolted over Aryal’s expression.
Dragos was still speaking in a rapid-fire staccato. It took a few moments for the words to sink in. “… and you are going to work your shit out somewhere else way the fuck away from here. I don’t want to have anything to do with you until then, and let me tell you, nobody else does either. I’m going to give you an assignment. You have to work together on it, or you both lose your sentinel positions. You cannot return before two weeks are up. You cannot stay away longer than a month. That’s your time frame. When you return to New York, you will somehow have made peace with each other, or you both lose your sentinel positions. After the Games, we now have a detailed list of current runners up. It won’t be hard if we have to make that transition.”
He paused to study Aryal’s bone white face and Quentin’s rigid posture.
“You have continued to put extra strain on everybody else, right when they could have used a break,” he said. “So if you make it back successfully and you manage to hold on to your jobs, you are going to work double time until all the other sentinels have had a vacation. That’s how you’re going to make this up to them. For today, you’re going to pack light. Get your affairs in order. Tend to your wounds. Return here at five o’clock for your assignment. Maybe by then I’ll be able to tolerate the sound of your voices. Now, get out of here.”
Seething with reaction, Quentin managed to keep his clenched face turned away as he limped toward the door and Aryal followed.
Not less than two weeks. Not more than a month.
Banished.
I’ll win this game, he thought. Just like I’ve won every other game I’ve played in my life. Besides, with any luck, the assignment will be dangerous; she’ll get herself killed and save everybody a world of hurt.
Then his eyebrows rose.
He cocked his head.
Of course if that happened, it would have to be obvious to everybody that either her death was accidental, or somebody else had killed her.
