Then she ate a sandwich and fell into bed to sleep away the afternoon. She was not about to head out on some kind of assignment to unknown places with Caeravorn when she was exhausted. While she was not averse to taking risks, that just seemed like the height of stupidity.
At 4:55 P.M., dressed in lace-up boots, jeans, a black turtleneck and a leather jacket, and carrying her backpack on one shoulder, she walked into Dragos’s offices, which were thrumming with activity. Cuelebre Enterprises never closed at five. She waved at Kristoff, Dragos’s senior assistant, who waved back from his cubicle.
Dragos’s door was shut. There was no sign of Caeravorn. She waited, not very well, tapping one foot. It was probably too much to hope that Caeravorn had seen the error of his ways and quit.
Unbidden, her mind flashed back to their fight from that morning. His body had been heavy and hard as he pinned her to the floor, his muscles like iron. He was strikingly good-looking even when his lips were pulled back in a snarl.
And when their hips had come into alignment, she had felt his cock stiffen. That beautiful penis of his, unmistakably hard and lying flush against her. She knew just what it looked like.
Her breath shortened, and hunger flashed through her body.
“You just say good-bye to your boyfriend?” Caeravorn said from behind her. His tone was as insolent as ever. “You should have probably taken a little more time with that. I don’t sense that you got any real … fulfillment.”
He could smell her arousal. Her mind whited out. Gods, she wanted to claw at him. She whirled to face him just as Dragos’s door opened.
Her gaze clashed with Caeravorn’s. His blue eyes were narrowed, catlike on her. He had dressed all in black. Black jeans, black T-shirt, and a worn, black leather bomber jacket; and like her, he carried a backpack.
“Come in,” said Dragos.
Somehow, Aryal made herself obey, maneuvering her own body around as though it were a marionette. Every nerve ending on her skin was aware of Caeravorn gliding bonelessly into the room behind her.
Once they were inside, Dragos shut the door.
He turned to face them and said, without preamble, “I’m going to send you to Numenlaur.”
FOUR 
Numenlaur.
The name resonated in Quentin’s marrow. His emotions roared as he heard Dragos say it, a single outcry of the soul.
Numenlaur was the first and oldest Elven land, the fabled birthing place from which all others had come. The Other land had been closed off from the rest of the world for millennia.
Once upon a time, he would have been filled with curiosity and wonder at the chance to see Numenlaur, and he would have given anything to go. Now he still felt the echoes of that same compulsion, only it was underscored with dread and grief, for Numenlaur had become a wasteland, emptied of the Elves who had once lived there.
As if from a distance, he heard Aryal ask, “Why do you want us to go?”
Dragos’s expression shuttered as he looked from the harpy to Quentin. He assessed them both, his golden gaze moody and calculating. He said, “Ever since the battle at Lirithriel Wood, Pia has been keeping in close contact with her friends in the Elven demesne. They remain completely overwhelmed with what happened.”
Quentin had no idea what his own expression might reveal. He turned abruptly, putting his back to the other two as he struggled to get in control of his feelings.
“Overwhelmed” was a massive understatement. Two months after the battle in Lirithriel Wood, the Elven demesne in South Carolina remained devastated. One of the ancient Guardians of Numenlaur, Amras Gaeleval, had apparently gone mad and enslaved all the Numenlaurians in a Powerful enthrallment, driving them to attack the Elven demesne just outside of Charleston.
Gaeleval had tricked his way into Lirithriel then tried to enthrall the Elves there as well. He did not manage to capture everybody, but he drove those Elves he did enthrall to attack their own people. Friends cut down friends, and families were decimated. Gaeleval had set fire to Lirithriel Wood, killing its spirit in an attempt to drive the High Lord Calondir and those Elves he had not managed to capture over the crossover passageway to their Other land, where they would have faced extinction at the hands of Gaeleval’s army had not Dragos, Pia and the Wyr become involved.
For the first time in decades, Dragos himself had called the Wyr to war. In a confrontation in the Elven Other land, Dragos killed Gaeleval and broke the enthrallment. In the process, Calondir, the High Lord of the Elven demesne in Charleston, had also been killed. So had at least a third of the Numenlaurians.
Of those who had survived, a significant number were still catatonic. Others failed to recover. They were lethargic, distant and without appetite, and many were physically malnourished and ill from a multitude of problems that had occurred through long neglect and lack of proper shelter.
The surviving Lirithriel Elves that Gaeleval had captured ended up faring better overall than the Numenlaurians. They had been enthralled for only a short time, and they were physically healthier and more robust. Even so, many struggled to reconnect with life. A few, unable to cope with losing so many friends and family, had committed suicide.
Quentin had lost friends and family members too. The High Lord Calondir himself had been his uncle by marriage. The Elder tribunal had deployed a Peacekeeping presence to Lirithriel, setting up a small city of Quonset huts as field hospitals, and aid continued to pour into the Elven demesne. The Elves faced a long, hard road to survival.
Dragos had continued speaking. “As far as I know, Numenlaur continues to be abandoned. It has occurred to me that others may also have realized this, and may be interested in what they can find there. I want you two to go and assess the situation.”
Quentin swiped at his face with the back of one fist as he glared out the window. He had to clear his throat before he could speak. He said, his voice low and savage, “If this is some kind of order to loot in disguise, I won’t participate.”
In the glass of the windowpane, he watched Dragos’s blurred reflection turn to him. After a moment, Dragos said in a measured tone that spoke of self-control, “If I felt the desire to loot for Elven treasures, I would not send others to do it. I would go myself. What I want you to do is prevent others from looting. Check the land. Secure anything you might find dangerous. If anyone has trespassed, kick them out. From my understanding, Numenlaur has only one crossover passageway that leads to central Europe. Secure the entrance if necessary. If you haven’t killed each other by then, report back to me.”
Of all the assignments Dragos could have picked, this was actually one that Quentin wanted to do. Marginally calmer, he asked, “Have you contacted Ferion about this?”
“I haven’t bothered to,” Dragos said. A hint of bite had entered his voice. “Numenlaur does not belong to Ferion. Besides, he’s in over his head as it is.”
Quentin couldn’t disagree. His cousin Ferion was a good man and would eventually make a fine High Lord, but too much had happened, and the losses and destruction were catastrophic.
After a moment of silence, Dragos asked, “Any questions?”
Quentin turned to face the others but kept silent. Aryal wore a scowl, but she said nothing either, only shook her head.
Dragos said, “Kris has your plane tickets. You’re departing out of JFK, and your flight leaves soon. You’d better be on it.” He paused. “Close the door on your way out.”
Quentin’s gaze clashed with Aryal’s. Her stormy gray eyes promised him anything but peace. So be it. He gave that promise right back to her in a thin-lipped smile.