As she struggled with the realization, the baby worked an arm loose from his straightjacket and stuck his fist in one eye. Surprise and confusion wobbled over his miniscule face. With a Herculean effort he managed to jerk his fist to his mouth. He started to suck on it noisily.
That vital organ in Aryal’s chest—that was her heart, and she lost it to him forever.
“Okay,” she said, her voice hoarse.
“What exactly is okay, Aryal?” asked Pia.
Aryal looked at her. Some sort of suppressed emotion danced in Pia’s gaze. Triumph, maybe, or amusement. Whatever it was, she didn’t care.
She said without much hope, “I don’t suppose you would at least consider cutting off the cheerleader ponytail.”
Pia said gravely, “I will consider it. Not very seriously, but I will.”
Aryal met her gaze. She asked straight-out, without posturing or bullshit, “May I come visit him?”
Pia studied her for a moment. “Yes, you may.”
Aryal looked down at the baby again and a corner of her mouth lifted. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.” The baby started to burble plaintively. Pia said, “I think he’s already hungry again. I’d better take him back upstairs.”
She pushed the contraption toward the bank of elevators that would take her up to the penthouse at the top of the Tower. Eva followed Pia, walking backward.
“Don’t you fret none, chickadee,” Eva said in a gentle voice to Aryal. “We still gonna go one day.”
Aryal balanced back on one heel and beckoned her with both hands. Bring it, baby.
She laughed when Eva made a face before spinning to follow Pia and the little prince onto the elevator. Then Aryal turned toward Dragos’s offices and came to a standstill. She couldn’t remember why she had been going to see him in the first place.
Behind her, she could hear the two other women’s whispers clearly just before the elevator doors closed. Pia said, “Behold the Power of the peanut. His body mass may be small, but his influence is mighty. The last holdout in the Tower has officially fallen to him.”
“If you say so.”
Eva sounded skeptical, but Pia had called it. Aryal had fallen in love with that mysterious new person.
Now during her flight, for his sake, Aryal released the last of her resentment into the night.
After all, Pia had only stolen once. While Aryal had been more stubbornly suspicious than anybody, even she had to finally admit that Pia had no real knowledge of Caeravorn’s activities, so it wasn’t as if Pia had actually ever been a career criminal.
Granted, Pia’s theft had been a bad one, but Dragos had not only forgiven her, he had mated with her. And Dragos was not known for his forgiving personality.
If a dragon could do it, so could a harpy, right?
Giving up her hate on Pia for the sake of the baby was one thing, and that was hard enough.
Quentin Caeravorn was an entirely different disaster.
Aryal turned her attention back to her first hate, the one she held close to her own breast and nurtured with all of her strength.
Caeravorn was a career criminal. He was also a “triple threat,” a rare and Powerful mixed-breed creature who was part Wyr, part Elven and part Dark Fae. Aryal didn’t have the details of his family history, but one of his parents had to be full Wyr while the other parent was a half-breed, because his Wyr side was strong enough that he could change into his animal form. That gave him all the status and legal rights of a full Wyr in the demesne.
Because he had the legal rights of a full Wyr, and he hadn’t been convicted of any crime, he had been eligible to enter the recent Sentinel Games. He had fought his way through to become one of Dragos’s seven sentinels, who were the core of Dragos’s governing power in the Wyr demesne.
And he had accomplished that, because in spite of almost two years of investigation, and several months of concentrated digging before the Games began, Aryal couldn’t pin a single goddamn thing on him.
She knew he was dirty. She knew it.
Her leads turned into dead ends and sources dried up. She would track down somebody only to find out that they had moved out of the Wyr demesne, or maybe they had died accidentally (and didn’t that get investigated thoroughly too). Or they weren’t directly involved in any illegal activity connected to Caeravorn, they had only heard of things—hearsay and rumors that dissipated into thin air when she tried to nail them down into concrete evidence.
Caeravorn was a magician, surrounded by a labyrinth of smoke and mirrors while he stood at the center of it all, untouched.
Dirty.
He had gained access to the very heart of the Wyr demesne, and all because Aryal couldn’t get him.
Her mood blackened. While she thought back to the events that had happened in January, two months ago, she flew higher and dove just to hear the wind scream in her ears. The sound matched the scream of outrage in her head.
At the Games she watched every one of Caeravorn’s fights, absorbing every detail. He was killer fast and elegant, and highly, superbly trained. Normal civilians didn’t train to fight to that extent. Why the fuck didn’t anybody else have a problem with that?
He chose a few times to fight in his Wyr form, a huge black panther with electric blue eyes that gleamed under the white-hot lights. In his human form, he kicked ass. As a panther, he was sinuous, muscular and moved like lightning. He owned every inch of that fight arena and captured the imagination of almost twenty thousand spectators.
After the Games were over and Dragos had presented his new sentinels to the Wyr demesne, Caeravorn strolled like a conquering hero into the great hall at Cuelebre Tower along with the other seven sentinels. Aside from Quentin, there were the five who had re-won their places—the harpy Aryal, the gryphons Bayne, Constantine, and Graydon, and the gargoyle Grym—along with the other new sentinel, the pegasus Alexander Elysias.
Dragos knew how to throw a hell of a party. It was like a hundred years of New Year’s Eves all rolled into a single night. There was endless liquor, and loud music from famous bands, and gourmet food and confetti, and a general stampede at all of them, but especially at the men who were all buff and reeking of testosterone and victorious swagger.
The night was a triumph for every sentinel—for Aryal as well, and she had her fair share of propositions too—but she couldn’t let go and enjoy any of them, since the night had also been her failure.
She held herself aloof, bitterness a hard, heavy knot in the pit of her stomach while she watched Caeravorn laugh as someone upended a bottle of champagne over his head. He was six foot two, with a long, lean body and a cat’s quick grace, spare graceful features, and dark blond hair he had once worn longer. He had cut it very short for the Games, and the severe style lay close to the strong, clean lines of his head.
As she stood with her arms crossed, Grym came up to her side. In his human form, Grym was dark haired with even features. In his Wyr form, he was nightmarish, with huge batlike wings, a demonic face and gray skin as hard as stone.
He had his own small share of groupies, as did all of the sentinels, but Grym actually didn’t like to talk much and that fact tended to put females off, at least after the first night or two. He was one of the few entities whose companionship Aryal found peaceful, and he had used that fact more than once to defuse her volatile temper.
She had wished more than once that there was a sexual spark between them. Unfortunately there wasn’t. Years ago, they’d even experimented, but neither of them had any interest in taking things past first base. They had long since settled into an unconventional yet entirely comfortable friendship.