She followed him over the barrier dunes, watching as his powerful body and long legs made short work of the slippery sand. Some contrary impulse made her say, “You know, just because we’ve sexed it up a couple of times and shared a bad moment over—back there—doesn’t mean I like you very much.”
He turned to face her, blew out a huge breath and rolled his eyes. “Whew, that saves me from having to ask you to back the fuck off. For a while there on the walk, you were getting a little clingy.”
Internal pressure built. She tried to swallow it down. Then their eyes met, and they both burst out laughing.
It felt a lot like the camaraderie she had built up over the years with the other sentinels, not quite the same, but it felt good. He looked great, tanned and blue eyed and bathed in sunshine. He was the very picture of the kind of man who’d had the world laid at his feet by every female he had ever met.
He could have anyone he wanted, anytime he wanted. He was sexy, alpha, secure in himself, and the world adored him for it. He was only messing around with her because there wasn’t anybody around, and if they wanted to go back to their jobs, they were stuck with each other’s company for at least the next week and a half.
Hell, it was the only reason why she was messing around with him too, wasn’t it? She might have found him … okay, sexually intriguing … back in New York, but she would never have acted on anything, especially when she had been so suspicious of him.
Her own feelings confused her. She hated when they did that, almost as much as she hated to cry. Complex, confusing feelings felt like she had a crowd of strangers in her head, and they were all shouting for attention in some foreign language she didn’t understand.
She cut her laughter off abruptly and scowled at him. That only made him laugh harder, and of course that made her feel prone to violence.
Which made her feel better.
Gods, she was a fucking mess, sometimes.
She waved a hand in the air and stomped off. The last five minutes had become meaninglessly complicated. For good measure, she flipped up her middle finger and was rewarded with a guffaw. Oh, screw it all, anyway.
But as much as she didn’t know what to call it, and try as she might to deny it, something had happened back in that beautiful, terrible nursery. Something indefinable but important had shifted between them. She just wished she knew what it was.
Then they reached the center of the city, and she put it all behind her.
By modern standards on Earth, it wasn’t very big. The entire area was easily reached by walking. Many of the large buildings looked like spacious homes, while the rest appeared to be perhaps government buildings, and some looked like shops. Given the size of the Numenlaurian army that Aryal had seen, that would mean many of the Elves must have lived scattered across the land.
The only way Gaeleval could have ensnared them all—or at least the majority of them—was either by patiently combing the countryside, or by casting the enthrallment at some point when the Elves would have gathered here en masse, either for a holiday or some ceremony. Given the location of the bodies they had discovered, Gaeleval must have walked the length of Numenlaur, harvesting people across the land like wildflowers.
They quartered the streets and walked down all of them systematically, looking up at the buildings and inspecting blind alleys. Even though this area was the most developed they had seen since they’d crossed over, there was a symmetry to how the buildings aligned with the countryside, and how the streets and paths followed the natural curvature in the land. Houses nestled into groves of trees, and flower gardens flourished everywhere, overgrown now with weeds.
Skeletons lay strewn in the streets. Scavenging wildlife had made short work of the bodies left out in the open. At one point, Quentin bent to gently pry a sword from a skeleton’s grip. It was a long, lethal piece of loveliness. An Elven-made sword, she knew, was a true joy to wield, slender yet strong, perfectly balanced, and with an edge so sharp it could slice a single hair.
She watched as he wiped it off carefully and inspected the length. Then he swung it back and forth, spun around and lunged with it, testing its mettle. He looked like he was floating as he moved, a Fred Astaire of death. His prowess with fighting had been quite clear at the Sentinel Games, but the Games were unarmed combat and this was something else entirely. With a few skillful moves, he showed just what an accomplished swordsman he was, and he was mesmerizing to watch.
She dragged her gaze away from him and walked over to the skeleton. It still gripped the empty sheath. The Elf must have barely gotten the sword unsheathed before dying. She wiggled the sheath out of the bony fingers and inspected it. It was simple and elegant, the artistry wholly in the sheer beauty of how well it was made.
She wiped it off and handed it to him. “You should take it. The sword looks like it was made for your hand.”
He hesitated, then sheathed the sword and buckled it at his trim hips. “We should get one for you too,” he said. “And I want a longbow if we can find one.”
Not many people could wield an Elven longbow, which was six feet long and a powerful long-distance weapon. She stood as she admitted, “I wouldn’t mind a longer sword.”
“Keep on the lookout,” he told her. In contrast to his hoarse reaction in the nursery earlier, his voice was even, analytical. He’d clearly found a way to box his emotions. “Their owners can’t use them anymore.”
It didn’t take very long to find another sword for her. After they had cleaned it off, they continued inspecting the city. The day had begun to slide away from them, the sun starting its journey to the horizon. Shadows lengthened on the cobblestone streets.
The complete stillness in combination with the well-maintained streets and buildings was creepy, like some kind of Elder Races version of The Walking Dead. When they weren’t talking to each other, the only sounds she heard were their footsteps, the occasional cry of seabirds and the sound of the waves hitting the nearby shore. It was a completely different experience than exploring an area filled with ruins. Ruins graciously gave one a sense of the passing of time, blurring disaster and tragedy into a distant thing.
This—this gave her a sense that someone was going to walk around the corner at any moment, but they didn’t. Or that someone was watching them from the windows of nearby buildings. Which they weren’t.
Were they?
She walked in a large circle, studying shuttered windows, corners of buildings, hiding places in the shrubbery. And saw nothing.
Still, the nape of her neck prickled, as a sixth sense insisted that someone, or something, was watching them.
Quentin noticed her behavior, and his attitude sharpened. She liked that he didn’t nag her with pointless and distracting questions, but that he simply adapted his behavior to match hers. They were learning how to respond to each other like a fighting unit.
“I want to go up to the palace,” she said. She wanted to go to high ground and study the scene. If someone—or something—was in the city with them, sooner or later they would give themselves away.
He said, “Let’s go.”
They had followed a small side street that led to several houses set against the backdrop of a hillside. The hill was terraced and beautifully landscaped with a profusion of flowering trees and bushes that perfumed the air. Many of the flowers were strange to her, which made the scene seem even more otherworldly.
To reach the palace, they had to turn back to the main street. As she turned, something black flashed at the corner of her eye.
Something too black for the rest of the lengthening evening shadows. Something that moved independently of any breeze.