Shadowbound by Dianne Sylvan

like he was shrouded in fog, growing more and more physically numb and bowing beneath the weight of his history, it felt like the moon had come out and pierced the gloom, throwing everything into sharp relief.
    Heart pounding, he reached out along the bond to find Jonathan, but as he’d suspected the Consort was in town. He must have left right at sunset to have arrived in the city already; whatever was up, it was important. Deven grabbed his phone and sent Jonathan a message: Call me when you can.
    For the first time in two weeks the Prime emerged from the suite looking like himself—blades, coat, piercings, and all. He even yanked out a hair to check the dye job and deemed it fit for another week. With Ghostlight returned to her usual place on his hip, he strode down the hall, smiling.
    The guards he passed looked genuinely relieved to see him; there was no telling what the rumor mill had been generating to explain why their leader had become a shut-in while the Pair entertained a pointy-eared weirdo.
    Curious as to whether there was an energetic connection between himself and Nico, he expanded his awareness to try to find him. Sure enough, the Elf’s presence glowed softly in his mind—not in the rooms they’d given him, but nearby.
    He found Nico in a long hallway, staring at the wide array of weaponry on display there. The Elf’s expression was one of apprehension and sadness, but when he sensed Deven approaching, he looked up and smiled.
    The world spun off its axis for a moment under the beauty of that smile, but he shrugged off the reaction impatiently.
    The Elf was dressed in a more Tolkien-esque robe and cloak this time, the cloak a deep blue with silver embroidery around the edge and a carved silver crescent moon clasp. The Elf’s hair, unbound, fell all the way to his waist, shining like silk. He was wildly out of place before a wall covered in weapons. The outfit would have looked much better in an old-growth forest, or a castle of carved marble . . .
    . . . or on my bedroom floor.
    Damn it.
    “Good evening, my Lord,” Nico said, bowing. “You seem to be feeling better.”
    “I am,” he replied, returning the smile. “I feel like myself again.”
    Nico’s gaze swept from Deven’s head down to his feet, then back up; the way his eyes lingered was just a little longer than a cursory examination called for. Was that appreciation in his gaze, or just analysis? The Elf was maddeningly difficult to read.
    “You must be cautious,” Nico advised him. “I know you feel well, but you are still fragile—try not to exert yourself too much either physically or psychically until after I have finished my work. I would hate to see you fall back into that darkness again.”
    “So would I.” Deven gestured at the wall and said, “I wouldn’t have expected to see you in here.”
    “I have wandered around most of the buildings and the grounds in the two weeks I have been here—trying not to frighten anyone,” he added a bit wryly. “I saw these . . . implements . . . and wanted a closer look, although . . .”
    “Jonathan calls this the Gallery of Pointy Things,” Deven said. “The previous Prime hung all these disgusting old animal heads on the walls—no one would walk down here in the dark because of all the beady glass eyes staring at them.”
    Nico approached a pair of Damascus steel swords that Deven had picked up in India and lifted a hand as if to touch one, but then thought better of it. “You are . . . very creative when you wish to deal death.”
    Deven almost laughed at the disturbed expression on his face, but said only, “I take it you don’t have warriors where you come from.”
    “No. Elves are a pacifist people; we live our lives so as to cause the least harm possible. We seek out peace and cooperation, not destruction.” He lowered his gaze to the sword Deven wore.
    Dev drew the blade and held her out in both hands for him to look at; Nico actually touched the hilt,