Page 81 of The Missing Sentinel

That was something Drexley did in his dreams now. His muscles bunched, and he exulted in his skills as he danced around a hologram that resembled him—much as Ducarius had while he had called Adney’s realm his temporary home. But Drexley could no longer pretend his subconscious had superimposed himself in Ducarius’s place as he slept.

There were too many differences for that. Drexley’s uniform was the same dark gray, but the style was different. Older. More in line with the clothing worn five hundred years earlier when Drexley had been summoned from the compound. The toxin on Drexley’s blades was green instead of the double poisons used by Alaric and the Skeleton Seven.

And as the blades whipped through the air, Drexley had glimpsed his own name carved into them. He’d also trained in a realm unharmed by the fading magic of a dying sorcerer. The land had been lush, wide, and he’d had plenty of room to flip through the air or move rapidly to attack the hologram version of himself he’d faced.

Drexley bit his lip and continued to ignore the book on his lap. He recalled the weight of a dagger in his hand. The peace brought on by focusing his mind on the singular task of honing his spell-given skills in combat training. A part of him yearned to experience that again, and he was far from asleep.

But Adney had been adamant that Drexley was a scholar. That it was not gentlemanly to carry weapons, much less wield them. Drexley had loved him and had believed they wanted the same thing out of life. Only it wasn’t serving Drexley well now. In Adney’s realm, Drexley’s days had been determined by Adney.

Between meals, Drexley had read books and been questioned extensively about what he’d gained from those tomes. And when Drexley was left to his own devices, he had done whatever he could to fill the hours. Which meant he’d gone to the library.

As Adney had aged, Drexley had to attend more to the necromancer. His death was not a quick illness, but a prolonged journey of declining magic that took years. Drexley had been busy as they adjusted to having fewer skeletons. By the time Ducarius had arrived, they had adapted to the simplest of lives. Adney no longer wanted Drexley hovering, and the sentinel had migrated to the library again.

But he’d been grappling with his fear of the future and the pain of watching Adney slide closer to death. He’d forgotten about the unrelenting boredom of reading the same books. The restlessness that had irritated Adney had slipped out of his mind thanks to his poor memory.

What other pieces of the past would Drexley find, and how would he handle what they revealed?

Blowing out a deep breath, Drexley closed his eyes. Like the crumbling of Adney’s realm, Drexley had no control of his dreams. He would take them as they came. It was his only choice. He needed to focus on the present.

Each morning, the men in his family charged in one direction or another with purpose. Drexley sat in Ducarius’s office and often smiled at the pride on the Skeleton Lord’s face as he completed tasks. With their lovely ability to sense each other’s emotions, Drexley was treated to Ducarius’s sense of satisfaction and his genuine love for the sentinels and their brotherhood.

Drexley yearned to have the same feelings. Although he adored reading and had an essentially endless list of books awaiting him, there was a growing restlessness inside him.Perhaps the rewarding matebond that is bringing me such exquisite joy is making me greedy, Ducarius mused as he watched with admiration and love as Ducarius flipped over Eduard’s head.

The problem was that Drexley remained a newcomer to the Council and was still learning how things worked. He did not know where to begin a search for what would interest him. Although he’d read the Council primer and was now tackling the fascinating history books penned by Trystan D’Vaire—who was a family member and son of the Reverent Knights, and had been resurrected by Chander—Drexley knew nothing about paid or volunteer work.

There was also the issue of how much Drexley adored spending his days with Ducarius. If Drexley took a job, he could not ask to complete his tasks in the offices of the Sentinel Brotherhood.

Popping open the reusable plastic container Brynnius had packed, Drexley grabbed a cookie and took a generous bite as he contemplated the quagmire of his mind. Maybe it was best to allow his nightmares to be resolved before he taxed himself with a job search. Drexley warranted that with a clear head, he could give his entire focus to educating himself on his options.

It was not a solution, but it would have to do for now. An unpleasant voice in his head wondered if that was his pattern—to put off the future until it slapped him in the face. With a heavy heart, Drexley opened his book and decided to lose himself in the written word. Like his incredible mate, books never failed to cheer him up.

∞∞∞

The Council called him the Lich Sentinel, but among his own people he was and had always been Alaric. For two thousand years, Alaric had had no choices. A horrible spell of mixed magic had deprived him of food and rest. Alaric was forced to spendevery hour walking from one sentinel to another, ensuring that they wanted nothing.

Thanks to the spell tearing away his memory, Alaric had not known why he was broken and unable to care for himself. Living that way had been a terrible injustice. But it had also pleased Alaric because each sentinel had a friend in an otherwise lonely existence.

Even now, far from the compound, his men never hesitated to ask him for anything. Comments, complaints, and compliments were given in equal measure. They trusted Alaric and counted him among their friends. It was a relationship between a Fate-chosen leader and their people found rarely in the world.

Thanks to the bond Alaric had with his men, he knew them all by name along with their likes and dislikes. Although Drexley lacked any memory prior to his life in his necromancer’s realm, Alaric recalled his interactions with Drexley. For fifteen hundred years, Drexley had despaired in his lonely cell. Much like the other sentinels he had not met until he returned with Ducarius.

It frustrated Alaric knowing that Ducarius and Drexley were mates. For two thousand years, Alaric had had the power to free the sentinels from their cages. But his mind was so hyper-focused on his relentless need to walk from man to man that he had questioned nothing. Not once had it occurred to him that he could change things.

His knowledge had been so limited he had not understood matebonds, so he had kept no one apart on purpose. And since he had been bespelled, he could not blame himself for everything. The necromancers who kept them caged were to blame. Like the other sentinel couples who’d lived in the same building for centuries, Ducarius and Drexley were keptseparated by selfish sorcerers. They’d prevented them from experiencing the bonds of love that flowed between them.

Things were different now, and they had their freedom. For decades, the sentinels had thrived in the Council. All except one. Alaric had despaired so long as they had failed to find Drexley. They could not sense him anywhere, and Alaric had believed him to be held against his will or that something else nefarious was going on.

Now, Alaric wondered how close to the truth that assumption had been. A spell had created the sentinels. One that coded in them a love for training. They carried a devotion to the blades they wore constantly. No one outside the Sentinel Brotherhood fully understood their desire to conform to what made them elite assassins.

But Drexley was different. That didn’t bother Alaric. He’d learned from the best that standing out was to be celebrated. Happiness was the most important thing, and he felt everyone should embrace what brought them joy. But no one knew better than Alaric how the sentinels worked.

Even before Chander had handed him what was left of the sentinel creation spell, Alaric was an expert on how his men thought. Drexley had fit the mold perfectly. Until he had disappeared for five centuries and returned with only fragments of memory left.

Sitting in his office, Alaric scowled and wondered if his people would ever truly rid themselves of asshole necromancers manipulating them. His beloved Chander urged him to be patient and not to form any opinions on the situation until Drexley could fully recollect the past. Alaric wanted to follow his advice, but he couldn’t help it.

Drexley rejoiced in his matebond, but he wasn’t happy. Not completely. Alaric had thought long and hard about how he could aid the situation. He was not content to wait to offerDrexley some purpose. Like demonic imps, sentinels needed ways to expend their energy and find something to drive them.

Perhaps that is one of the many reasons Chander fits me so perfectly, Alaric mused. With Chander at a meeting, there was no point in allowing himself to think about his mate. It would be another hour before Alaric could hold him close or feel Chander’s fingers slip in his favored spot between Alaric’s blades and hips as he leaned up for a kiss.