Lucivar Yaslana flipped the list back to the first page of neatly written names and stepped away from the table, faintly amused by the men who were caught between wanting to review the lists at that table and not wanting to get too close to him.
That was one advantage he had over the other males who were drifting from table to table to check the service fair lists. No one jostled him or complained about how long it took him to scan the names, because no one wanted to tangle with a Warlord Prince who wore Ebon-gray Jewels, was an Eyrien warrior bred and trained, and had a vicious temper and a reputation for unleashing that temper-and his fists-without a second thought. When added to his belonging to one of the strongest families in the Realm and also serving in the Dark Court at Ebon Askavi, it was little wonder that other men quickly yielded.
But even all of that didn’t help him feel comfortable while he was at the service fair in Goth, Little Terreille’s capital. No matter what they called it, this fair had too much of the flavor of the slave auctions still held in the Realm of Terreille.
Slowly making his way to the door, Lucivar took a deep breath and then wished he hadn’t. The large room was overcrowded, and even with the windows open, the air stank of sweat and fatigue-and the fear and desperation that seemed to rise up from the hundreds of names on those lists.
As soon as he was outside the building, Lucivar spread his dark, membranous wings to their full span. He wasn’t sure if it was out of defiance for all the times that natural movement had earned him the cut of a lash or just that he wanted to feel the sun and wind on them for a moment after being inside for several hours-or if it was simply a way to remind himself that he was now the buyer, not the merchandise.
Folding his wings, he set off for the far corner of the fairground that was reserved for the Eyrien ”camp.”
He’d noted several Eyrien names that were of interest to him, but not the one name-the Hayllian name-that was the main reason he’d spent the past several hours searching through those damn lists. But he’d been searching the lists for Daemon’s name for the past five years, ever since the idiots in the Dark Council had decided this twice-yearly ”service fair” was the way to funnel the hundreds of people who were fleeing from Terreille and trying to find a fingerhold in Kaeleer. And he thought, as he did every time, about why Daemon’s name wasn’t there. And he rejected, as he did every time, all the reasons except one: he wasn’t looking for the right name.
But that wasn’t likely. No matter what name Daemon Sadi used to get to Kaeleer, once at the fair he would use his own name.’ There were too many people here who would recognize him, and since the penalty for lying about the Jewels one wore was immediate expulsion from the Realm-either back to Terreille or to the final death- changing his name while admitting that he wore the Black Jewels would only make him look like a fool because he was the only male besides the High Lord who had worn the Black in the entire history of the Blood. The Darkness knew Daemon was many things, but he wasn’t a fool.
Pushing aside his own stab of disappointment, Lucivar wondered how he was going to explain this to Ladvarian. The Sceltie Warlord had been so insistent about Lucivar checking the lists carefully this time, had seemed so certain. Most people would think it odd to feel apprehensive about disappointing a dog that just reached his knees, but when that dog’s best friend was eight hundred pounds of feline temper, a smart man didn’t dismiss canine feelings.
Lucivar put those thoughts aside as he reached the Eyrien ”camp”: a large corral of barren, beaten earth, a poorly made wooden barracks, a water pump, and a large trough. Not so different from the slave pens in Terreille. Oh, there were better accommodations on the fairground for those who still had the gold or silver marks to pay for them, with hot water and beds that were more than a sleeping bag on the ground. But for most, it was like this: a struggle to look presentable after days spent waiting, wondering, hoping. Even here, among a race where arrogance was as natural as breathing, he could pick up the scents of exhaustion brought on by too little food, too little sleep, and nerves frayed to the breaking point. He could almost taste the desperation.
Opening the gate, Lucivar stepped inside. Most of the women were near the barracks. Most of the men were in small groups, nearer the gate. Some glanced at him and ignored him. A few stiffened in recognition and looked away, dismissing him in the same way they had dismissed the bastard boy he’d believed himself to be.
But a few of the males moved toward him, every line of their bodies issuing a challenge.
Lucivar gave them a slow, arrogant smile that blatantly accepted the challenge, then turned his back on them and headed for the Warlord whose concentration was focused on the two boys moving through a sparring exercise with the sticks.
One of the boys noticed him and forgot about his sparring partner. The other boy pounced on the advantage and gave the first one a hard poke in the belly.
”Hell’s fire, boy,” the Warlord said with so much irritation it made Lucivar grin. ”You’re lucky all you’ve got is a sore belly and not a dent in that thick head of yours. You dropped your guard.”
”But-” the boy said as he started to raise his hand and point.
The Warlord tensed but didn’t turn. ”If you start worrying about the man who hasn’t reached you yet, the one you’re already fighting is going to kill you.” Then he turned slowly and his eyes widened.
Lucivar’s grin sharpened. ”You’re getting soft, Hallevar. You used to give me the bruised belly and then a smack for getting it.”
”Do you drop your guard in a fight?” Hallevar growled.
Lucivar just laughed.
”Then what are you bitching for? Stand still, boy, and let’s take a look at you.”
The youngsters’ mouths were hanging open at Hallevar’s disrespect for a Warlord Prince. The males who had noticed him and had decided to talk-or fight-had formed a semicircle on his right. But he stood still while Hallevar’s eyes traveled over his body; he said nothing in response to the older man’s small grunts of approval, and he bit back a laugh at Hallevar’s glaring disapproval of the thick, black, shoulder-length hair.
His hair was a break from tradition, since Eyrien warriors wore their hair short to deprive an enemy of a handhold. But after escaping from the salt mines of Pruul eight years ago and ending up in Kaeleer instead of dead, he had shrugged off quite a few traditions-and by doing so, had found others that were even older.
”Well,” Hallevar finally growled, ”you filled out well enough, and while your face is nowhere near as pretty as that sadistic bastard you call a brother, it’ll fool the Ladies long enough if you can keep that temper of yours on a tight leash.” He rubbed the back of his neck. ”But this is the last day of the fair. You haven’t left yourself much time to draw anyone’s attention.”
”Neither have you,” Lucivar replied, ”and putting those pups through their paces isn’t going to show anyone what you can do.”
”Who wants gristle when they can have fresh meat?” Hallevar muttered, looking away.
”Don’t start digging your grave,” Lucivar snapped, not pleased with how relieved he felt when anger fired Hallevar’s eyes. ”You’re a seasoned warrior and an experienced arms master with enough years left in you to train another generation or two. This is just another kind of battlefield, so pick up your weapon and show some balls.”
Hallevar smiled reluctantly.
Needing some balance, Lucivar turned toward the other men. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed some of the women coming over. And he noticed that some were bringing young children with them.
He clamped down on the emotions that started churning too close to the surface. He had to choose carefully. There were those who could adjust to the way the Blood lived in Kaeleer and would make a good life for themselves here. And there were those who would die swiftly and violently because they couldn’t, or wouldn’t, adjust. He had made a few bad choices during the first couple of fairs, had offered a trust that he shouldn’t have offered. Because of it, he carried the guilt for the shattered lives of two witches who had been raped and brutally beaten-and he carried the memory of the sick rage he’d felt when he’d executed the Eyrien males who had been responsible. After that, he’d found a way to confirm his choices. He hadn’t always trusted his own judgment, but he never doubted Jaenelle’s.
”Lucivar.”
Lucivar honed his attention to the Sapphire-Jeweled Warlord Prince who had moved to the front of the group. ”Falonar.”
”It’s Prince Falonar,” Falonar snarled.
Lucivar bared his teeth in a feral smile. ”I thought we were being informal, since I’m sure an aristo male like you wouldn’t forget something like basic courtesy.”
”Why should I offer you basic courtesy?”
”Because I’m the one wearing the Ebon-gray,” Lucivar replied too softly as he shifted his weight just enough to let the other man see the challenge and make the choice.
”Stop it, both of you,” Hallevar snarled. ”We’re all on shaky ground in this place. We don’t need it yanked out from under us because you two keep wanting to prove whose cock is bigger. I thumped both of you when you were snot-nosed brats, and I can still do it.”
Lucivar felt the tension slide away and took a step back. Hallevar knew as well as he did that he could snap the older man in half with his hands or his mind, but Hallevar had been one of the few who had seen the potential warrior and hadn’t cared about his bloodlines-or the lack of them.
”That’s better,” Hallevar said to Lucivar with an approving nod. ”And you, Falonar. You’ve had a couple of offers, which is more than most of us can say. Maybe you’d better consider them.”
Falonar’s face tightened. He took a deep breath and let it out. ”I guess I should. It doesn’t look like the bastard’s going to show.”
”What bastard is that?” Lucivar asked mildly. More of the women and some of the men who had refused to acknowledge him had wandered over.
It was a young Warlord who answered. ”The Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih. We’d heard…”
”You heard…?” Lucivar prodded when the Warlord didn’t finish, noticing the way the man shifted a bit closer to the witch who was holding an adorable little girl in her arms. Lucivar’s gold eyes narrowed as he opened his psychic senses a little more. A little Queen. His gaze shifted to the boy who had a two-fisted grip on the woman’s skirt. There was strength there, potential there. He felt something inside him shift, sharpen. ”What did you hear?”
The Warlord swallowed hard. ”We heard he’s a hard bastard, but he’s fair if you serve him well. And he doesn’t…”
It was the fear in the woman’s eyes and the way her brown skin paled that honed Lucivar’s temper. ”And he doesn’t plow a woman unless she invites him?” he said too softly.
He felt a flash of female anger nearby. Before he could locate the source, he remembered the children who probably already carried too many scars. ”You heard right. He doesn’t.”
Falonar shifted, bringing Lucivar’s attention-and his temper-back to someone who could handle it. Then he gave Hallevar a sharp look, and a couple of other men that he’d known before centuries of slavery had taken him away from the Eyrien courts and hunting camps.
”Is that what you’ve been waiting for?” It took effort, but he kept his voice neutral.
”Wouldn’t you?” Hallevar replied. ”It may not be the Territory that we knew in Terreille, but they call it Askavi here, too, and maybe it won’t feel so … strange.”
Lucivar clenched his teeth. The afternoon was fleeing. He had to make some choices, and he had to make them now. He turned back to Falonar. ”Are you going to choke every time you have to take an order from me?”
Falonar stiffened. ”Why should I take any orders from you?”
”Because I am the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih.”
Shock. Tense stillness. Some of the men-a good number of the men who had wandered over-looked at him in disgust and walked away.
Falonar narrowed his eyes. ”You already have a contract?”
”A longstanding one. Think carefully, Prince Falonar. If serving under me is going to be a bone in your throat, you’d better take one of those other offers, because if you break the rules that I set, I’ll tear you apart. And you- and everyone else who was waiting-had better think about what Ebon Rih is.”
”It’s the Keep’s Territory,” Hallevar said. ”Same as the Black Valley in Terreille. We know that.”
Lucivar nodded, his eyes never leaving Falonar’s. ”There’s one big difference.” He paused and then added, ”I serve in the Dark Court at Ebon Askavi.”
Several people gasped. Falonar’s eyes widened. Then he looked at the Ebon-gray Jewel that hung from the gold chain around Lucivar’s neck, but it was a considering look, not an insulting one. ”There’s really a Queen there?” he asked slowly.
”Oh, yes,” Lucivar replied softly. ”There’s a Queen there. You should also know this: I present her with my choices about who serves me in Ebon Rih, but the final decision is hers. If she says ’no,’ you’re gone.” He looked at the tense, silent people watching him. ”There’s not much time left to make a decision. I’ll wait by the gate. Anyone who’s interested can talk to me there.”
He walked to the gate, aware of the eyes that watched him. He kept his back to them and looked at the corrals set up as waiting areas for other races. He observed everything and saw nothing.
It shouldn’t matter anymore. He had a place here, a family here, a Queen he loved and felt honored to serve. He was respected for his intelligence, his skill as a warrior, and the Jewels he wore. And he was liked and loved for himself.
But he had spent 1,700 years believing he was a half-breed bastard, and the insults and the blows he’d received as a boy in the hunting camps had helped shape the formidable temper he’d inherited from his father. The courts he’d served in as a slave after that had put the final vicious edge on it.
It shouldn’t matter anymore. It didn’t matter anymore. He wouldn’t allow it to hurt him. But he also knew that if Hallevar decided to go back to Terreille or accept whatever crumbs were offered in another court instead of signing a contract with him, it would be a long time before the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih returned to the service fair.
”Prince Yaslana.”
Lucivar almost smiled at the reluctance in Falonar’s voice, but he kept his face carefully neutral as he turned to face the other man. ”The bone’s choking you already?” The careful wariness he saw in Falonar’s eyes surprised him.
”We never liked each other, for a lot of reasons. We don’t have to like each other now in order to work together. We’ve fought together against the Jhinka. You know what I can do.”
”We were green fighters then, both taking orders from someone else,” Lucivar said carefully. ”This is different.”
Falonar nodded solemnly. ”This is different. But for the chance to serve in Ebon Rih, I’m willing to set aside the past. Are you?”
They had been rivals, competitors, two young Warlord Princes struggling to prove their dominance. Falonar had gone on to serve in the High Priestess of Askavi’s First Circle. He had gone to slavery.
”Can you follow orders?” Lucivar asked. It wasn’t an unreasonable question. Warlord Princes were a law unto themselves. Unless they gave their hearts as well as their bodies, following orders wasn’t easy for any of them. Even then, it wasn’t easy.
”I can follow orders,” Falonar said, and then added under his breath, ”When I can stomach them.”
”And you’re willing to follow the rules I’ve set, even if it means losing some of the privileges you may have come to expect?”
Falonar narrowed his gold eyes. ”I suppose you don’t break any rules anymore?”
The question surprised a laugh out of Lucivar. ”Oh, I still break some. And I get my ass kicked for it.”
Falonar opened his mouth, then closed it again.
”The Steward and the Master of the Guard,” Lucivar said dryly, answering the unspoken question.
”Those Jewels would give you some leverage,” Falonar said, tipping his head to indicate Lucivar’s Ebon-gray Jewel.
”Not with those two.”
Falonar looked startled, then thoughtful. ”How long have you been here?”
”Eight years.”
”Then you’ve already served out your contract.”
Lucivar gave Falonar a sharp-edged smile. ”Plant your ambitions somewhere else, Prince. Mine’s a lifetime contract.”
Falonar tensed. ”I thought Warlord Princes were required to serve five years in a court.”
Lucivar nodded and clamped down on the pleasure that jumped through him when he saw Hallevar coming toward him. ”That’s what’s required.” He smiled wickedly. ”It only took the Lady three years to realize that wasn’t what I agreed to.”
Falonar hesitated. ”What’s she like?”
”Wonderful. Beautiful. Terrifying.” Lucivar gave Falonar an assessing look. ”Are you coming to Ebon Rih?”
”I’m coming to Ebon Rih.” Falonar nodded to Hallevar and stepped aside for the older man.
”I’d like to come with you,” Hallevar said abruptly.
”But?” Lucivar said.
Hallevar looked over his shoulder at the two boys who were hovering out of earshot. He turned back to Lucivar. ”I said they were mine.”
”Are they?”
Hallevar’s eyes filled with heat. ”If they’d been mine, I would have acknowledged them, whether or not the mothers denied paternity. A child isn’t considered a bastard if a sire is listed, even if the man doesn’t get a chance to be a father.”
The words stung. Prythian, the High Priestess of Askavi in Terreille, and Dorothea SaDiablo had spun their lies in order to separate him from Luthvian, his mother, and they had altered his birth documents because they hadn’t wanted anyone to know who his father really was. It had stunned him to learn that the hard feelings he carried inside him because of that deceit were nothing compared to Saetan’s rage.
”One has a mother who’s a whore in a Red Moon house,” Hallevar said. ”Stands to reason she wouldn’t know whose seed she carried. The other woman was the known lover of an aristo Warlord. The witch he’d married was barren, and everyone knew he made sure his mistress didn’t invite another man to her bed. He wanted the child, would have acknowledged the child. But when it was born, she named a dozen men in the court that she claimed might have been the sire. She did it on purpose, and because she wanted revenge on the father, she condemned the child.”
Lucivar just nodded, fighting the anger that burned in him.
”This is a new place, Lucivar,” Hallevar pleaded. ”A new chance. You know what it’s like. You should understand better than anyone. They’re not strong like you. Neither of them will wear dark Jewels. But they’re good boys, and they’ll carry their weight. And they are full-blooded Eyriens,” he added.
”So they don’t carry the stigma of being half-breeds?” Lucivar asked with deadly control.
”I never used that word with you,” Hallevar said quietly.
”No, you didn’t. But it’s an easy enough word to say without thinking. So I’ll give you fair warning, Lord Hallevar. It’s a word you would do well to forget, because there’s nothing I could do to save you if you said it within my father’s hearing.”
Hallevar stared at him. ”Your father is here? You know him?”
”I know him. And believe me, you haven’t seen temper until you’ve been on the receiving end of my father’s rage.”
”I’ll remember. What about the boys?”
”No lies, Hallevar. I’ll take them for themselves, subject to the Queen’s approval just like any other male.”
Hallevar smiled, obviously relieved. ”I’ll tell them to fetch our things.” A curt wave of his hand had the two boys racing toward the barracks. Without looking at Lucivar, he asked, ”Is he proud of you?”
”When he doesn’t want to throttle me or kick my ass.”
Hallevar tried to swallow a laugh and ended up wheezing. ”I’d like to meet him.”
”You will,” Lucivar promised dryly.
Whether it was seeing the first ones being accepted or needing a little time to gather their courage, others approached him.
There was the young Warlord, Endar, and his wife, Dorian, their son, Alanar, and their little Queen daughter, Orian.
The woman was frightened, the man tense. But the little girl gave him a sweet smile and leaned away from her mother, her arms reaching for him.
Lucivar took her, settled her on his hip, and grinned. ”Don’t get any ideas, bright-eyes. I’m taken,” he told her as he tickled gently and made her giggle. When he gave the girl back to her mother, Dorian stared at him as if he’d grown another head.
Next came Nurian, a Healer who hadn’t completed her training yet, and her younger sister, Jillian, who was on the cusp of changing from girl to woman.
There was Kohlvar, a weapons maker. And there were Rothvar and Zaranar, two warriors Lucivar remembered from the hunting camps.
One thought nagged at him as he talked with them. Why were they here? Kohlvar had been a young man, by the standard of the long-lived races, when Lucivar was first sent away from Askavi. Even then, when Kohlvar was just past his journeymanship, he’d been known for the strength and the balance of the weapons he made. He should have made a good living in Terreille, and he could have stayed away from court intrigue if he’d chosen to. Rothvar and Zaranar were seasoned warriors, the kind who could have found a position in most of the courts in Askavi or accepted any independent work they chose.
And why would an aristo Warlord Prince like Falonar leave Terreille?
The wariness inside him grew. Were things far worse in Terreille than anyone here suspected, or were these men here for another reason?
Lucivar pushed those thoughts aside. He hadn’t sensed anything in the people who had approached him that would make him decide against them, so he would let the questions rest for now. And he would let Jaenelle pass judgment.
By the time the last man left to fetch his things from the barracks, Lucivar had agreed to take twenty males and a dozen females.
How many of these people would survive the full term of their contracts? he wondered as they hurried toward him with the meager belongings they had been allowed to bring with them. There were other dangers in Kaeleer beyond the ones they expected. And there were the demon-dead. Considering where he was taking them, they would quickly have to come to terms with having the demon-dead walk among them.
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. ”Ready?”
It amused him, but didn’t surprise him, when Falonar looked over the group and answered him as if he’d already accepted the man as his second-in-command.
”We’re ready.”
Daemon Sadi crossed his legs at the knee, steepled his fingers, and rested his long, black-tinted nails against his chin. ”What about the Queens in the other Territories?” he asked in his deep, cultured voice.
Lord Jorval smiled wearily. ”As I’ve explained before, Prince Sadi, the Queens outside of Little Terreille are not eager to accept their Terreillean Brothers and Sisters into their courts, and even the immigrants who do get contracts are made to feel less than welcome.”
”Did you inquire?” Daemon’s gold eyes glazed slightly. A stranger or slight acquaintance might have thought he looked tired or bored, but that sleepy look would have terrified anyone who really knew him.
”I inquired,” Jorval said a bit sharply. ”The Queens didn’t reply.”
Daemon glanced at the four sheets of paper spread out on the desk in front of him. In the past two days, he and Jorval had sat in this room six times. Those sheets of paper, listing the four Queens who were interested in obtaining his services, had been offered to him at the first meeting. They had been the only ones offered.
Jorval folded his hands and sighed. ”You must understand. A Warlord Prince is considered a dangerous asset, even when he wears a lighter Jewel and is serving among his own people. A man with your strength and reputation” He shrugged. ”I realize your expectations might be different. The Darkness knows, there are so many who have an unrealistic idea of life in Kaeleer. But I can assure you, Prince, that having four Queens who are willing to accept the challenge of having you serve in their courts for the next five years is unusual-and not an opportunity that should be brushed aside.”
Daemon didn’t give any indication that the warning had been felt as much as a physical jab would have been. No, he couldn’t brush aside the narrow choices if he wanted to stay in Kaeleer. But he wasn’t sure he could stomach any of those women long enough to do what he had originally come here to do. And he couldn’t help wondering how large a gift Jorval would receive from whichever Queen he chose.
Suddenly it was too much: the lack of sleep, the pressure to make an unpalatable choice, the nerves that were strained because of what he had planned to do-and the questions that had arisen from the gossip he had sifted through as he walked around the service fair.
”I’ll consider them and let you know,” Daemon said, moving toward the door with the graceful speed that tended to make people think of a feline predator.
”Prince Sadi,” Jorval called sharply.
Daemon stopped at the door and turned.
”The last bell will ring in less than an hour. If you haven’t made a choice by then, you will no longer have a choice. You will have to accept whatever offer is made or leave Kaeleer.”
”I’m aware of that, Lord Jorval,” Daemon said too softly.
He left the building, slipped his hands into his trouser pockets, and began walking aimlessly.
He despised Lord Jorval. There was something about the man’s psychic scent, something tainted. And there were too many things hidden behind the dark, flat eyes. From the moment he’d met Jorval, he’d had to fight against the instinctive desire to rise to the killing edge and tuck the thin Warlord into a deep, secret grave.
Why had Lord Magstrom handed him over to Jorval?
He had talked to the elderly man briefly when he arrived in Goth late on the third day of the fair and had been cautiously willing to trust the man’s judgment. When he had expressed his desire to serve in a court outside of Little Terreille, Magstrom’s blue eyes had twinkled with amusement.
The Queens outside of Little Terreille are very selective in their choices, Magstrom had said. But they do have an advantage for a man like you-they know how to handle dark-Jeweled males.
Magstrom had promised to make some inquiries, and they had arranged to meet early the following morning. But when Daemon arrived for the meeting, it was Lord Jorval who was waiting for him with the names of four Queens who wanted to control his life for the next five years.
Questionable food smells that he caught in passing sharpened an already keen temper by reminding him that he’d eaten almost nothing in the past two days. The clash of strong perfumes mingled with equally strong body odors helped him remember why he hadn’t eaten.
More than that, the inability to sleep and the lack of appetite were due to the questions that had no answers. At least, not here.
It had taken him five years after walking out of the Twisted Kingdom to come to Kaeleer. There had been no hurry. Jaenelle had not been waiting for him as she had promised when she had marked the trail to lead him out of madness. He still didn’t know what had really happened when he had tried to bring Jaenelle out of the abyss in order to save her body. His memories of that night, thirteen years ago, were still jumbled, still had pieces missing. He had a vague memory of someone telling him that Jaenelle had died-that the High Lord had tricked another male into being the instrument that had destroyed an extraordinary child.
So when Jaenelle hadn’t been on the island where Surreal and Manny had kept him safe and hidden, and when Surreal had told him about the shadow Jaenelle had created in order to bring him out of the Twisted Kingdom
He had spent the past five years believing that he had killed the child who was his Queen; had spent the past five years believing that she had used the last of her strength to bring him out of madness so that he would call in the debt owed to her; had spent the past five years honing his Craft skills and allowing his mind to heal as much as it could for only one reason: to come to Kaeleer and destroy the man who had used him as the instrument-his father, the High Lord of Hell.
But now that he was here
Gossip and speculation about the witches in the Shadow Realm flowed through this place, currents of thoughts easily plucked from the air. The currents that had unnerved him as he’d walked around the fair yesterday were the speculations about a strange, terrifying witch that could see a man’s soul in a glance. According to the gossip, anyone who signed a contract outside of Little Terreille was brought before this witch, and anyone found wanting didn’t live to see another sunrise.
He might have dismissed that gossip except that it finally occurred to him that, perhaps, Jaenelle had been waiting for him, but not in Terreille. He’d let grief cloud his thinking, locking away all but the best memories of the few months he had known her. So he’d forgotten about the ties she already had to Kaeleer.
If she really was in the Shadow Realm, he’d already lost five years he could have spent with her. He wasn’t going to spend the next five in some other court, yearning from a distance.
If, that is, she really was alive.
A change in the psychic scents around him pulled him from his thoughts. He looked around and swore under his breath.
He was at the far end of the fairgrounds. Judging by the sky, he’d have to run in order to get back to the administrators’ building and make a choice before the bell ending the last day of the fair rang. Even then, he might not have a choice if Jorval wasn’t waiting for him.
As he turned to go back, he noticed one of the red banners that indicated a station where court contracts were filled out. There were a few Eyriens standing to one side, and a line of them waiting their turn. But it was the Eyrien warrior watching the proceedings that froze Daemon where he stood.
The man wore a leather vest and the black, skintight trousers favored by Eyrien warriors. His black hair fell to his shoulders, which was unusual for an Eyrien male. But it was the way he stood, the way he moved that felt so painfully familiar.
A wild joy filled Daemon, even as his heart clogged his throat and tears stung his gold eyes. Lucivar.
Of course, it couldn’t be. Lucivar had died eight years ago, escaping from the salt mines of Pruul.
Then the man turned. For a moment, Daemon thought he saw the same fierce joy in Lucivar’s eyes before it was lost in blazing fury.
Seeing the fury and remembering that the unfinished business between them could only end in blood being spilled, Daemon retreated behind the cold mask he’d lived behind for most of his life and started to walk away.
He’d only gone a few steps before a hand clamped on his right arm and spun him around.
”How long have you been here?” Lucivar demanded.
Daemon tried to shake off the hand, but Lucivar’s fingers dug in hard enough to leave bruises. ”Two days,” Daemon replied with chilly courtesy. He felt the mask slip and knew he needed to get away from here before his emotions spilled over. Right now, he wasn’t sure if he would meet Lucivar’s anger with tears or rage.
”Have you signed a contract?” Lucivar shook him. ”Have you?”
”No, and there’s little time left to do it. If you’ll excuse me.”
Lucivar snarled, tightened his grip, and almost yanked Daemon off his feet. ”You weren’t on the lists,” he muttered as he pulled Daemon toward the table under the red banner. ”I checked. You weren’t on any of the damn lists.”
”I apologize for the incon-”
”Shut up. Daemon.”
Daemon clenched his teeth and lengthened his stride to match his brother’s. He didn’t know what kind of game Lucivar was playing, but he’d be damned if he’d go into it being dragged like a reluctant puppy.
”Look, Prick,” Daemon said, trying to balance Lucivar’s volatile temper with reason, ”I have to-”
”You’re signing a contract with the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rib.”
Daemon let out an exasperated huff. ”Don’t you think you should discuss it with him beforehand?”
Lucivar gave him a knife-edged look. ”I don’t usually discuss things with myself, Bastard. Plant your feet.”
Daemon felt the ground roll unexpectedly and decided it was good advice. ”Have long have you been in Kaeleer?” he asked, feeling weak.
”Eight years.” Lucivar hissed as an older Eyrien Warlord signed the contract and stepped away from the table. ”Hell’s fire. Why is that little maggot taking so long to write a line of information?” He took a step toward the table. Then he turned back, and said too softly, ”Don’t try to walk away. If you do, I’ll break your legs in so many places you won’t even be able to crawl.”
Daemon didn’t bother to respond. Lucivar didn’t make idle threats, and in a physical fight, Daemon knew he couldn’t beat his Eyrien half brother. Besides, the ground under his feet kept shifting in unexpected ways that threatened his balance.
The Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih. Lucivar was the Warlord Prince of the territory that belonged to Ebon Askavi, the Black Mountain that was also called the Keep-that was also the Sanctuary of Witch.
That didn’t necessarily mean anything. The land existed whether a Warlord Prince watched over it or not-or a Queen ruled there or not.
But Lucivar being alive here nourished the hope in Daemon that he had been wrong about Jaenelle’s death as well. Had she sent Lucivar to the service fair to look for him? Had one of Lord Magstrom’s inquiries reached her after all? Was she…
Daemon shook his head. Too many questions-and this wasn’t the time or place to get answers. But, oh, how he began to hope.
As Lucivar approached the table, someone called, ”Prince Yaslana. Here are two more for the contract.”
Turning toward the voice, Daemon felt the ground shift a little more. Two men, a Sapphire-Jeweled Warlord and a Red-Jeweled Warlord Prince, were pulling two women toward the table. A brown-haired man with a black eye patch and a pronounced limp angrily followed them.
The frightened woman had dark hair, fair skin, and blue eyes. It had been thirteen years since he’d seen Wilhelmina Benedict, Jaenelle’s half sister. She had grown into a beautiful woman, but was still filled with the brittle fear she’d had as an adolescent. Her eyes widened when she saw him, but she said nothing.
The snarling woman with the long black hair, light golden-brown skin, delicately pointed ears, and blazing gold-green eyes was Surreal. She had left the island four months ago, giving no explanation except there was something she had to do.
At first, he didn’t know the limping man. When he saw the flash of recognition in the man’s blue eye, he felt a stab of pain under his heart. Andrew, the stable lad who had helped him escape the Hayllian guards after Jaenelle had been taken back to Briarwood.
”Lord Khardeen. Prince Aaron,” Lucivar said, formally greeting the Sapphire-Jeweled Warlord and the Red-Jeweled Warlord Prince.
”Prince Yaslana, these Ladies should be part of the contract,” Prince Aaron said respectfully.
Lucivar gave both women a look that could have flayed flesh from bone. Then he looked at Khardeen and Aaron. ”Accepted.”
Wilhelmina trembled visibly, but Surreal hooked her hair behind her pointed ears and narrowed her eyes at Lucivar. ”Look, sugar-”
”Surreal,” Daemon said quietly. He shook his head. The last thing any of them needed was Surreal and Lucivar tangling with each other.
Surreal hissed. When she tried to shake off Prince Aaron’s hand, the man let her go, then shifted to block any attempt she might make to leave. Eyeing Lucivar with intense dislike, she moved until she stood beside Daemon. ”Is that your brother?” she asked in a low voice. ”The one who’s supposed to be dead?”
Daemon nodded.
She watched Lucivar for a minute. ”Is he dead?”
For the first time since he’d arrived in Kaeleer, Daemon smiled. ”The demon-dead can’t tolerate daylight-at least according to the stories-so I would say Lucivar is very much alive.”
”Well, can’t you reason with him? I have a mark of safe passage and a three-month visitor’s pass. I didn’t come here to sign a contract for court service, and the day I jump when that son of a bitch snaps his fingers is the day the sun is going to shine in Hell.”
”Don’t make any bets on it,” Daemon muttered, watching Lucivar study the member of the Dark Council who was filling out the contract.
Before Surreal could reply, Wilhelmina sidled over to them. ”Prince Sadi,” she said in a voice that trembled on the edge of panic. ”Lady.”
”Lady Benedict,” Daemon replied formally while Surreal nodded in acknowledgment.
Wilhelmina glanced fearfully at Lucivar, who was now talking to the older Eyrien Warlord. ”He’s scary,” she whispered.
Surreal smiled maliciously and raised her voice. ”When a man wears his pants that tight, they tend to pinch his balls, and that tends to pinch his temper.”
Aaron, who was standing near them, coughed violently, trying to muffle his laughter.
Seeing Lucivar break off his conversation and head toward them, Daemon sighed and wished he knew a spell that would make Surreal lose her voice for the next few hours.
Lucivar stopped an arm’s length away, ignoring the way Wilhelmina shrank away from him, focusing his attention on Surreal. He smiled the lazy, arrogant smile that was usually the only warning before a fight.
Surreal lowered her right hand so that her arm hung at her side.
Recognizing that as her warning signal, Daemon slipped his hands out of his trouser pockets and shifted slightly, prepared to stop her before she was foolish enough to pull a knife on Lucivar.
”You’re Titian’s daughter, aren’t you?” Lucivar asked.
”What do you care?” Surreal snarled.
Lucivar studied her for a moment. Then he shook his head and muttered, ”You’re going to be a pain in the ass.”
”Then maybe you should let me go,” Surreal said with sweet venom.
Lucivar laughed, low and nasty. ”If you think I’m going to explain to the Harpy Queen why her daughter’s in another court when I was standing here, then you’d better think again, little witch.”
Surreal bared her teeth. ”My mother is not a Harpy. And I’m not a little witch. And I’m not signing any damn contract that gives you control over me.”
”Think again,” Lucivar said.
Daemon’s hand clamped on Surreal’s right forearm. Aaron clamped down on her left arm.
The bell indicating the end of the service fair rang three times.
Surreal swore furiously. Lucivar just smiled.
Then a man’s voice, rising in protest, made them all turn their attention toward the table.
Daemon caught sight of the fussily dressed man who was busily straightening papers and ignoring the young Eyrien Warlord.
Snarling, Lucivar strode to the table, slipped through the line of confused, upset Eyriens, and stopped beside the man who was still pretending not to notice any of them.
”Is there a problem, Lord Friall?” Lucivar asked mildly.
Friall shook back the lace at his wrists and continued to gather up his papers. ”The bell ending the fair has rung. If these people are still available when you arrive tomorrow for claiming day, you can sign them to a contract under the first-offer rule.”
Daemon tensed. Lord Jorval had explained the first-offer rule of the service fair several times. During the fair, immigrants had the right to refuse an offer to serve in a court, or wait to see if another offer was made from a different court, or try to negotiate for a better position. But the day after the service fair was a claiming day. There was only one choice. Immigrants could accept whatever was offered by the first court to fill out a claim for them-and Jorval had implied that any position offered at a claiming was usually a demeaning one-or they could return to Terreille and attempt to come back for the next fair. He had spent two million gold marks in bribes in order to get on the immigration list for this service fair. He had the means to do it again if he dared risk going back to Terreille. But most had spent everything they had for this one chance at a hopefully better life. They would sign a contract for the privilege of crawling if that was the only way to stay in Kaeleer.
”Now, Lord Friall,” Lucivar said, still sounding mild, ”you know as well as I do that a person has to be accepted before the final bell, but there’s an hour afterward for the contracts to be filled out and signed.”
”If you want to sign the contract for the ones already listed, you can take them with you now. The others will have to wait until tomorrow,” Friall insisted.
Lucivar raised his right hand and scratched his chin.
The rest happened so fast, Daemon didn’t even see the move. One moment, Lucivar was scratching his chin. The next, his Eyrien war blade was delicately resting on Friall’s left wrist.
”Now,” Lucivar said pleasantly, ”you can finish filling out that contract or I can cut off your left hand. Your choice.”
”Shit,” Surreal muttered as she moved closer to Daemon.
”You can’t do this,” Friall whimpered.
Lucivar’s hand didn’t seem to move, but a thin line of blood began to flow from Friall’s wrist.
”I’ll inform the Council,” Friall wailed. ”You’ll be in trouble.”
”Maybe,” Lucivar replied. ”But you’ll still be without a left hand. If you’re lucky, that’s all you’ll lose. If you’re not”
A hurried movement made Daemon glance to the left. Lord Magstrom, the Dark Council member he had first talked with, stopped at the other end of the table.
”May I be of some assistance, Prince Yaslana?” the elderly man asked breathlessly.
Lucivar looked up, and Magstrom froze. The color drained from his face.
”Mother Night,” Aaron muttered. ”He’s risen to the killing edge.”
Daemon didn’t move. Neither did anyone else. A Warlord Prince who had risen to the killing edge was violent and uncontrollable. He wore the Black, the only Jewel darker than Lucivar’s Ebon-gray, but any effort he made to try to contain his brother would only snap whatever self-control Lucivar still had. At the very least, Friall would die. At the worst, there would be a slaughter.
”Lord Friall says the contracts can’t be filled out after the last bell,” Lucivar said with deceptive mildness.
”I’m sure he misunderstood,” Magstrom replied quickly. ”There’s an hour’s leniency after the last bell in order to fill out the papers.” When Lucivar said nothing, he took a careful breath. ”Lord Friall seems to be indisposed. With your permission, I will finish filling out the contracts.”
By this time, the white lace around Friall’s left wrist was a wet, bright red. Snot ran from the man’s nose as he wept silently.
At Lucivar’s slight nod, Magstrom pulled the papers away from the small pool of blood on the table and picked up the pen lying next to them. Retreating to the other end of the table, Magstrom sat down.
Lucivar raised his left hand and pointed at Daemon. ”He’s first.”
Magstrom filled out the top of the contract and then looked at Daemon expectantly. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead.
Move, damn you, move. For a tense moment, Daemon’s body refused to obey. When his legs finally started working, he had the chilling sensation that he was walking on thin, cracked ice where one false step could lead to disaster.
”Daemon Sadi,” Magstrom said quietly, writing the name in neat script. ”From Hayll, isn’t that right?”
”Yes,” Daemon replied. To his own ears, his voice sounded hoarse, hollow. If Magstrom noticed, the man gave no indication.
”When we met, I recall that you said you wore a dark Jewel, but I don’t remember which one.”
When he’d met with Magstrom, he’d said the Red was his Birthright Jewel, but he had evaded mentioning his Jewel of rank. There could be no evading now. ”The Black.”
Magstrom looked up, his eyes wide with shock. Then he quickly filled in the space on the paper. ”And you brought two servants?”
”Manny is a White-Jeweled witch. Jazen is a Purple Dusk Warlord.”
Magstrom wrote down the information, then turned the contract around. ”Just sign here and then put your initials in the spaces for the other two signatures to indicate that you accept responsibility for your servants.” As Daemon bent down to sign the contract, he whispered, ”This court would have been my choice for you. You belong here.”
Saying nothing, Daemon stepped away from the table to make room for Surreal. He glanced once at Lucivar, whose glazed gold eyes just stared at him.
”Name?” Magstrom asked.
”Surreal.”
When she didn’t say anything else, Magstrom said gently, ”While they are not often used in Kaeleer, it is customary to formally record a family name.”
Surreal stared at him. Then she smiled maliciously. ”SaDiablo.”
Magstrom gasped. Khardeen and Aaron gaped at her for a moment before turning away from the table.
Daemon closed his eyes and didn’t listen to the rest of her answers. Since she was Kartane SaDiablo’s bastard daughter, she had probably intended it as a slap against his mother, Dorothea. There was no reason for her to know that the name had meaning in Kaeleer.
”Hell’s fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful,” two voices said in unison.
Daemon opened his eyes. Aaron and Khardeen stood in front of him, watching Surreal move away from the table.
Aaron looked at him. ”Is that really her family name?”
Daemon hesitated. He didn’t know what kind of stigma being a bastard carried in Kaeleer, and he owed Surreal too much to reveal a potentially vulnerable spot. ”The man who sired her goes by that name,” he replied cautiously.
”What do you think we should do?” Aaron asked Khardeen.
”Sell tickets,” Khardeen replied promptly. ”And then find a safe place to watch the explosion.”
Their amusement at Surreal’s expense made Daemon’s temper flash. ”Is this going to be a problem?”
”You could say that,” Khardeen said gleefully. Then he settled his face into a serious expression. ”You see, what Lady Surreal hasn’t realized yet is that by formally declaring herself as part of the SaDiablo family, she’s just acquired Lucivar as a cousin.”
”And if you think Lucivar has a dominating personality with other males, you should see him with the women in the family,” Aaron added.
And with Jaenelle?
The question went unspoken because he didn’t want to see a blank expression on their faces when they heard the name-and because he wasn’t sure what he would do if he saw recognition. It would be better to ask Lucivar that question-in private. And the questions he now had about women and family… Those, too, would be asked later.
”And we’re not even going to try to imagine what’s going to happen when she tangles with the males on the Dea al Mon side of her family,” Khardeen said.
”Why should they be involved at all?” Daemon asked.
”Because she’s Titian’s daughter, finally come home,” Aaron said. Then he grinned. ”Lady Surreal is about to find out that she now has male relatives from both her bloodlines who are going to make her life their business- and several of those males are Warlord Princes.”
Mother Night! ”She’s never going to tolerate that,” Daemon said.
”Well, she’s not going to have a lot of choice,” Khardeen replied.
”The Blood are matriarchal. Isn’t that true in Kaeleer?”
”Of course,” Aaron said cheerfully. ”But males do have rights and privileges, and we take full advantage of them.” He studied Daemon for a moment. ”Why don’t you try to keep her calm while we keep an eye on Lucivar. If nobody pushes him, he should be able to keep his temper leashed.”
”Do you know him that well?” Daemon asked.
He saw the knowledge in their eyes that they had kept carefully masked until now. They knew he was Lucivar’s brother. And they knew…
”We all serve in the same court, Prince Sadi,” Aaron said quietly. ”We all serve in the Lady’s First Circle.”
Then they walked away from him.
They might as well have shouted it from the rooftops. She’s alive!
Joy and trepidation warred inside him, causing his heart to pound too hard, his blood to whip through his veins too fast. She’s alive!
But what did she think of him? What did she feel for him?
No answers. Not here. Not yet.
With exaggerated care, Daemon walked over to Surreal. The moment he stopped moving, he swayed like a willow in a heavy wind.
Surreal wrapped her arms around his left arm and planted her feet.
”What’s wrong?” she asked quietly, urgently. ”Are you ill?”
She, better than anyone, would be able to guess exactly what was wrong, but he wasn’t about to admit it. Not now. ”I’ve had almost no sleep and very little food in the past few days,” he said.
She narrowed her eyes but accepted the truth that was also a lie. ”I can understand that. This place makes my skin crawl.”
Daemon tapped into the reservoir of power stored in his Black Jewel. It rushed through his body, and for the first time since he’d seen Lucivar, he felt steady.
Surreal sensed the change in him. She loosened her grip, but still kept one arm companionably linked with his. ”Why do you think the old Warlord doing the contracts looked so shocked when I said my family name was SaDiablo? Is that bitch Dorothea that well-known here?”
”I don’t know,” Daemon said carefully. ”But I have heard that the name of the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan is S. D. SaDiablo.” This wasn’t the time to tell her that the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan was also the High Lord of Hell-and his and Lucivar’s father.
”Shit,” Surreal muttered. Then she shrugged. ”Well, I’m not likely to meet him, and if someone asks, I can just say that we might be distantly related. Very distantly.”
Remembering Khardeen’s and Aaron’s comments, Daemon made a sound that might have been a whimper.
”You sure you’re all right?” Surreal asked, studying him.
”I’m fine.” Just fine. More than fine. He would believe it, insist on it, until it was true. ”Do me a favor. Ask Khardeen or Aaron if we’re going to be traveling in the Web Coaches, and then contact Manny so that she and Jazen can meet us there.”
She didn’t ask why he didn’t do it himself, and he was grateful.
Finally, the last Eyrien had signed the contract and moved away from the table. Lucivar, who hadn’t moved or said anything since Lord Magstrom started filling out the contracts, called in a clean cloth, wiped the blood off his war blade, vanished both, and walked around the table to sign the contracts.
Holding his bleeding wrist against his chest, Friall wiped his nose on his clean sleeve and said in a sulky voice, ”You have to make copies. He can’t take the contracts until you make copies.”
Lucivar slowly straightened up and turned toward Friall.
A male voice swore softly.
Giving Friall a sharp glance, Magstrom said hurriedly, ”I’ll give Prince Yaslana blank contracts. The Steward of the Court can make the copies and return them to the Dark Council for the clerks to record.” When Friall seemed about to protest, and surely get himself killed, Magstrom added, ”I’ve seen Lord Jorval do this a number of times. He explained that the Stewards could be trusted to make an accurate copy, and it was the only way to expedite getting the immigrants settled in their new homes.”
Calling in a thin leather case, Lucivar slipped the contracts inside and then vanished it. He nodded politely at Magstrom, turned to face the waiting immigrants, and snarled, ”Let’s go.”
Daemon turned smoothly as Lucivar approached him and matched the Eyrien’s stride.
They had walked like this before, side by side. Not often, because the Terreillean Blood, who were afraid of them individually, were terrified of them when they were together. Even the Ring of Obedience hadn’t been enough to stop the destruction they had caused in Terreillean courts.
As they headed for the Coaches that were designed to ride the Winds, Daemon wondered how long they could put off the unfinished business between them.
It was almost full dark by the time they reached the two large, Ebon-gray shielded Coaches at the far end of the landing area.
Lucivar dropped the Ebon-gray shields, opened the door of the first Coach, looked at Daemon, and said, ”Get in.”
Daemon glanced around. ”My servants aren’t here yet.”
”I’ll look for them. Get in.”
Looking at Lucivar’s still-glazed eyes, and picking up a strained urgency in his brother’s psychic scent, Daemon obeyed.
Surreal, Wilhelmina, and Andrew quickly came in behind him, followed by several Eyriens. A minute later, Daemon breathed a sigh of relief as Jazen helped Manny up the steps into the Coach. A couple more Eyriens came in, and then an Ebon-gray shield snapped up around the Coach, effectively locking everyone but Daemon inside, since he was the only one who wore a Jewel darker than Lucivar’s.
A Web Coach this size could usually accommodate thirty people, but Eyriens required more room because of their wings. Noticing the lack of seats, Daemon wondered if the Coach was usually used for conveying something other than humans, or if Lucivar, intending to bring Eyriens, had had the usual seats removed. The only thing that could be used for seats were a few sturdy wooden boxes pushed up against the walls, with cushions on top of them and an open front for storage.
After studying the people packed against the walls in order to leave a narrow aisle in the center, Daemon turned his attention to the Coach. At the front was a door that led to the driver’s compartment. Maybe one other person could sit with the driver, giving the rest a little breathing room. Moving carefully, Daemon made his way to the short, narrow corridor at the back of the Coach. On the left was a small private room that held a narrow desk and a straight chair, an easy chair and hassock, and a single bed. The room on the right held a sink and toilet.
Daemon was about to step back into the main compartment when he heard Lucivar’s voice just outside the Coach’s open door.
”I don’t give a damn what that sniveling little maggot says,” Lucivar snarled.
”Lord Friall’s conduct is not in question here,” said a voice Daemon recognized as Lord Jorval’s. ”This will be brought before the Dark Council, and I can assure you we will not be intimidated into ignoring your vicious conduct.”
”You have a problem with me, you can take it up with the Steward, the Master of the Guard, or my Queen.”
”Your Queen fears you,” Jorval sneered. ”Everyone knows that. She can’t control you properly, and the Steward and Master of the Guard certainly aren’t going to demand any restraints on your temper since it suits their purpose so well.”
Lucivar’s voice lowered to a malevolent hiss. ”Just remember, Lord Jorval, that while you and Friall are whining to the Council, I’m going to make the Territory Queens aware that there are some members of the Council who blatantly ignore their own rules about the service fair.”
”That is an outright lie!”
”Then Friall is incompetent and shouldn’t be given the task.”
”Friall is one of the finest members of the Council!”
”In that case, was he just pissed because he’d expected to get his percentage of the bribes at the table and didn’t realize you’d already pocketed them?”
”How dare you!” A long pause followed. ”Perhaps Lord Friall was partly responsible for this unfortunate incident, but the Council will stand firm about this other matter.”
”And what matter is that?” Lucivar crooned.
”We cannot allow you to have in your service a male who wears Jewels darker than yours.”
”The Queens in Little Terreille do it all the time.”
”They’re Queens. They know how to control males.”
”So do I.”
”The Council forbids it.”
”The Council can go to the bowels of Hell.”
Lucivar suddenly filled the Coach’s doorway.
”You can’t do this!” Jorval yelled from behind him.
Lucivar turned and gave Jorval a lazy, arrogant smile. ”I’m an Ebon-gray Warlord Prince. I can do anything I damn well want to.” He shut the door in Jorval’s face, then glanced at the driver’s compartment at the front of the Coach, sending an order on a psychic thread. The Coach immediately lifted.
When Daemon took a step to reenter the main compartment, Lucivar shifted in front of him, effectively blocking the mouth of the corridor. Accepting the unspoken order, Daemon slipped his hands into his trouser pockets and leaned against the wall.
When he felt sure that Lucivar was through giving his silent instructions to whoever was driving the Coaches, he used an Ebon-gray spear thread to ask, Will this get you into trouble?
No, Lucivar replied. He looked over the immigrants. Every one of them quickly looked away in order to avoid meeting his eyes.
Won’t this Council send a demand for some kind of discipline?
They’ll send it. The Steward will read it, probably show it to the Master of the Guard, and then they’ll ignore it.
Daemon realized his breathing was too quick, too shallow, but he couldn’t change it as he forced himself to ask the next question. Will they show it to your Queen?
No, Lucivar said slowly. They won’t mention this to the Queen if they can avoid it. And if they can’t, they’ll try to minimize it without lying outright.
Why?
Because the Dark Council has pushed her before, and the results scared the shit out of everyone. Lucivar shifted. ”We’re away from Goth,” he said, raising his voice slightly. ”Make yourselves as comfortable as you can. It’ll be a couple of hours before we get to where we’re going.”
”Aren’t we going to Ebon Rih?” someone asked.
”Not yet.” Lucivar stepped into the small corridor, forcing Daemon to move back. He slid the door to the private compartment open, said, ”Inside,” and went through the doorway sideways to accommodate his wings.
Daemon followed reluctantly and slid the door closed.
Lucivar stood at one end of the room. Daemon remained at the door.
Lucivar took a deep breath, let it out slowly. ”I’m sorry I lashed out at you. I wasn’t angry with you. I-Damn it, Daemon, I checked every list I could think of, and I must have missed your name. If it wasn’t for blind luck, you would’ve ended up in another court, and there might have been no way to get you out of that contract.”
Daemon felt one layer of tension ease. He forced his lips to curve in a smile. ”Well, luck favored us this time.” Then he looked, really looked, at Lucivar, and the smile became genuine. ”You’re alive.”
Lucivar returned the smile. ”And you’re sane.”
Daemon felt a tremor run through his body and tightened his self-control. Tears stung his eyes. ”Lucivar,” he whispered.
He didn’t know which of them moved first. One moment they were standing as far away from each other as they could in the small room, the next they were in each other’s arms, holding on as if their lives depended on it.
”Lucivar,” Daemon whispered again, pressing his face against his brother’s neck. ”I thought you were dead.”
”Hell’s fire, Daemon,” Lucivar said softly, hoarsely, ”we couldn’t find you. We didn’t know what happened to you. We looked. I swear, we did look for you.”
”It’s all right,” Daemon stroked Lucivar’s head. ”It’s all right.”
Lucivar’s arms tightened around him so hard his ribs ached.
Daemon’s hand fisted in Lucivar’s hair. ”Lucivar … I know there are things that need to be settled between us. But can we put them aside, just for a little while?”
”We can put them aside,” Lucivar said quietly.
Daemon stepped back. Using his thumbs, he gently wiped the tears from Lucivar’s face. ”We’d better join the others.” He turned and reached for the door.
Standing behind him, Lucivar’s left hand gripped Daemon’s left arm. Daemon placed his right hand over it for a moment. As his fingers slid away from Lucivar’s, he looked down, and the significance of what he’d seen but hadn’t really seen finally hit him.
”Daemon,” Lucivar said urgently. ”There’s one thing I need to tell you. I think you may already know, but you need to hear it.”
She’s alive! Another tremor went through Daemon’s body. ”No,” he said. ”Not now.” He slid the door open and stumbled into the corridor. Barely keeping his balance, he went into the bathroom and Black-locked the door. His body shook violently. His stomach twisted viciously. Leaning over the sink, he fought the need to be sick.
Too late.
If he had tried to find her five years ago, when he’d first returned from the Twisted Kingdom, maybe it would have been different. If he had searched for the High Lord and at least tried to find out what had really happened that night at Cassandra’s Altar…
Too late.
He could hold on. He would hold on. His mind was far more fragile than he allowed anyone to realize. Oh, it was intact. He had lost a few memories, a few small shards of the crystal chalice, but he was whole, and he was sane. But the healing would never be complete because he had lost the one person he needed to complete it. It hadn’t mattered when he had only wanted to stay in one piece long enough to destroy the High Lord. It didn’t really matter now. He could survive long enough to see her, just once.
There was nothing else he could do. If it had been any other man, he would have used everything he was and everything he knew in order to be her lover. If it had been any other man. But not Lucivar. He wouldn’t become his brother’s rival.
So he couldn’t let Lucivar tell him what he desperately needed to hear. Not because he didn’t want to know for sure that Jaenelle was alive, but because he wasn’t ready to be told about the gold wedding ring on Lucivar’s left hand.
Surreal pushed the last of the cushioned boxes together to form a bench against one wall. ”Sit down, Manny,” she said to the older woman.
”Wouldn’t be right,” Manny said. ”A servant shouldn’t be sitting.”
Surreal gave her a slashing look. ”Don’t be an ass. You’re a ’servant’ because that’s the only way Sadi could bring you with him.”
Manny tightened her lips in disapproval. ”No need for you to be using that kind of language, especially with children around. Besides, I was a servant for a good many years. It was an honest living and nothing I’m ashamed of.”
Unlike me? Surreal wondered. She had never denied that she had been a very successful whore for centuries before she quit thirteen years ago, no longer able to stomach the bedroom games. That night at Cassandra’s Altar had left its mark on all of them.
Manny’s feelings about women who worked in Red Moon houses were ambivalent. What would she think if she knew about Surreal’s other profession? How comfortable would the older woman have been if she had known that Surreal had been-and still was-a very successful assassin?
Didn’t matter. They had become friends during the two years when Daemon had been rising out of the Twisted Kingdom, but after he regained his sanity, Manny had made a mental shift, treating both of them to the domestic affection that existed between a special servant and an aristo child. Daemon hadn’t noticed anything odd about this behavior; maybe Manny had always treated him like that. But it had annoyed Surreal, who had grown up hard and fast on the streets. It had also given her a lot of practice in dealing with Manny’s set opinions.
”Look,” she said very softly. ”Lady Benedict’s servant doesn’t look like he can stand up for two hours without being in pain. If you sit down, you can badger him into sitting.”.
A few minutes later, Manny, Andrew, Wilhelmina Benedict, and Surreal were sitting on the makeshift bench.
Surreal glanced at the remaining space on her right. Where in the name of Hell was Sadi? He wasn’t as mentally stable as he pretended to be, and seeing Lucivar must have been a shock. But what had the Eyrien thought about seeing his half brother again? After Jaenelle disappeared thirteen years ago, Daemon had gone to Pruul, intending to get Lucivar out of the salt mines. For some reason, Lucivar had refused to go with him. She had always suspected, because of what Daemon wouldn’t say, that there had been a vicious collision of tempers and that a rift had formed between them. And she had always suspected that the reason for that rift had begun, like so many other things, at Cassandra’s Altar.
The driver’s compartment door slid open. Lord Khardeen stepped out and glanced at the Eyriens, who tensed at his appearance. Saying nothing, he walked to the end of the makeshift bench and sat down beside Surreal.
Directly across from them was the woman with the two young children. They had the brown skin, gold eyes, and black hair that was typical of the three long-lived races, but the little girl’s hair had a slight, natural curl. Surreal wondered if the girl’s hair indicated that one of the parent’s bloodlines wasn’t pure Eyrien, if those curls had betrayed a secret, and if that was the reason these people had left their home Territory.
The older boy stayed close to his mother, but the little girl smiled at Khardeen and took a couple of steps toward him.
”Woofer,” she said happily, holding out a worn stuffed animal.
Khardeen leaned forward and smiled. ”That he is. What’s his name?”
”Woofer.” She gave the toy a squeezing hug. ”Mine.”
”Right you are.”
Watching Khardeen apprehensively, the woman reached for the little girl. ”Orian, don’t bother the Warlord.”
”She’s no bother,” Khardeen said pleasantly.
The woman pulled the girl close to her and tried to smile. ”She likes animals. My husband’s mother made her a girl doll before we left, but Orian wanted to bring this one.”
And where was your own mother while that bitch was giving you a verbal knife? Surreal wondered as she watched shadows gather in the woman’s eyes and picked up a flicker of shame in the psychic scent. Well, that answered which side of the girl’s heritage was in question.
The Warlord who had protested when Friall refused to finish the contract turned away from his conversation with a couple of Eyrien males, glanced sharply at Khardeen, and then moved protectively closer to the woman and children.
Khardeen leaned back, returning that sharp glance with a mild look.
Sitting next to him, with his arm brushing hers, Surreal felt his tension-and anger? — but he gave no outward sign of it. When he looked at her, his expression was solemn, but his blue eyes held amusement.
”I wonder how the little Queen’s mother will react when she sees the ’woofers’ her daughter’s going to be hugging,” he said softly.
”Will they bite her?” Surreal asked.
”The girl? No. The mother?” Khardeen shrugged.
Hearing the warning underneath the amusement, Surreal shivered. Then Daemon approached them, and she took a sharp breath.
He moved carefully, like a man who had received a fatal wound and was quietly bleeding to death.
Khardeen stood up and gestured toward the vacated seat. ”Why don’t you sit down? I’ve got a couple of things to see to.”
As soon as Daemon sat down, he wrapped his arms around himself.
She’d seen that protective gesture before, when he had been pushing too hard at his Craft studies, when dreams had haunted his sleep.
Khardeen gave her a questioning look. She shook her head. She appreciated his concern, but there was nothing anyone could do for Daemon just then except let him retreat until he felt strong enough to face the world again.
A minute later, Lucivar came out of the private room, his expression carefully blank.
For the rest of the journey, Daemon sat beside her with his eyes closed and Lucivar stood near the back of the Coach, talking quietly to the Eyrien males who cautiously approached him.
For the rest of the journey, she wondered what had happened in that private room. And she worried.
Lord Jorval cowered in the chair and watched the Dark Priestess storm around the outer room of the suite he’d rented for this meeting.
Red Moon houses hadn’t existed in Kaeleer until four years ago-and still didn’t exist anywhere outside of Little Terreille. But certain influential Council members, himself included, had argued that the stronger immigrating males, who had little chance of having a Kaeleer-born woman for a lover, needed some way to relieve their sexual tension. The Queens in Little Terreille had yielded to the argument with no more than a token protest since they quickly recognized the usefulness of such places. Now a visit to a Red Moon house became a way of rewarding males for good behavior in the Queens’ courts. They could take their frustrations and aggressions out on women who couldn’t refuse them, who couldn’t demand courtesy and obedience. And no one noticed-or cared, if they did-that all the women in those houses were immigrants who had been claimed the day after a service fair.
And some Kaeleer males, himself included, had discovered the pleasure that could be had from a cringing woman’s obedience.
He’d chosen this Red Moon house, on the edge of the slums that had sprung up near the fairground, because the proprietors wouldn’t ask any questions. The two men who owned the place didn’t care if a woman was damaged physically or mentally, as long as they were suitably compensated. And they wouldn’t care about the youth who was now bound and gagged in the other room-the offering he had brought in the hopes it would lessen the Dark Priestess’s rage.
Hekatah threw off the cloak that had shrouded her face and body.
Jorval swallowed hard. He had become violently ill once at the sight of her decaying, demon-dead body. Her punishment for his lack of control had given him nightmares for months.
There were times when he desperately wished he’d never met her or become entangled in her schemes. But she had been behind his rise to power in the Dark Council, and he had discovered that she owned him before he even realized he had agreed to serve her.
”There were four Queens suitable for our purpose,” Hekatah snarled. ”Four. And you still couldn’t manage to get him tucked away until we found a way to use him.”
”I tried, Priestess,” Jorval said, his voice quivering. ”I blocked the inquiries Sadi made about serving outside of Little Terreille. Those were the only names I offered him.”
”Then why isn’t he with one of them?”
”He walked out of the last meeting,” Jorval cried. ” I didn’t know he had signed another contract until Friall told me.”
”He signed another contract,” Hekatah crooned. ”With his brother!”
Jorval’s chest jerked with the effort to breathe. ”I tried to stop it! I tried…” His voice trailed off as Hekatah slowly approached him.
”You didn’t handle him well,” she said, her girlish voice becoming dangerously gentle. ”Because of that, he’s now connected with the court we wanted unaware of his presence in Kaeleer, and we have no way of using that Black-Jeweled strength for our own purposes.”
Jorval tried to get up. Fear clogged his throat when he realized she was using Craft to keep him pinned to the chair.
She settled gracefully in his lap and wrapped one arm around his neck. As her long nails brushed against his cheek, he wondered if he was going to lose an eye. Maybe that would be best. Blind, he wouldn’t be able to see her. On second thought, no. She wore darker Jewels than he did. She could force his mind open and leave an image that was a hundred times worse than her actual appearance.
He whimpered as his stomach rolled ominously.
”Just as there are rewards for success, there are penalties for failure,” Hekatah said as she stroked his face.
Knowing what was required, he whispered, ”Yes, Priestess.”
”And you did fail me, didn’t you, darling?”
”Y-Yes, Priestess.”
What was left of her lips curved in a smile. Using Craft, she called in a stoppered crystal bottle and a small silver cup. They floated in the air while she removed the stopper and poured the dark, thick liquid into the cup. She closed the bottle and vanished it, then held the cup up to Jorval’s lips.
”I brought you a fresh offering,” he said weakly.
”I saw him. Such a pretty boy, full of the hot sweet wine.” She pressed the cup against his lower lip. ”I’ll get to him shortly.”
Having no choice, Jorval opened his mouth. The liquid slid over his tongue like a long warm slug. He gagged on it, but managed to swallow.
”Is it poison?” he asked.
Hekatah vanished the cup and leaned back, her eyes widening in surprise. ”Do you really think I would poison a man who’s loyal to me? And you are loyal to me, aren’t you, darling?” She shook her head sadly. ”No, darling, this is just a little aphrodisiac brew.”
”S-Safframate?” He would have preferred poison.
”Just enough to make the evening interesting,” Hekatah replied.
He sat there, helpless, while she caressed skin that began to quiver at the slightest touch. Groaning, he wrapped his arms around her, no longer noticing the smell of decay, no longer caring about who or what she was, no longer caring about anything except using the female body that was sitting on his lap.
When he tried to thrust his tongue into her mouth, she pulled back with a satisfied laugh.
”Now, darling,” she said while she caressed him, ”you’re going to bring one of those whores up here.”
The lust-fog cleared a little. ”Up here?”
”We still have to take care of your punishment,” Hekatah said gently, viciously. ”Get one that has golden hair and blue eyes.”
The lust became fierce, almost painful. ”Like Jaenelle Angelline.”
”Exactly. Think of this as a little rehearsal for the day when that pale bitch has to submit to me.” She kissed his temple, licked the throbbing pulse. ”Will it excite you if I sip a little blood while you’re locked inside her?”
Jorval stared at her, wildly aroused and terrified.
”I’ll drink from her, too. By then you won’t care if you’re mounting a corpse, but I won’t do that to you, darling. This is just a rehearsal, after all, for the night when you’ll have Jaenelle under you.”
”Yes,” Jorval whispered. ”Yes.”
”Yes,” Hekatah echoed, satisfied. She stood up and slowly walked to the bedroom door. ”Don’t worry about the whore telling anyone about our little game. I’ll fog the bitch’s mind so that she’ll never be certain about anything except that she was well used.”
Rising, Jorval moved unsteadily to the outer door, painfully aware that Hekatah watched him.
”The pretty boy will be the appetizer and the dessert,” Hekatah said. ”Fear gives blood such a delightfully piquant taste, and by the end of the evening, he’ll be fully ripened. So don’t spend too much time making your choice, darling. An appetizer doesn’t take long to consume, and if I become impatient, we may have to adjust your punishment. And you wouldn’t want that, would you?”
He waited until the bedroom door closed behind her before whispering, ”No, I wouldn’t want that.”
A warm hand gently squeezed his shoulder.
”Daemon,” Lucivar said quietly. ”Come on, old son. We’ve arrived.”
Daemon reluctantly opened his eyes. He wanted to withdraw from the world, wanted to sink into the abyss and just disappear. Soon, he promised himself. Soon. ”I’m all right, Prick,” he said wearily. It was a lie, and they both knew it.
Getting stiffly to his feet, Daemon rolled his shoulders. His muscles hummed with tension while a violent headache gathered behind his eyes. ”Where are we?”
Saying nothing, Lucivar guided him out of the Coach.
Surreal stood just outside the Coach’s door, staring up at the massive, gray stone building. ”Hell’s fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful. What is this place?”
Prince Aaron grinned at her. ”SaDiablo Hall.”
”Oh, shit.”
The ground spun under Daemon’s feet. He flung out an arm. Lucivar grabbed him, steadied him. ”I can’t,” he whispered. ”Lucivar, I can’t.”
”Yes, you can.” Holding his arm, Lucivar led him to the double front doors. ”It’ll be easier than you think. Besides, Ladvarian’s been waiting to meet you.”
Daemon didn’t have the energy to wonder, much less care, why this Ladvarian wanted to meet him, not when the next step might bring him face-to-face with the High Lord again-or Jaenelle.
Lucivar pushed the doors open. Daemon followed him into the great hall, the rest of the immigrants crowding behind him. They’d only gone a few steps when Lucivar stopped suddenly and swore under his breath.
Daemon glanced around, trying to understand the flash of wariness he’d picked up from Lucivar. At the far end of the hall, a maid knelt under one of the crystal chandeliers, wiping the floor. A few feet away from them stood a large Red-Jeweled Warlord dressed in a butler’s uniform. His expression was more icy than stoic.
Eyeing the butler, Lucivar said cautiously, ”Beale.”
”Prince Yaslana,” Beale replied with stiff formality.
Lucivar winced. ”What-”
Someone giggled. They all looked up.
High overhead, a naked Eyrien boy, barely more than a toddler, balanced precariously on the nearest chandelier.
Lucivar glanced at Beale, sighed, and took a couple of steps forward. ”What are you doing up there, boyo?”
”Flyin’,” the toddler said.
”Take a guess,” the maid growled as she dropped her cloth into a bucket and got to her feet.
”Slipped past your keepers, did you?” Lucivar muttered.
The toddler giggled again and then made a very rude noise.
”Come down, Daemonar,” Lucivar said sternly.
”No!”
Tears stung Daemon’s eyes as he stared at the boy. He swallowed hard to get his heart out of his throat.
Lucivar took another step forward and slowly spread his dark, membranous wings. ”If you don’t come down, I’ll come up and get you.”
Daemonar spread his little wings. ”No!”
Lucivar shot into the air. As he passed the chandelier, he made a grab for Daemonar, who ducked and dove. The boy flew like a drunken bumblebee trying to elude a hawk, but he managed to stay out of reach.
”Boy’s got some good moves,” Hallevar said approvingly, moving to the front of the crowd.
Surreal glanced at the older Eyrien Warlord. ”He seems to be getting the better of Yaslana.”
Hallevar snorted as Lucivar swept past Daemonar and tickled his foot, making the boy squeal and dodge. ”He could have caught him on the first pass. The young one will have to concede the battle, but it’ll stay in his mind that he put up a good fight. No, Lucivar understands how to train an Eyrien warrior.”
Daemon barely heard them. Hell’s fire! Couldn’t Lucivar see the boy was getting tired? Was he going to push until the baby fell to the floor?
As the toddler headed toward him, he stepped forward, reached up, and grabbed one chubby leg.
Daemonar shrieked and furiously flapped his little wings.
Pulling down gently, Daemon wrapped his other arm around Daemonar, drawing the boy against his chest.
A small fist smacked his chin. The other small hand grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked, making his eyes water. An indignant shriek lanced his ear and made his head vibrate.
Lucivar landed and rubbed the back of his hand against his mouth. It didn’t quite erase the smile. Hooking his left arm around the boy’s middle, he carefully pried open the small hand. ”Let go of your Uncle Daemon. We want him to like you.” He stepped back quickly, then he tethered the boy’s feet with one hand and growled, ”That’s not a good place to kick your father.”
Daemonar made a rude noise and grinned.
Lucivar looked at the squirming boy and said ruefully, ”At the time, you seemed like a good idea.”
”Yeah!” Then Daemonar noticed the woman holding the little girl. ”Baby!” he shouted, squirming to get loose. ”Mine!”
”Mother Night,” Lucivar muttered, turning to block Daemonar’s view.
Two wet, disheveled women entered the hall. One of them held up a large towel. ”We’ll take him, Prince Yaslana.”
”Thank the Darkness.” With a little effort, Lucivar and the two women got Daemonar bundled up in the towel and out of the great hall.
Watching them, Daemon’s heart ached. The boy looked like Lucivar. He wasn’t sure if he felt regretful or relieved that there was no hint of sapphire in the child’s gold eyes, no lightening of the black hair and brown skin, no trace of the mother’s exotic beauty.
Lucivar returned quickly.
”Once the guests are settled in their rooms, dinner will be served in the formal dining room,” Beale said.
”Thank you, Beale,” Lucivar replied a bit meekly.
”Are there any arrangements the household should be aware of?”
Lucivar made a ”come-here” gesture to the young Warlord who had remained protectively close to the woman with the two young children. ”This is Lord Endar, Lady Dorian’s husband.”
Endar stiffened under Beale’s scrutiny.
Prince Aaron wrapped a hand around Surreal’s arm and pulled her forward. ”I’ll escort Lady SaDiablo and Lady Benedict to their rooms.”
”Lady SaDiablo?” Beale said, startled.
Aaron grinned.
Surreal hissed.
”I’m sure the High Lord will be pleased to welcome the Lady,” Beale said, a suspicious twinkle in his eyes.
Before Surreal could stop him, Aaron brushed her hair back, revealing a delicately pointed ear. ”So will Prince Chaosti.”
Beale’s lips twitched. Then he resumed his stoic demeanor and turned to the immigrants. ”Those of you who are here as servants will follow Holt,” he said, indicating the waiting footman. ”The rest of you will follow me.”
As soon as all the Eyriens except Prince Falonar had left the great hall, along with Manny, Jazen, and Andrew, Surreal turned to Lucivar. ”Shouldn’t you have told him to let the children stay with their parents? I doubt they’re going to feel easy, being in a strange place.”
Prince Aaron vigorously cleared his throat.
Lord Khardeen tipped his head back and studied the ceiling.
Lucivar just stared at her for a moment before saying slowly, ”If you want to tell Beale or Helene how to run this place, you go right ahead and try. Just let me get out of the line of fire before you do.”
”Come on, Lady Surreal,” Aaron said. ”Let’s get you settled in before you start bringing the place down around us.”
Lucivar waited until Aaron and Khardeen had escorted Surreal and Wilhelmina out of the hall before turning to Falonar. ”What?”
Falonar squared his shoulders. ”Why did you single out Endar?”
”As long as the household knows that Endar is Dorian’s husband, no one will challenge his being in her bed. And believe me, there are males here who won’t hesitate to tear him apart if they aren’t made aware that he’s in her bed by her choice.” He took a deep breath, let it out slowly. ”I’ll explain the rules tomorrow. For tonight, just tell the men to keep their distance from all the women.” He paused, and then added, ”You’d better get settled in. We’ll be here for a few days.”
After Falonar left, Lucivar turned to Daemon. ”Come on. Let’s finish this so we can both get some food and rest.”
Daemon followed Lucivar up the staircase in the informal receiving room and through the labyrinth of corridors. After a couple of minutes of silence, he said, ”You named him Daemonar.”
”It was the closest I could come and still keep the name Eyrien,” Lucivar said quietly, his voice a little thick.
”I’m flattered.”
Lucivar snorted. ”Well, you would have been when he was an infant. Once he got his feet under him, he turned into a little beast.” He raked a hand through his shoulder-length hair. ”And it is not all my fault. I didn’t do this by myself. But nobody seems to remember that.”
”I can’t imagine why,” Daemon said dryly, watching Lucivar swell with indignation.
”When he does something adorable, he’s his mother’s son. When he does something clever, he’s the High Lord’s grandson. But when he acts like a rotten little beast, he’s my son.” Lucivar rubbed his chest. ”Sometimes I swear he does things just to see if my heart will stop.”
”Like tonight?”
Lucivar waved his hand dismissively. ”No, that was just… just… shit. What can I tell you? He’s a little beast.”
They turned a corner and almost ran into a lovely Eyrien woman. She wore a long, practical nightgown and clutched a thick book.
”Your son,” she said, spacing out the words, ”is not a beast.”
”Never mind that,” Lucivar said, narrowing his eyes. ”Marian, why aren’t you in bed? You should be resting today.”
Marian let out her breath in an exasperated huff. ”I dozed for most of the morning. I played with Daemonar for a little while this afternoon, and then we both took a nap. I just got up to borrow a book. I’m going to get tucked back in before Beale brings up a cup of hot chocolate and a plate of biscuits.”
Lucivar’s eyes narrowed a little more. ”Didn’t you eat today?”
Daemon stared at Lucivar in amazement. Even an idiot-or an Eyrien male-should be able to tell that this woman was silently sputtering.
”Uncle Andulvar checked on me to make sure I had eaten a good breakfast. Prothvar brought me a midmorning snack. I ate lunch with Daemonar. Sure that I must be starving, Mephis brought me a midafternoon snack. And your father already inquired about what I ate for dinner. I’ve been fussed over enough today.”
”I’m not fussing,” Lucivar growled-and then added under his breath, ”I haven’t had a chance to fuss.”
Marian looked pointedly at Daemon. ”Shouldn’t you be looking after your guests?”
”He’s not a guest. He’s my brother.”
Smiling warmly, Marian held out her hand. ”You must be Daemon. Oh, I’m so glad you’ve finally come. Now I have another brother.”
Brother? Taking her hand, Daemon gave Lucivar a quizzical look.
Running a possessive hand down Marian’s waist-length hair, Lucivar said warmly, ”Marian does me the honor of being my wife.”
And Daemonar’s mother. The floor dropped out from under Daemon and then came up again fast and hard.
Marian squeezed his hand, her eyes filled with concern. Lucivar’s gaze was sharper.
Emotions collided in him, banging against his fragile sanity. Unable to offer them any reassurances, he took a step back and began, again, the exhausting effort of regaining control of his feelings.
Perhaps sensing that he needed time, Lucivar tugged at the book Marian held, trying to see the title.
She clutched it harder and stepped away from him.
”Is that a sniffle book?” Lucivar asked suspiciously.
Marian opened and closed her wings with a snap. ”A what?”
”You know. One of those books that women like to read and get all weepy over. The last time you read one of those, you got upset when I came in to find out what was wrong. You threw the book at me.”
Marian’s sputtering was no longer silent. ”I didn’t get upset because of the book. You came storming into the room with weapons drawn and you scared me.”
”You were crying. I thought you were hurt. Look, I just want to know ahead of time if you’re going to get weepy over it.”
”When Jaenelle read it, I’ll bet you didn’t barge in on her when she got weepy.”
Lucivar eyed the book as if it had just grown fangs. ”Oh. That book.” He curled an arm protectively over his belly. ”Actually, I did barge in on her. Her aim was better than yours.”
Marian’s growl turned into a laugh. ”Poor Lucivar. You try so hard to protect the women in the family, and we don’t show our appreciation, do we?”
Lucivar grinned. ”Well, if there are any interesting love scenes in that story, mark the pages and you can appreciate me in a few days.”
Marian glanced at Daemon and blushed.
Lucivar gently kissed her, then stepped aside to let her pass. ”Get into bed now.”
”I’ll see you tomorrow, Daemon,” Marian said a little shyly.
”Good night, Lady Marian,” Daemon said. It was all he could manage.
They watched her until she went into her and Lucivar’s suite, then Lucivar reached out. Daemon stiffened, rejecting the touch.
Dropping his hand, Lucivar said, ”The High Lord’s suite is just down this corridor. He’ll want to see you.”
Daemon couldn’t move. ”I thought you married Jaenelle.”
”Why would you think I married Jaenelle?”
The surprise in Lucivar’s voice woke Daemon’s temper. ”You were here,” he snarled. ”Why wouldn’t you want to marry her?”
Lucivar didn’t say anything for a long minute. Then, quietly, ”That was always your dream, Daemon. Not mine.” Turning, he walked down the corridor. ”Come On.”
Daemon followed slowly. When Lucivar stopped and knocked on a door, he kept walking, drawn to the strong, dark, feminine psychic scent’coming from a room on the opposite side of the corridor.
”Daemon?”
Lucivar’s voice faded, muted by a powerful tide of emotions.
Daemon opened a door and walked into a sitting room. One wall had built-in bookshelves above a row of closed, waist-high wooden cabinets. A couch, two triangular side tables, and two chairs formed a bracket of furniture around a long, low table. A pair of sinuous, patinaed lamps sat on the side tables. Next to one chair was a large basket full of skeins of wool and silk and a partially completed piece of needlework. A desk sat in front of the glass doors that led out to the balcony. A tiered stand filled with plants occupied one corner.
The psychic scent washed over him, through him. Oh, he remembered that dark scent. But there was something different about it now, something delicately, deliriously musky.
His body tightened, then swelled with male interest before his mind understood the significance of that difference. Then he noticed the sapphire slippers near one chair. A woman’s slippers.
Against all reason, despite all desire, even when he had thought that Lucivar had married her, he hadn’t fully absorbed the fact that she was no longer the child he had known. She had grown up.
The walls of the room faded to gray, then darkened and began to close in, forming a tunnel around him.
”Daemon.”
He remembered that deep voice, too. He had heard it amused. He had heard it full of rage and fierce power. He had heard it hoarse and exhausted. He had heard it plead with him to reach up, to accept the help and strength being offered.
Turning slowly, he stared at Saetan. The Prince of the Darkness. The High Lord of Hell. His father.
Saetan extended his hand, with its slender fingers and long, black-tinted nails. ”Daemon… Jaenelle is alive,” he said softly.
The room shrank. The tunnel kept closing. The hand waited for him, offering strength, safety, comfort-all the things he’d rejected when he’d been in the Twisted Kingdom.
”Daemon.”
He took a step forward. He raised his hand, with its slender fingers and long, black-tinted nails. This time, he feared his own fragility. This time, he would accept the promises Saetan offered.
He took another step, reaching for the hand that mirrored his own.
Just before his fingers touched Saetan’s, the room disappeared.
”Keep your head down, boyo. Breathe, slow and easy. That’s right.”
Calm strength and warmth flowed from the hand that stroked his head, his neck, his spine.
The effort made him queasy, but after a moment Daemon got his brain and body working together enough to open his eyes. He stared at the carpet between his feet- earth-brown, with swirls of young green and burnt red. Obviously the carpet couldn’t decide if it was representing spring or autumn.
”Do you want some brandy or a basin?” Lucivar asked.
Why would he want a basin?
His stomach jumped. He swallowed carefully. ”Brandy,” he said, gritting his teeth and hoping it wasn’t the wrong choice.
When Lucivar returned, Daemon got a generously filled snifter shoved into his hand and a basin shoved between his feet.
The hand rubbing Daemon’s spine stopped moving. ”Lucivar,” Saetan said, his voice equally amused and annoyed.
”Helene won’t be pleased with him if he pukes on the carpet.”
Daemon didn’t know the word Saetan used, but it sounded nasty. It was petty, but he felt childishly pleased that his father had taken his side.
”Go to Hell,” he said, sitting up enough to take a sip of brandy.
”I’m not the one whose nose was heading for the floor a minute ago,” Lucivar growled, rustling his wings.
”Children,” Saetan warned.
Since his stomach didn’t immediately reject the brandy, Daemon took another sip-and finally edged around the questions that needed answers. ”She’s really alive?”
”She’s really alive,” Saetan replied gently.
”She’s lived here since…” He couldn’t bring himself to say it.
”Yes.”
Daemon turned his head, needing to see the answer in Saetan’s eyes as well as hear it. ”And she healed?”
”Yes.”
But he saw the flicker of hesitation in those gold eyes.
Taking another sip of brandy, he slowly realized that, while Jaenelle’s dark psychic scent filled the room, it wasn’t recent. ”Where is she?”
”She’s making her autumn tour of the kindred Territories,” Saetan said. ”We try not to interrupt her during that time, but I could-”
”No.” Daemon closed his eyes. He needed some time to regain his balance before he met her again. ”It can wait.” It had already waited for thirteen years. A few more days wouldn’t matter.
Saetan hesitated, then glanced at Lucivar, who nodded. ”There is something you need to think about before she returns.” He called in a small jeweler’s box, then pushed the lid open with his thumb.
Daemon stared at the faceted ruby in the gold ring. A Consort’s ring. He’d seen that ring in the Twisted Kingdom, circling the stem of a crystal chalice that had been shattered and carefully pieced together. Jaenelle’s chalice. Jaenelle’s promise.
”That’s not for you to offer,” Daemon said. He gripped the brandy snifter to keep from reaching for the ring.
”I’m not the one who’s offering it, Prince. As the Steward of the Dak Court, it was given into my keeping.”
Daemon carefully licked his lips. ”Has it ever been worn?” Jaenelle was twenty-five now. There was no reason to think-to hope-it had never circled another man’s finger.
Saetan’s eyes held a mixture of relief and sadness. ”No.” He shut the box and held it out.
Daemon’s hand closed over it convulsively.
”Come on, boyo,” Saetan said as he handed the brandy snifter to Lucivar and helped Daemon stand up. ”I’ll show you to your room. Beale will bring a tray up in a few minutes. Try to eat and get some sleep. We’ll talk again in the morning.”
Opening the glass door, Daemon stepped out onto the balcony. The silk robe was too thin and couldn’t stop the night air from leaching the warmth he’d gained from a long bath, but he needed to be outside for a moment, needed to listen to the water singing over stone in the natural-looking fountain at the center of the garden below. There were only a couple of rooms surrounding the garden that showed a soft glow of light. Guest rooms? Or did Aaron and Khardeen occupy those rooms?
Saetan had said no man had worn the Consort’s ring, but …
Daemon took a deep breath, let it out slowly. She was a Queen, and a Queen was entitled to any pleasure the males in her court could provide.
And he was here now.
Shivering, he went into his room, secured the glass door, and drew the curtains. He slipped out of the robe, got into bed, then pulled the covers up over his naked body. Shifting to his side, he stared for several minutes at the jeweler’s box he’d set on the bedside table.
He was here now. The choice was his now.
He took the Consort’s ring out of the box and slipped it on the ring finger of his left hand.
As Surreal placed the last of her toiletries in the bathroom cabinet, she paused, listening. Yes, someone had entered her bedroom. Had the maid returned for another polite verbal struggle? She’d told the woman she didn’t need help unpacking-and had wondered about the maid’s muttered comment. No question about it, you’re a SaDiablo.
So maybe she’d been a little hasty. After all, she didn’t want to have to launder her own clothes for however long she would be there.
Moving toward the bathroom door, Surreal sent a cautious psychic probe into the bedroom. Her lips curled into a snarl. Not the maid back for another round, but a male making himself comfortable in her room. Then she paused. The psychic scent was definitely male-but there was something about it that was just a little off.
Calling in her favorite stiletto, she used Craft to place a sight shield around it. With her arms down and her right hand curled loosely around the hilt, no one would suspect she had a weapon ready-unless they knew she was an assassin. More than likely, it was a male who had heard of her former profession and figured she’d be delighted to accommodate him-like those balless pricks at the service fair who kept pushing her to sign a contract to serve in an ”aristo” Red Moon house.
Well, if this male was expecting a jolly, she would just inform him that she would have to talk to the Steward first about compensation. Unless it was the Steward. Did he really expect her to buy her way out of a contract she hadn’t wanted to sign in the first place?
With her temper simmering, Surreal strode into the bedroom-and stopped short, not sure if she wanted to yell or laugh.
A large gray dog had his head buried in her open trunk. The tip of his tail wagged like a brisk metronome as he sniffed her clothes.
”Find anything interesting?” Surreal asked.
The dog leaped away from the trunk, heading for the door. Then he stopped, a nervous quiver running through his body as his brown eyes stared at her. His tail gave a couple of hopeful tock-tocks before it curled between his legs.
Surreal vanished the stiletto. Keeping one eye on the dog, she checked the trunk. If he’d done anything disgusting on her clothes… Seeing that he hadn’t done more than sniff, she relaxed and turned to face him.
”You’re big,” she said pleasantly. ”Are you allowed inside?”
”Rrrf.”
”You’re right. Considering the size of this place, that was a silly question.” She held out her hand in a loose fist.
Accepting the invitation, he eagerly sniffed her hand, sniffed her feet, sniffed her knees, sniffed…
”Get your nose out of my crotch,” Surreal growled.
He took two steps back and sneezed.
”Well, that’s your opinion.”
His mouth opened in a doggy grin. ”Rrrf.”
Laughing, Surreal put her clothes away in the tall wardrobe and mirrored dresser. After hanging the last piece, she closed the trunk.
Seeing that he had her attention again, the dog sat down and offered a paw.
Well, he seemed friendly.
After shaking his paw, she ran her hands through his fur, scratched behind his ears, and rubbed his head until his eyes started to blissfully close. ”You’re a pretty boy, aren’t you? A big furry boy.”
He gave her chin two enthusiastic, if sloppy, kisses.
Surreal straightened up and stretched. ”I have to go now, boyo. Somewhere in this place is my dinner, and I intend to find it.”
”Rrrf.” The dog bounded to the door, his tail wagging.
She eyed him. ”Well, I suppose you would know where to find the food. Just let me get ready, then we’ll go hunting the elusive dinner.”
”Rrrf.”
Hell’s fire, Surreal thought as she washed her hands and brushed her hair. She must be more tired than she realized if she was imagining tonal qualities in the dog’s sounds that made it seem like he was really answering her. And she would have sworn that last ”Rrrf” was full of amusement. Just as she would have sworn that someone kept trying to reach her on a psychic communication thread and that she was the one who kept fumbling the link.
The dog’s mood had changed by the time she came back. When she opened the bedroom door, he gave her a sad look, then slunk into the corridor.
Prince Aaron leaned against the opposite wall.
He was a handsome man with black hair, gray eyes, and a height and build women would find appealing. Standing next to Sadi he would come in a poor second-well, so would any other man-but she didn’t think he’d ever lacked invitations to the bed.
Maybe that explained the wariness under the arrogant confidence.
”Since you don’t know your way around yet, I stopped by to escort you and Lady Benedict to the dining room,” Aaron said, looking like he was fighting hard not to smile. ”But I see you already have an escort.”
The dog’s ears pricked up. The tail went tock-tock.
The corridor filled with annoying male undercurrents. Surreal briefly considered giving one of them a hard smack just to break up whatever was going on, but losing her escorts would mean trying to find the dining room on her own.
Fortunately, Wilhelmina Benedict chose that moment to leave her room, which was next to Surreal’s. After Aaron explained about being their escort, he offered each woman an arm, and the three of them, with the dog trailing close behind, began the long walk through the Hall.
”The servants must be exhausted by the end of the day,” Surreal said as they turned into another corridor.
”Not really,” Aaron replied. ”The staff works on a rotation and are assigned to a wing of the Hall. That way everyone gets to work in the family wing and the wings where the court resides when it’s here.”
”You mean I’m going to have the same argument with another maid?” Surreal almost wailed.
Aaron shot her an amused look. ”You mean you drew your own bath?”
”I didn’t bother to bathe,” Surreal snapped. ”Sit upwind.”
Smart-ass.
He didn’t have to say it out loud. His expression was sufficient.
Surreal glanced back at her furry escort. Well, animals should be a safe subject for small talk. ”He is allowed inside, isn’t he?”
”Oh, yes,” Aaron said. ”Although, I was surprised to see him. The pack tends to stay in the north woods when there are strangers here.”
”The pack? What kind of dog is he?”
”He’s not a dog. He’s a wolf. And he’s kindred.”
Wilhelmina jumped and gave the wolf a frightened look. ”But… aren’t wolves wild animals?”
”He’s also a Warlord,” Aaron said, ignoring Wilhelmina’s question.
Surreal felt a little queasy. She’d heard about the kindred, who supposedly had some kind of small animal magic. But calling him a Warlord… ”You mean he’s Blood?”
”Of course.”
”Why is he in the Hall?”
”Well, offhand, I’d say he was looking for a friend.”
Hell’s fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful, Surreal thought. What did that mean? ”I guess he’s not really wild then. If he’s in the house, he must be tame.”
Aaron gave her a feral smile. ”If by ’tame’ you mean he doesn’t pee on the carpets, then he’s tame. But then, by that standard, so am I.”
Surreal clamped her teeth together. Screw small talk. In this place, it turned into verbal quicksand.
She echoed Wilhelmina’s sigh of relief when they reached a stairway. Hopefully the dining room wasn’t too far away and she could put some distance between herself and her escort. Escorts. Whatever.
Shit.
Maybe Khardeen would be in the dining room. He was a Warlord, which made him an equal caste, and her Gray Jewels outranked his Sapphire, which gave her an advantage. Right now, she wanted an advantage because she had the strong impression that, of her two escorts, the one with the more impressive set of teeth was really the less dangerous one.
Surreal stared at the closed wooden door and wished she’d done this before eating. The thick beef and vegetable stew had been delicious, as had been the bread, cheese, and slightly tart apples, and she’d consumed them with enthusiasm. Now, her tightened stomach was packing that food into a hard ball.
Snarling quietly, she raised her fist to knock on the door. Hell’s fire, this was just a required meeting with the Steward of the court… who now had the authority to control her life. who was also the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan… who was also the High Lord of Hell… whose name was Saetan Daemon SaDiablo.
”Rrrf?”
Surreal looked over her shoulder. The wolf cocked his head.
”I think you’d better stay out here,” she said, giving the door one hard rap. When a deep voice said, ”Come,” she slipped inside the room, closing the door before the wolf could follow her.
The room was a reversed L. The long side contained a comfortable sitting area with tables, chairs, and a black leather couch. The walls held a variety of pictures, ranging from dramatic oil paintings to whimsical charcoal sketches. Intrigued by those choices, she turned toward the alcove.
Dark-red velvet covered the side walls. The back wall contained floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. A blackwood desk filled the center of the space. Two candlelights lit its surface and the man sitting behind it.
At first glance, she thought Daemon was playing some kind of trick on her. Then she looked closer.
His face was similar to Daemon’s, but handsome rather than beautiful. He was definitely older, and his thick black hair was heavily silvered at the temples. He wore half-moon glasses, which made him look like a benevolent clerk. But the elegant hands had long, black-tinted nails like Daemon’s. On his left hand, he wore a Steward’s ring. On his right, a Black-Jeweled ring.
”Why don’t you sit down,” he said as he continued making notes on the paper in front of him. ”This will take a minute.”
Surreal sidled over to the chair in front of the desk and gingerly sat down. His voice had the same deep timbre as Daemon’s, had the same ability to reach a woman’s bones and make her itchy. At least the sensual heat that poured out of Daemon even when he kept it tightly leashed was muted in the High Lord. Maybe that was just age.
Then he tucked the pen in its holder, laid the glasses on the desk, leaned back in his chair, and steepled his fingers, resting them against his chin.
Her breath clogged in her throat. She’d seen Daemon sit exactly that way whenever a conversation was ”formal.”
Hell’s fire, what was the connection between Sadi and the High Lord?
”So,” he said quietly. ”You’re Surreal. Titian’s daughter.”
A shiver went through her. ”You knew my mother?”
He smiled dryly. ”I still do. And since I am kin to her kin, she considers me a tolerable friend, despite my being male.”
The words that had been rankling inside her all through the journey here burst out. ”My mother is not a Harpy.”
Saetan gave her a considering look. ”A Harpy is a witch who died violently by a male’s hand. I’d say that describes Titian, wouldn’t you? Besides,” he added, ”being the Harpy Queen is hardly an insult.”
”Oh.” Surreal hooked her hair behind her ears. He made it sound so matter-of-fact, and there was no mistaking the respect in his voice.
”Would you like to see her?” Saetan asked.
”But … if she’s demon-dead…”
”A meeting could be arranged here at the Hall. I could ask her if she would be willing.”
”Since you’re the High Lord, I’m surprised you wouldn’t just order her to come,” Surreal said a bit tartly.
Saetan chuckled. ”Darling, I may be the High Lord, but I’m also male. I’m not about to give an order to a Black Widow Queen without a very good reason.”
Surreal narrowed her eyes. ”I can’t picture you as submissive.”
”I’m not submissive, but I do serve. You would be wise not to confuse those two things when dealing with the males in this court.”
Oh, wonderful.
”Especially since you’ve formally declared yourself part of this family,” Saetan added.
Mother Night. ”Look,” Surreal said, leaning forward. ”I didn’t know anyone was using that name here.” And I certainly didn’t expect to meet them.
”All things considered, you have as much right to that name as Kartane SaDiablo,” he said cryptically. ”And since you did list it, you’re stuck with the results.”
”Which are?” Surreal asked suspiciously.
Saetan smiled. ”The short version is, as the patriarch of this family, I am now responsible for you and you are answerable to me.”
”When the sun shines in Hell,” Surreal shot back.
”Be careful what conditions you set, little witch,” he said softly. ”Jaenelle has an uncanny-and sometimes disturbing-way of meeting someone’s terms.”
Surreal swallowed hard. ”She really is in Kaeleer?”
Saetan held up the mark of safe passage that had been sitting on his desk. ”Isn’t that why you came?”
She nodded. ”I wanted to find out what happened to her.”
”Why don’t you save those questions for Jaenelle. She’ll be home in a few days.”
”She lives here?”
”This isn’t her only home, but, yes, she lives here.”
”Does Daemon know?” she asked. ”He wasn’t at dinner.”
”He knows,” Saetan said gently. ”He’s feeling a bit unsettled.”
”That’s an understatement,” she muttered. Then she thought of something else, something that had nagged at her curiosity for thirteen years. If there was anyone in the Realms who would know the answer, she figured it was the High Lord. ”Have you ever heard of the High Priest of the Hourglass?”
His smile had a sharp edge. ”I am the High Priest.”
”Oh, shit.”
His laughter was warm and full-bodied. ”You’re willing to snarl at me as the High Lord, the Steward, and the family patriarch, but knowing I’m the Priest knocks your feet out from under you?”
Surreal glared at him. Put that way, it did sound silly. But it was disconcerting to find out that the dangerous male she’d caught a whiff of that night at Cassandra’s Altar was the same amused man sitting on the other side of the desk. ”Then you can tell Daemon what happened that night. You can tell him what he doesn’t remember.”
Saetan shook his head. ”No, I can’t. I can confirm what happened while we were linked, and I can tell him what happened after. But there’s only one person who can tell him what took place in the abyss.”
Surreal sighed. ”I’m almost afraid of what he’ll find out.”
”I wouldn’t be too concerned. When Jaenelle formally set up her court, the Consort’s ring was set aside for him, by her decree. So whatever happened between them couldn’t have been that distressing. At least for her,” he added solemnly. Rising, he came around the desk. ”I still have to meet with several of the Eyriens tonight as well as get the reports from Aaron, Khardeen, and Lucivar. If you need any help understanding the Blood here, please come and talk to me.”
Accepting dismissal, Surreal rose and glanced at the door. ”There is one other thing.”
Saetan studied the closed door. ”I see you’ve met Lord Graysfang.”
Surreal choked back a laugh.
”I know. Their names sound as strange to us as ours do to them. Although they may have more reason to think so. When kindred young are born, a Black Widow makes that mental sidestep into the dreams and visions. Sometimes she sees nothing. Sometimes she names one of the young according to the visions.”
”Well,” Surreal said, smiling, ”he is gray, and he does have fangs. Aaron said he was in the Hall because he’s looking for a friend.”
Saetan gave her an odd look. ”I’d say that’s accurate. The kindred dogs and horses relate well to the human Blood since they’ve lived among them for so long, although, until eight years ago, in secret. The rest of the kindred tend to stay away from most humans. But whenever they come across a human who is compatible with them, they try to form a bond, to better understand us.”
”Why me?” Surreal asked, intrigued.
”The Queens here have strong courts, and the males in the First Circle are entitled to the first share of their time and attention. A youngster like Graysfang has to wait for his turn and then has to share that time with other young males in the same position. But you’re a Gray-Jeweled witch who does not, as yet, have any other male claims.”
”Except the males in the family,” Surreal said sourly.
”Except the males in the family,” Saetan agreed. ”On both sides.”
She sputtered.
”But that claim isn’t quite the same thing. You’re not a Queen, whose courts are set up by a different Protocol. So if you accept Graysfang before the other males realize you’re here, he will hold the dominant position over any male except your mate, even if the other male wears darker Jewels. Since he’s not old enough to make the Offering to the Darkness and still wears his Birthright Purple Dusk Jewel, the odds of a darker-Jeweled male becoming interested in you are rather high.”
”Which still doesn’t explain why he’s interested in me in the first place.”
Saetan reached out slowly. His left index finger hooked the gold chain around her neck and drew it out of her shirt until her Gray Jewel hung between them.
At first, she thought the caress accompanying that movement was a subtle kind of seduction. Then she realized that, for him, it wasn’t meant to be seductive at all. It was simply a gesture that was as natural to him as breathing.
Which wasn’t doing her breathing a whole lot of good.
”Consider this,” he said. ”He may not have been given that name because he’s gray and has fangs but because he is Gray’s fang.”
”Mother Night,” Surreal said, looking down at her Jewel.
He lowered her Jewel until it rested above her breasts. ”The decision about him is yours, and I’ll support any decision you make. But think carefully, Surreal. A Black Widow’s visions should not be dismissed in haste.”
Nodding, she savored the feel of his hand on her lower back as he guided her to the door. When he reached for the doorknob, she put her hand on the door to keep it shut. ”What’s your connection with Daemon?”
”He and Lucivar are my sons.”
That figured.
”Daemon inherited your looks,” she said.
”He also inherited my temper.”
Hearing the warning in his voice, she noticed, at the back of his golden eyes, the same wariness she had seen in Aaron’s. Hell’s fire, she was going to have to find someone to talk to soon who could explain the male-female rules in Kaeleer. Being wary of her as an assassin was one thing. Being wary of her as a woman… She didn’t like it. Not coming from him. She didn’t like it at all.
”I’d like to meet my mother,” she said abruptly.
Saetan nodded. ”The court’s coming in this evening, and I can’t leave until the Queen approves the new arrivals, but I’ll see that a message gets to Titian.”
”Thank you.” Damn it, stop delaying. Get out of here. She bolted from the room as soon as he opened the door.
As Graysfang anxiously trotted beside her, she kept feeling that odd psychic brush against her inner barriers.
She would have gotten lost twice without him, although she noticed there were footmen in all the major corridors. Each man rose from his chair, glanced at Graysfang, smiled at her, and said nothing. So she followed the wolf until, with a sigh, she was safely in her room.
When he left her a minute later to take care of his own nightly business, she quickly undressed and pulled on a pair of long-sleeved pajamas. She still preferred silky nightgowns most of the time, but there were times-like tonight-when she wanted to wear something that looked and felt asexual.
Dumping her soiled clothes into a basket in the bathroom, she hurried through her nighttime ritual, slipped into bed, and turned off the candlelight on the bedside table.
Someone had put a light warming spell on the sheets. Probably the maid. Silently thanking the woman, Surreal snuggled under the covers.
She was just starting to doze off when a shape passed through the glass door. She tensed, waiting, until a body landed lightly on the bed, circled three times, then settled next to her with a content sigh.
Twisting her upper body slightly, she looked at Graysfang. Feeling that odd psychic brush again, she followed it, too tired to think about what she was doing and more concerned with whether or not she was going to end up with fleas in the morning.
No fleas, said a sleepy male voice on a psychic thread. Kindred know spells for fleas and other itchies.
With a yelp, Surreal shot into a sitting position.
Graysfang leaped up, his teeth bared and hackles raised. Where is the danger? he demanded. I smell no danger.
”You can talk!”
Slowly, Graysfang’s hackles smoothed. He covered his teeth. I am kindred. We do not always want to talk to humans, but we can talk.
Mother Night, Mother Night, Mother Night.
Wagging his tail, he leaned forward and licked her cheek. You heard me! he said happily. You are not even trained yet and you can hear kindred! He raised his head and howled.
Surreal grabbed his muzzle. ”Hush. You’ll wake everyone.”
Ladvarian will be pleased.
”Great. I’m delighted.” Who in the name of Hell is Ladvarian? ”Let’s just go to sleep now, all right?” And since she didn’t know how she had made this link in the first place, how was she going to sever it so that her thoughts were private again?
She felt a gentle mental push, then, that odd brush again.
”Rrrf.”
”Thank you,” Surreal said weakly. In the morning, she thought as she snuggled back under the covers and felt Graysfang settle himself against her back. She’d think about this in the morn