1 / Terreille

Surrounded by guards, Lucivar Yaslana, the half-breed Eyrien Warlord Prince, walked into the courtyard, fully expecting to hear the order for his execution. There was no other reason for a salt mine slave to be brought to this courtyard, and Zuultah, the Queen of Pruul, had good reason to want him dead. Prythian, the High Priestess of Askavi, still wanted him alive, still hoped to turn him to stud. But Prythian wasn’t standing in the courtyard with Zuultah.

Dorothea SaDiablo, the High Priestess of Hayll, was.

Lucivar spread his dark, membranous wings to their full span, taking advantage of Pruul’s desert air to let them dry.

Lady Zuultah glanced at her Master of the Guard. A moment later, the Master’s whip whistled through the air, and the lash cut deep into Lucivar’s back.

Lucivar hissed through his clenched teeth and folded his wings.

“Any other acts of defiance will earn you fifty strokes,” Zuultah snapped. Then she turned to confer with Dorothea SaDiablo.

What was the game? Lucivar wondered. What had brought Dorothea out of her lair in Hayll? And who was the angry Green-Jeweled Prince who stood apart from the women, clutching a folded square of cloth?

Cautiously sending out a psychic probe, Lucivar caught all the emotional scents. From Zuultah, there was excitement and the usual underlying viciousness. From Dorothea, a sense of urgency and fear. Beneath the unknown Prince’s anger was grief and guilt.

Dorothea’s fear was the most interesting because it meant that Daemon Sadi had not been recaptured yet.

A cruel, satisfied smile curled Lucivar’s lips.

Seeing the smile, the Green-Jeweled Prince became hostile. “We’re wasting time,” he said sharply, taking a step toward Lucivar.

Dorothea spun around. “Prince Alexander, these things must be do—”

Philip Alexander opened the cloth, holding two corners as he spread his arms wide.

Lucivar stared at the stained sheet. So much blood. Too much blood. Blood was the living river—and the psychic thread. If he sent out a psychic probe and touched that stain…

Something deep within him stilled and became brittle.

Lucivar forced himself to meet Philip Alexander’s hostile stare.

“A week ago, Daemon Sadi abducted my twelve-year-old niece and took her to Cassandra’s Altar, where he raped and then butchered her.” Philip flicked his wrists, causing the sheet to undulate.

Lucivar swallowed hard to keep his stomach down. He slowly shook his head. “He couldn’t have raped her,” he said, more to himself than to Philip. “He can’t…. He’s never been able to perform that way.”

“Maybe it wasn’t bloody enough for him before,” Philip snapped. “This is Jaenelle’s blood, and Sadi was recognized by the Warlords who tried to rescue her.”

Lucivar turned reluctantly toward Dorothea. “Are you sure?”

“It came to my attention—unfortunately, too late—that Sadi had taken an unnatural interest in the child.” Dorothea lifted her shoulders in an elegant little shrug. “Perhaps he took offense when she tried to fend off his attentions. You know as well as I do that he’s capable of anything when enraged.”

“You found the body?”

Dorothea hesitated. “No. That’s all the Warlords found.” She pointed at the sheet. “But don’t take my word for it. See if even you can stomach what’s locked in that blood.”

Lucivar took a deep breath. The bitch was lying. She had to be lying. Because, sweet Darkness, if she wasn’t…

Daemon had been offered his freedom in exchange for killing Jaenelle. He had refused the offer—or so he had said. But what if he hadn’t refused?

A moment after he opened his mind and touched the bloodstained sheet, he was on his knees, spewing up the meager breakfast he’d had an hour before, shaking as something deep within him shattered.

Damn Sadi. Damn the bastard’s soul to the bowels of Hell. She was a child! What could she have done to deserve this? She was Witch, the living myth. She was the Queen they’d dreamed of serving. She was his spitting little Cat. Damn you, Sadi!

The guards hauled Lucivar to his feet.

“Where is he?” Philip Alexander demanded.

Lucivar closed his gold eyes so that he wouldn’t have to see that sheet. He had never felt this weary, this beaten. Not as a half-breed boy in the Eyrien hunting camps, not in the countless courts he’d served in over the centuries since, not even here in Pruul as one of Zuultah’s slaves.

“Where is he?” Philip demanded again.

Lucivar opened his eyes. “How in the name of Hell should I know?”

“When the Warlords lost the trail, Sadi was heading southeast—toward Pruul. It’s well-known—”

“He wouldn’t come here.” That shattered something deep within him began to burn. “He wouldn’t dare come here.”

Dorothea SaDiablo stepped toward him. “Why not? You’ve helped each other in the past. There’s no reason—”

“There is a reason,” Lucivar said savagely. “If I ever see that cold blooded bastard again, I’ll rip his heart out!”

Dorothea stepped back, shaken. Zuultah watched him warily.

Philip Alexander slowly lowered his arms. “He’s been declared rogue. There’s a price on his head. When he’s found—”

“He’ll be suitably punished,” Dorothea broke in.

“He’ll be executed!” Philip replied heatedly.

There was a moment of heavy silence.

“Prince Alexander,” Dorothea purred, “even someone from Chaillot should know that, among the Blood, there is no law against murder. If you didn’t have sense enough to prevent an emotionally disturbed child from toying with a Warlord Prince of Sadi’s temperament…” She shrugged delicately. “Perhaps the child got what she deserved.”

Philip paled. “She was a good girl,” he said, but his voice trembled with a whisper of doubt.

“Yes,” Dorothea purred. “A good girl. So good your family had to send her away every few months to be…reeducated.”

Emotionally disturbed child. The words were a bellows, stoking the fire within Lucivar to ice-cold rage. Emotionally disturbed child. Stay away from me, Bastard. You’d better stay away. Because if I have the chance, I’ll carve you into pieces.

At some point, Zuultah, Dorothea, and Philip had withdrawn to continue their discussion in the cooler recesses of Zuultah’s house. Lucivar didn’t notice. He was barely aware of being led into the salt mines, barely aware of the pick in his hands, barely aware of the pain as his sweat ran into the new lash wound on his back.

All he saw was the bloodstained sheet.

Lucivar swung the pick.

Liar.

He didn’t see the wall, didn’t see the salt. He saw Daemon’s golden-brown chest, saw the heart beating beneath the skin.

Silky…court-trained…liar!

2 / Hell

Andulvar settled one hip on a corner of the large, blackwood desk.

Saetan glanced up from the letter he was composing. “I thought you were going back to your eyrie.”

“Changed my mind.” Andulvar’s gaze wandered around the private study, finally stopping at the portrait of Cassandra, the Black-Jeweled Queen who had walked the Realms more than 50,000 years ago. Five years ago, Saetan had discovered that Cassandra had faked the final death and had become a Guardian in order to wait for the next Witch.

And look what had happened to the next Witch, Andulvar thought bleakly. Jaenelle Angelline was a powerful, extraordinary child, but still as vulnerable as any other child. All that power hadn’t kept her from being overwhelmed by family secrets he and Saetan could only guess at, and by Dorothea’s and Hekatah’s vicious schemes to eliminate the one rival who could have ended their stranglehold on the Realm of Terreille. He was certain they had been behind the brutality that had made Jaenelle’s spirit flee from her body.

Too late to prevent the violation, a friend had taken Jaenelle away from her destroyers and brought her to Cassandra’s Altar. There, Daemon Sadi, with Saetan’s help, had been able to bring the girl out of the psychic abyss long enough to convince her to heal the physical wounds. But when the Chaillot Warlords arrived to “rescue” her, she panicked and fled back into the abyss.

Her body was slowly healing, but only the Darkness knew where her spirit was—or if she would ever come back.

Pushing aside those thoughts, Andulvar looked at Saetan, took a deep breath, and puffed his cheeks as he let it out. “Your letter of resignation from the Dark Council?”

“I should have resigned a long time ago.”

“You had always insisted that it was good to have a few of the demon-dead serving in the Council because they had experience but no personal interest in the decisions.”

“Well, my interest in the Council’s decisions is very personal now, isn’t it?” After signing his name with his customary flourish, Saetan slipped the letter into an envelope and sealed it with black wax. “Deliver that for me, will you?”

Andulvar reluctantly took the envelope. “What if the Dark Council decides to search for her family?”

Saetan leaned back in his chair. “There hasn’t been a Dark Council in Terreille since the last war between the Realms. There’s no reason for Kaeleer’s Council to look beyond the Shadow Realm.”

“If they check the registers at Ebon Askavi, they’ll find out she wasn’t originally from Kaeleer.”

“As the Keep’s librarian, Geoffrey has already agreed not to find any useful entries that might lead anyone back to Chaillot. Besides, Jaenelle was never listed in the registers—and won’t be until there’s a reason to include an entry for her.”

“You’ll be staying at the Keep?”

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

Saetan hesitated. “For as long as it takes.” When Andulvar made no move to leave, he asked, “Is there something else?”

Andulvar stared at the neat masculine script on the front of the envelope. “There’s a demon in the receiving room upstairs who has asked for an audience with you. He says it’s important.”

Saetan pushed his chair away from the desk and reached for his cane. “They all say that—when they’re brave enough to come at all. Who is he?”

“I’ve never seen him before,” Andulvar said. Then he added reluctantly, “He’s new to the Dark Realm, and he’s from Hayll.”

Saetan limped around the desk. “Then what does he want with me? I’ve had nothing to do with Hayll for seventeen hundred years.”

“He wouldn’t say why he wants to see you.” Andulvar paused. “I don’t like him.”

“Naturally,” Saetan replied dryly. “He’s Hayllian.”

Andulvar shook his head. “It’s more than that. He feels tainted.”

Saetan became very still. “In that case, let’s talk to our Hayllian Brother,” he said with malevolent gentleness.

Andulvar couldn’t suppress the shudder that ran through him. Fortunately, Saetan had already turned toward the door and hadn’t noticed. They’d been friends for thousands of years, had served together, laughed together, grieved together. He didn’t want the man hurt because, at times, even a friend feared the High Lord of Hell.

But as Saetan opened the door and looked at him, Andulvar saw the flicker of anger in his eyes that acknowledged the shudder. Then the High Lord left the study to deal with the fool who was waiting for him.

The recently demon-dead Hayllian Warlord stood in the middle of the receiving room, his hands clasped behind his back. He was dressed all in black, including a black silk scarf wrapped around his throat.

“High Lord,” he said, making a respectful bow.

“Don’t you know even the basic courtesies when approaching an unknown Warlord Prince?” Saetan asked mildly.

“High Lord?” the man stammered.

“A man doesn’t hide his hands unless he’s concealing a weapon,” Andulvar said, coming into the room. He spread his dark wings, completely blocking the door.

Fury flashed over the Warlord’s face and was gone. He extended his arms out in front of him. “My hands are quite useless.”

Saetan glanced at the black-gloved hands. The right one was curled into a claw. There was one finger missing on the left. “Your name?”

The Warlord hesitated a moment too long. “Greer, High Lord.”

Even the man’s name somehow fouled the air. No, not just the man, although it would take a few weeks for the rotting-meat stink to fade. Something else. Saetan’s gaze drifted to the black silk scarf. His nostrils flared as he caught a scent he remembered too well. So. Hekatah still favored that particular perfume.

“What do you want, Lord Greer?” Saetan asked, already certain he knew why Hekatah would send someone to see him. With effort, he hid the icy rage that burned within him.

Greer stared at the floor. “I…I was wondering if you had any news about the young witch.”

The room felt so deliciously cold, so sweetly dark. One thought, one flick of his mind, one brief touch of the Black Jewels’ strength and there wouldn’t be enough left of that Warlord to be even a whisper in the Darkness.

“I rule Hell, Greer,” Saetan said too softly. “Why should I care about a Hayllian witch, young or otherwise?”

“She wasn’t from Hayll.” Greer hesitated. “I had understood you were a friend of hers.”

Saetan raised one eyebrow. “I?”

Greer licked his lips. The words rushed out. “I was assigned to the Hayllian embassy in Beldon Mor, the capital of Chaillot, and had the privilege of meeting Jaenelle. When the trouble started, I betrayed the High Priestess of Hayll’s trust by helping Daemon Sadi get the girl to safety.” His left hand fumbled with the scarf around his neck and finally pulled it away. “This was my reward.”

Lying bastard, Saetan thought. If he didn’t have his own use for this walking piece of carrion, he would have ripped through Greer’s mind and found out what part the man had really played in this.

“I knew the girl,” Saetan snarled as he walked toward the door.

Greer took a step forward. “Knew her? Is she…”

Saetan spun around. “She walks among the cildru dyathe!”

Greer bowed his head. “May the Darkness be merciful.”

“Get out.” Saetan stepped aside, not wanting to be fouled by any contact with the man.

Andulvar folded his wings and escorted Greer from the Hall. He returned a few minutes later, looking worried. Saetan stared at him, no longer caring that the rage and hatred showed in his eyes.

Andulvar settled into an Eyrien fighting stance, his feet apart to balance his weight, his wings slightly spread. “You know that statement will spread through Hell faster than the scent of fresh blood.”

Saetan gripped the cane with both hands. “I don’t give a damn who else he tells as long as that bastard tells the bitch who sent him.”

“He said that? He really said that?”

Slumped in the only chair in the room, Greer nodded wearily.

Hekatah, the self-proclaimed High Priestess of Hell, twirled around the room, her long black hair flying out behind her as she spun.

This was even better than simply destroying the child. Now, with her torn mind and torn, dead body, the girl would be an invisible knife in Saetan’s ribs, always twisting and twisting, a constant reminder that he wasn’t the only power to contend with.

Hekatah stopped spinning, tipped her head back, and flung her arms up in triumph. “She walks among the cildru dyathe!” Sinking gracefully to the floor, she leaned against an arm of Greer’s chair and gently stroked his cheek. “And you, my sweet, were responsible for that. She’s of no use to him now.”

“The girl is no longer useful to you either, Priestess.”

Hekatah pouted coquettishly, her gold eyes glittering with malice. “No longer useful for my original plans, but she’ll be an excellent weapon against that gutter son of a whore.”

Seeing Greer’s blank expression, Hekatah rose to her feet, slapping the dust from her gown as she tsked in irritation. “Your body is dead, not your mind. Do try to think, Greer darling. Who else was interested in the child?”

Greer sat up and slowly smiled. “Daemon Sadi.”

“Daemon Sadi,” Hekatah agreed smugly. “How pleased do you think he’ll be when he finds out his little darling is so very, very dead? And who, with a little help, do you think he’ll blame for her departure from the living? Think of the fun pitting the son against the father. And if they destroy each other”—Hekatah opened her arms wide—“Hell will fragment once more, and the ones who were always too frightened to defy him will rally around me. With the strength of the demon-dead behind us, Terreille will finally kneel to me as the High Priestess, as it would have done all those many, many centuries ago if that bastard hadn’t always thwarted my ambition.”

She looked around the small, almost-empty room in distaste. “Once he’s gone, I’ll reside again in the splendor that’s my due. And you, my faithful darling, will serve at my side.

“Come,” she said, guiding him into another small room. “I realize the body’s death is a shock…”

Greer stared at the boy and girl cowering in a pile of straw.

“We’re demons, Greer,” Hekatah said, stroking his arm. “We need fresh, hot blood. With it, we can keep our dead flesh strong. And although some pleasures of the flesh are no longer possible, there are compensations.”

Hekatah leaned against him, her lips close to his ear. “Landen children. A Blood child is better but more difficult to come by. But dining on a landen child also has compensations.”

Greer was breathing fast, as if he needed air.

“A pretty little girl, don’t you think, Greer? At your first psychic touch, her mind will burn to hot ash, but primitive emotions will remain…long enough…and fear is a delicious dinner.”

3 / Terreille

You are my instrument.

Daemon Sadi shifted restlessly on the small bed that had been set up in one of the storage rooms beneath Deje’s Red Moon house.

…you are my instrument…riding the Winds to Cassandra’s Altar…Surreal already there, crying…Cassandra there, angry…so much blood…his hands covered with Jaenelle’s blood…descending into the abyss…falling, screaming…a child who wasn’t a child…a narrow bed with straps to tie down hands and feet…a sumptuous bed with silk sheets…the Dark Altar’s cold stone…black candles…scented candles…a child screaming…his tongue licking a tiny spiral horn…his body pinning hers to cold stone while she fought and screamed…begging her to forgive him…but what had he done?…a golden mane…his fingers tickling a fawn tail…a narrow bed with silk sheets…a sumptuous bed with straps…forgive me, forgive me…his body pinning her down…what had he done?…Cassandra’s anger cutting him…was she safe?…was she well?…a sumptuous stone bed…silk sheets with straps…a child screaming…so much blood…you are my instrument…forgive me, forgive me…WHAT HAD HE DONE?

Surreal sagged against the wall and listened to Daemon’s muffled sobs. Who would have suspected that the Sadist could be so vulnerable? She and Deje knew enough basic healing Craft to heal his body, but neither of them knew how to fix the mental and emotional wounds. Instead of becoming stronger, he was becoming more fragile, vulnerable.

For the first few days after she had brought him here, he had kept asking what had happened. But she could tell him only what she knew.

With the help of the demon-dead girl, Rose, she had entered Briarwood, killed the Warlord who had raped Jaenelle, and then had taken Jaenelle to the Sanctuary called Cassandra’s Altar. Daemon had joined her at the Sanctuary. Cassandra was there, too. Daemon had ordered them out of the Altar room in order to have privacy to try to bring Jaenelle’s Self back to her body. Surreal had used that time to set traps for Briarwood’s “rescue party.” When the males arrived, she had held them off for as long as she could. By the time she’d retreated to the Altar room, Cassandra and Jaenelle were gone and Daemon could barely stand. She and Daemon had ridden the Winds back to Beldon Mor and had spent the last three weeks hiding in Deje’s Red Moon house.

That’s all she could tell him. It wasn’t what he needed to hear. She couldn’t tell him he had saved Jaenelle. She couldn’t tell him the girl was safe and well. And it seemed like the more he struggled to remember, the more fragmented the memories became. But he still had the strength of the Black Jewels, still had the ability to unleash all of that dark power. If he lost his tenuous hold on sanity…

Surreal turned at the sound of a stealthy footfall on the stairs at the end of the dim passageway. The sobs behind the closed door stopped.

Moving swiftly, silently, Surreal cornered the woman at the bottom of the stairs. “What do you want, Deje?”

The dishes on the tray Deje was carrying rattled as the woman’s body shook. “I—I thought—” She lifted the tray in explanation. “Sandwiches. Some tea. I—”

Surreal frowned. Why was Deje staring at her breasts? It wasn’t the look of an efficient matron sizing up one of the girls. And why was Deje shaking like that?

Surreal looked down. Her clenched hand was holding her favorite stiletto, its tip resting against the Gray Jewel that hung on its gold chain above the swell of her breasts. She hadn’t been aware of calling in the stiletto or of calling in the Gray. She had been annoyed with the intrusion, but…

Surreal vanished the stiletto, pulled her shirt together to hide the Jewel, and took the tray from Deje. “Sorry. I’m a bit edgy.”

“The Gray,” Deje whispered. “You wear the Gray.”

Surreal tensed. “Not when I’m working in a Red Moon house.”

Deje didn’t seem to hear. “I didn’t know you were that strong.”

Surreal shifted the tray’s weight to her left hand and casually let her right hand drop to her side, her fingers curled around the stiletto’s comforting weight. If it had to be done, it would be fast and clean. Deje deserved that much.

She watched Deje’s face while the woman mentally rearranged the bits of information she knew about the whore named Surreal, who was also an assassin. When Deje finally looked at her, there was respect and dark satisfaction in the woman’s eyes.

Then Deje looked at the tray and frowned. “Best use a warming spell on that tea or it won’t be fit to drink.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Surreal said.

Deje started back up the stairs.

“Deje,” Surreal said quietly. “I do pay my debts.”

Deje gave her a sharp smile and nodded at the tray. “You try to get some food into him. He’s got to get his strength back.”

Surreal waited until the door at the top of the stairs clicked shut before returning to the storage room that held, perhaps now more than ever, the most dangerous Warlord Prince in the Realm.

Late that evening, Surreal opened the storage room’s door without knocking and pulled up short. “What in the name of Hell are you doing?”

Daemon glanced up at her before tying his other shoe. “I’m getting dressed.” His deep, cultured voice had a rougher edge than usual.

“Are you mad?” Surreal bit her lip, regretting the word.

“Perhaps.” Daemon fastened his ruby cuff links to his white silk shirt. “I have to find out what happened, Surreal. I have to find her.”

Exasperated, Surreal scraped her fingers through her hair. “You can’t leave in the middle of the night. Besides, it’s bitter cold out.”

“The middle of the night is the best time, don’t you think?” Daemon replied too calmly, shrugging into his black jacket.

“No, I don’t. At least wait until dawn.”

“I’m Hayllian. This is Chaillot. I’d be a bit too conspicuous in daylight.” Daemon looked around the empty little room, lifted his shoulders in a dismissive shrug, took a comb from his coat pocket, and pulled it through his thick black hair. When he was done, he slipped his elegant, long-nailed hands into his trouser pockets and raised an eyebrow as if asking, Well?

Surreal studied the tall, trim but muscular body in its perfectly tailored black suit. Sadi’s golden-brown skin was gray-tinged from exhaustion, his face looked haggard, and the skin around his golden eyes was puffy. But even now he was still more beautiful than a man had a right to be.

“You look like shit,” she snapped.

Daemon flinched, as if her anger had cut him. Then he tried to smile. “Don’t try to turn my head with compliments, Surreal.”

Surreal clenched her hands. The only thing to throw at him was the tray with the tea and sandwiches on it. Seeing the clean cup and the untouched food ignited her temper. “You fool, you didn’t eat anything!”

“Lower your voice unless you want everyone to know I’m here.”

Surreal paced back and forth, snarling every curse she could remember.

“Don’t cry, Surreal.”

His arms were around her, and beneath her cheek was cool silk.

“I’m not crying,” she snapped, gulping back a sob.

She felt rather than heard his chuckle. “My mistake.” His lips brushed her hair before he stepped away from her.

Surreal sniffed loudly, wiped her eyes on her sleeve, and pushed her hair from her face. “You’re not strong enough yet, Daemon.”

“I’m not going to get any better until I find her,” Daemon said quietly.

“Do you know how to open the Gates?” she asked. Those thirteen places of power linked the Realms of Terreille, Kaeleer, and Hell.

“No. But I’ll find someone who does know.” Daemon took a deep breath. “Listen, Surreal, and listen well. There are very few people in the entire Realm of Terreille who can connect you in any way with me. I’ve made the effort to make sure of that. So unless you stand on the roof and announce it, no one in Beldon Mor will have a reason to look in your direction. Keep your head down. Keep a rein on that temper of yours. You’ve done more than enough. Don’t get yourself in any deeper—because I won’t be around to help you out of it.”

Surreal swallowed hard. “Daemon…you’ve been declared rogue. There’s a price on your head.”

“Not unexpected after I broke the Ring of Obedience.”

Surreal hesitated. “Are you sure Cassandra took Jaenelle to one of the other Realms?”

“Yes, I’m sure of that much,” he said softly, bleakly.

“So you’re going to find a Priestess who knows how to open the Gates and follow them.”

“Yes. But I have one stop to make first.”

“This isn’t a good time for social calls,” Surreal said tartly.

“This isn’t exactly a social call. Dorothea can’t use you against me because she doesn’t know about you. But she knows about him, and she’s used him before. I’m not going to give her the chance. Besides, for all his arrogance and temper, he’s a damn good Warlord Prince.”

Weary, Surreal leaned against the wall. “What are you going to do?”

Daemon hesitated. “I’m going to get Lucivar out of Pruul.”

4 / Kaeleer

Saetan appeared on the small landing web carved into the stone floor of one of the Keep’s many outer courtyards. As he stepped off the web, he looked up.

Unless one knew what to look for, one only saw the black mountain called Ebon Askavi, only felt the weight of all that dark stone. But Ebon Askavi was also the Keep, the Sanctuary of Witch, the repository of the Blood’s long, long history. A place well and fiercely guarded. The perfect place for a secret.

Damn Hekatah, he thought bitterly as he slowly crossed the courtyard, leaning heavily on his cane. Damn her and her schemes for power. Greedy, malicious bitch. He’d stayed his hand in the past because he felt he owed her something for bearing his first two sons. But that debt had been paid. More than paid. This time, he would sacrifice his honor, his self-respect, and anything else he had to if that was the price he had to pay to stop her.

“Saetan.”

Geoffrey, the Keep’s historian/librarian, stepped from the shadow of the doorway. As always, he was neatly dressed in a slim black tunic and trousers and bare of any ornamentation except his Red Jewel ring. As always, his black hair was carefully combed back, drawing a person’s eyes to the prominent widow’s peak. But his black eyes looked like small lumps of coal instead of highly polished stone.

As Saetan walked toward him, the vertical line between Geoffrey’s black eyebrows deepened. “Come to the library and have a glass of yarbarah with me,” Geoffrey said.

Saetan shook his head. “Later perhaps.”

Geoffrey’s eyebrows pulled down farther, echoing his widow’s peak. “Anger has no place in a sickroom. Especially now. Especially yours.”

The two Guardians studied each other. Saetan looked away first.

Once they were settled into comfortable chairs and Geoffrey had poured a warmed glass of the blood wine for each of them, Saetan forced himself to look at the large blackwood table that dominated the room. It was usually piled with history, Craft, and reference books Geoffrey had pulled from the stacks—books the two men had searched for touchstones to understand Jaenelle’s casual but stunning remarks and her sometimes quirky but awesome abilities. Now it was empty. And the emptiness hurt.

“Have you no hope, Geoffrey?” Saetan asked quietly.

“What?” Geoffrey glanced at the table, then looked away. “I needed…occupation. Sitting there, each book was a reminder, and…”

“I understand.” Saetan drained his glass and reached for his cane.

Geoffrey walked with him to the door. As Saetan went into the corridor, he felt a light, hesitant touch and turned back.

“Saetan…do you still hope?”

Saetan considered the question for a long moment before giving the only answer he could give. “I have to.”

Cassandra closed her book, rolled her shoulders wearily, and scrubbed her face with her hands. “There’s no change. She hasn’t risen out of the abyss—or wherever it is she’s fallen. And the longer she remains beyond the reach of another mind, the less chance we have of ever getting her back.”

Saetan studied the woman with dusty-red hair and tired emerald eyes. Long, long ago when Cassandra had been Witch, the Black-Jeweled Queen, he had been her Consort and had loved her. And she, in her own way, had cared for him—until he made the Offering to the Darkness and walked away wearing Black Jewels. After that, it was more a trading of skills—his in the bed for hers in the Black Widow’s Craft—until she faked her own death and became a Guardian. She had played her deathbed scene so well, and his faith in her as a Queen had been so solid, it had never occurred to him that she had done it to end her reign as Witch—and to get away from him.

Now they were united again.

But as he put his arms around her, offering her comfort, he felt that inner withdrawal, that suppressed shudder of fear. She never forgot he walked dark roads that even she dared not travel, never forgot that the Dark Realm had called him High Lord while he still had been fully alive.

Saetan kissed Cassandra’s forehead and stepped away. “Get some rest,” he said gently. “I’ll sit with her.”

Cassandra looked at him, glanced at the bed, and shook her head. “Not even you can make the reach, Saetan.”

Saetan looked at the pale, fragile girl lying in a sea of black silk sheets. “I know.”

As Cassandra closed the door behind her, he wondered if, despite the terrible cost, she derived some small satisfaction from that fact.

He shook his head to clear his mind, pulled the chair closer to the bed, and sighed. He wished the room weren’t so impersonal. He wished there were paintings to break up the long walls of polished black stone. He wished there was a young girl’s clutter scattered on the blackwood furniture. He wished for so much.

But these rooms had been finished shortly before that nightmare at Cassandra’s Altar. Jaenelle hadn’t had the chance to imprint them with her psychic scent and make them her own. Even the small treasures she’d left here hadn’t been lived with enough, handled enough to make them truly hers. There was no familiar anchor here for her to reach for as she tried to climb out of the abyss that was part of the Darkness.

Except him.

Resting one arm on the bed, Saetan leaned over and gently brushed the lank golden hair away from the too-thin face. Her body was healing, but slowly, because there was no one inside to help it mend. Jaenelle, his young Queen, the daughter of his soul, was lost in the Darkness—or in the inner landscape called the Twisted Kingdom. Beyond his reach.

But not, he hoped, beyond his love.

With his hand resting on her head, Saetan closed his eyes and made the inner descent to the level of the Black Jewels. Slowly, carefully, he continued downward until he could go no farther. Then he released his words into the abyss, as he had done for the past three weeks.

*You’re safe, witch-child. Come back. You’re safe.*

5 / Terreille

A hand caressed his arm, gently squeezed his shoulder.

Lucivar’s temper flared at being pulled from the little sleep his pain-filled body permitted him each night. The chains that tethered his wrists and ankles to the wall weren’t long enough for him to lie down and stretch out, so he slept crouched, his buttocks braced against the wall to ease the strain in his legs, his head resting on his crossed forearms, his wings loosely folded around his body.

Long nails whispered over his skin. The hand squeezed his shoulder a little harder. “Lucivar,” a deep voice whispered, husky with frustration and weariness. “Wake up, Prick.”

Lucivar raised his head. The moonlight coming through the cell’s window slit wasn’t much to see by, but it was enough. He looked at the man bending over him and, for just a moment, was glad to see his half brother. Then he bared his teeth in a feral smile. “Hello, Bastard.”

Daemon released Lucivar’s shoulder and stepped back, wary. “I’ve come to get you out of here.”

Lucivar slowly rose to his feet, snarling softly at the noise the chains made. “The Sadist showing consideration? I’m touched.” He lunged at Daemon, but the leg irons hobbled his stride, and Daemon glided away, just out of reach.

“Not a very enthusiastic greeting, brother,” Daemon said softly.

“Did you really expect a greeting at all, brother?” Lucivar spat.

Daemon ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. “You know why I couldn’t do anything to help you before now.”

“Yes, I know why,” Lucivar replied, his deep voice changing to a lethal croon. “Just as I know why you came here now.”

Daemon turned away, his face hidden in the shadows.

“Do you really think setting me free will make up for it, Bastard? Do you really think I’ll ever forgive you?”

“You have to forgive me,” Daemon whispered. Then he shuddered.

Lucivar narrowed his gold eyes. There was an unexpected fragility in Daemon’s psychic scent. At another time, it would have worried him. Now he saw it as a weapon. “You shouldn’t have come here, Bastard. I swore I’d kill you if you accepted that offer, and I will.”

Daemon turned to face him. “What offer?”

“Maybe trade is a better word. Your freedom for Jaenelle’s life.”

“I didn’t accept that offer!”

Lucivar’s hands closed into fists. “Then you killed her for the fun of it? Or didn’t you realize she was dying under you until it was too late?”

They stared at each other.

“What are you talking about?” Daemon asked quietly.

“Cassandra’s Altar,” Lucivar answered just as quietly while his rage swelled, threatening to break his self-control. “You got careless this time. You left the sheet—and all that blood.”

Swaying, Daemon stared at his hands. “So much blood,” he whispered. “My hands were covered with it.”

Tears stung Lucivar’s eyes. “Why, Daemon? What did she do to deserve being hurt like that?” His voice rose. He couldn’t stop it.. “She was the Queen we had dreamed of serving. We had waited for her for so long. You butchering whore, why did you have to kill her?”

Daemon’s eyes filled with a dangerous warning. “She’s not dead.”

Lucivar held his breath, wanting to believe. “Then where is she?”

Daemon hesitated, looked confused. “I don’t know. I’m not sure.”

Pain tore through Lucivar as fiercely as it had after he had probed the dried blood on the sheet. “You’re not sure,” he sneered. “You. The Sadist. Not sure where you buried the kill? Try a better lie.”

“She’s not dead!” Daemon roared.

There was a shout nearby, followed by the sound of running feet.

Daemon raised his right hand. The Black Jewel flashed. Outside the stables where the slaves were quartered, someone let out an agonized shriek. And then there was silence.

Knowing it wouldn’t take that long for the guards to find enough courage to enter the stables, Lucivar bared his teeth and pushed to find a crippling weak spot. “Did you just throw her down and take her? Or did you seduce her, lie to her, tell her you loved her?”

“I do love her.” Daemon’s eyes held a shadow of doubt, a hint of fear.. “I had to lie. She wouldn’t listen to me. I had to lie.”

“And then you seduced her to get close enough for the kill.”

Daemon exploded into motion. He paced the small cell, fiercely shaking his head. “No,” he said through gritted teeth. “No, no, no!” He spun around, grabbed Lucivar’s shoulders, and shoved him against the wall.. “Who told you she was dead? WHO?”

Lucivar snapped his arms up, breaking Daemon’s grip. “Dorothea.”

Pain flashed over Daemon’s face. He stepped back.. “Since when do you listen to Dorothea?” he asked bitterly. “Since when do you believe that lying bitch?”

“I don’t.”

“Then why—”

“Words lie. Blood doesn’t.” Lucivar waited for Daemon to absorb the implication. “You left the sheet, Bastard,” he said savagely. “All that blood. All that pain.”

“Stop,” Daemon whispered, his voice shaking. “Lucivar, please. You don’t understand. She was already hurt, already in pain, and I—”

“Seduced her, lied to her, raped a twelve-year-old girl.”

“No!”

“Did you enjoy it, Bastard?”

“I didn’t—”

“Did you enjoy touching her?”

“Lucivar, please—”

“DID YOU?”

“YES!”

With a howl of rage, Lucivar threw himself at Daemon with enough force to snap the chains—but not fast enough. He crashed to the floor, scraping the skin from his palms and knees. It took a minute for him to get his breath back. It took another minute for him to understand why he was shivering. He stared at the thick layer of ice that covered the cell’s stone walls. Then he slowly got to his feet, swaying on shaking legs, feeling a bitterness so deep it lacerated his soul.

Daemon stood nearby, his hands in his trouser pockets, his face an expressionless mask, his golden eyes slightly glazed and sleepy.

“I hate you,” Lucivar whispered hoarsely.

“At the moment, brother, the feeling is very mutual,” Daemon said too calmly, too gently. “I’m going to find her, Lucivar. I’m going to find her just to prove she isn’t dead. And after I find her, I’m going to come back and tear out your lying tongue.”

Daemon disappeared. The front of the cell exploded.

Lucivar dropped to the floor, his wings tight to his body, his arms protecting his head while pebbles and sand rained down on him.

There were more shouts now. More running feet.

Lucivar sprang to his feet as the guards poured through the opening. He bared his teeth and snarled, his gold eyes shining with rage. The guards took one look at him and backed out of the cell. For the rest of the night, they blocked the opening but didn’t try to enter.

Lucivar watched them, his breath whistling through clenched teeth.

He could have fought his way past the guards and followed Daemon. If Zuultah had tried to stop him by sending a bolt of pain through the Ring of Obedience around his organ, Daemon would have unleashed his strength against her. No matter how bitterly they fought with each other, he and Daemon were always united against an outside enemy.

He could have followed and forced the battle that would have destroyed one or both of them. Instead he remained in the cell.

He had sworn that he would kill Daemon, and he would. But he couldn’t quite bring himself to destroy his brother. Not yet.