1 / Kaeleer

Karla, a fifteen-year-old Glacian Queen, jabbed her cousin Morton in the ribs. “Who’s that?”

Morton glanced in the direction of Karla’s slightly lifted chin, then went back to watching the young Warlords gathering at one end of the banquet hall. “That’s Uncle Hobart’s new mistress.”

Karla studied the young witch through narrowed, ice-blue eyes. “She doesn’t look much older than me.”

“She isn’t,” Morton said grimly.

Karla linked arms with her cousin, finding comfort in his nearness.

Glacian society had started to change after the “accident” that had killed her parents and Morton’s six years ago. A group of aristo males had immediately formed a male council “for the good of the Territory”—a council led by Hobart, a Yellow-Jeweled Warlord who was a distant relation of her father’s.

Every Province Queen, after declining to become a figurehead for the council, had also refused to acknowledge the Queen of a small village that the council finally had chosen to rule the Territory. Their refusal had fractured Glacia, but it had also prevented the male council from becoming too powerful or too effective in carrying out their “adjustments” to Glacian society.

Even so, after six years there was an uneasy feel in the air, a sense of wrongness.

Karla didn’t have many friends. She was a sharp-tongued, sharp-tempered Queen whose Birthright Jewel was the Sapphire. She was also a natural Black Widow and a Healer. But, since Lord Hobart was now the head of the family, she spent much of her social time with the daughters of other members of the male council—and what those girls were saying was obscene: respectable witches defer to wiser, more knowledgeable males; Blood males shouldn’t have to serve or yield to Queens because they’re the stronger gender; the only reason Queens and Black Widows want the power to control males is because they’re sexually and emotionally incapable of being real women.

Obscene. And terrifying.

When she was younger, she had wondered why the Province Queens and the Black Widows had settled for a stalemate instead of fighting.

Glacia is locked in a cold, dark winter, the Black Widows had told her. We must do what we can to remain strong until the spring returns.

But would they be able to hold out for five more years until she came of age? Would she? Her mother’s and her aunt’s deaths had not been an accident. Someone had eliminated Glacia’s strongest Queen and strongest Black Widow, leaving the Territory vulnerable to…what?

Jaenelle could have told her, but Jaenelle…

Karla clamped down on the bitter anger that had been simmering too close to the surface lately. Forcing her attention away from memories, she studied Hobart’s mistress, then jabbed Morton in the ribs again.

“Stop that,” he snapped.

Karla ignored him. “Why is she wearing a fur coat indoors?”

“It was Uncle Hobart’s consummation prize.”

She fingered her short, spiky, white-blond hair. “I’ve never seen fur like that. It’s not white bear.”

“I think it’s Arcerian cat.”

“Arcerian cat?” That couldn’t be right. Most Glacians wouldn’t hunt in Arceria because the cats were big, fierce predators, and the odds of a hunter not becoming the prey were less than fifty-fifty. Besides, there was something wrong with that fur. She could feel it even at this distance. “I’m going to pay my respects.”

“Karla.” There was no mistaking the warning in Morton’s voice.

“Kiss kiss.” She gave him a wicked smile and an affectionate squeeze before making her way to the group of women admiring the coat.

It was easy to slip in among them. Some of the women noticed her, but most were intent on the girl’s—Karla couldn’t bring herself to call her a Sister—hushed gossip.

“—hunters from a faraway place,” the girl said.

“I’ve got a collar made from Arcerian fur, but it’s not as luxurious as this,” one of the women said enviously.

“These hunters have found a new way of harvesting the fur. Hobie told me after we’d—” She giggled.

“How?”

“It’s a secret.”

Coaxing murmurs.

Mesmerized by the fur, Karla touched it at the same moment the girl giggled again, and said, “They skin the cat alive.”

She jerked her hand away, shocked numb. Alive.

And some of the power of the one who had lived in that fur was still there. That’s what made it so luxurious.

A witch. One of the Blood Jaenelle had called kindred.

Karla swayed. They had butchered a witch.

She shoved her way out of the group of women and stumbled toward the door. A moment later, Morton was beside her, one arm around her waist. “Outside,” she gasped. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

As soon as they were outside, she gulped the sharp winter air and started to cry.

“Karla,” Morton murmured, holding her close.

“She was a witch,” Karla sobbed. “She was a witch and they skinned her alive so that little bitch could—”

She felt a shudder go through Morton. Then his arms tightened, as if he could protect her. And he would try to protect her, which is why she couldn’t tell him about the danger she sensed every time Uncle Hobart looked at her. At sixteen, Morton had just begun his formal court training. He was the only real family she had left—and the only friend she had left.

The bitter anger boiled over without warning.

“It’s been two years!” She pushed at Morton until he released her. “She’s been in Kaeleer for two years, and she hasn’t come to visit once!” She began pacing furiously.

“People change, Karla,” Morton said cautiously. “Friends don’t always remain friends.”

“Not Jaenelle. Not with me. That malevolent bastard at SaDiablo Hall is keeping her chained somehow. I know it, Morton.” She thumped her chest hard enough to make Morton wince. “In here, I know it.”

“The Dark Council appointed him her legal guardian—”

Karla turned on him. “Don’t talk to me about guardians, Lord Morton,” she hissed. “I know all about ‘guardians.’”

“Karla,” Morton said weakly.

“‘Karla,’” she mimicked bitterly. “It’s always ‘Karla.’ Karla’s the one who’s out of control. Karla’s the one who’s becoming emotionally unstable because of her apprenticeship in the Hourglass coven. Karla’s the one who’s become too excitable, too hostile, too intractable. Karla’s the one who’s cast aside all those delightful simpering manners that males find appealing.”

“Males don’t find that—”

“And Karla’s the one who will gut the next son of a whoring bitch who tries to shove his hand or anything else between her legs!”

“What?”

Karla turned her back to Morton. Hell’s fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful. She hadn’t meant to say that.

“Is that why you cut your hair like that after Uncle Hobart insisted that you come back to the family estate to live? Is that why you burned all your dresses and started wearing my old clothes?” Morton grabbed her arm and swung her around to face him. “Is it?”

Tears filled Karla’s eyes. “A broken witch is a complacent witch,” she said softly. “Isn’t that true, Morton?”

Morton shook his head. “You wear Birthright Sapphire. There aren’t any males in Glacia who wear a Jewel darker than the Green.”

“A Blood male can get around a witch’s strength if he waits for the right moment and has help.”

Morton swore softly, viciously.

“What if that’s the reason Jaenelle doesn’t come to visit anymore? What if he’s done to her what Uncle Hobart wants to do to me?”

Morton stepped away from her. “I’m surprised you even tolerate me being near you.”

She could almost see the wounds the truth had left on his heart. There was nothing she could do now about the truth, but there was something she could do about the wounds. “You’re family.”

“I’m male.”

“You’re Morton. The exception to the rule.”

Morton hesitated, then opened his arms. “Want a hug?”

Stepping into his arms, Karla held him as fiercely as he held her.

“Listen,” he said hoarsely. “Write a letter to the High Lord and ask him if Jaenelle could come for a visit. Ask for a return reply.”

“The Old Fart will never let me send a courier to SaDiablo Hall,” Karla muttered into his shoulder.

“Uncle Hobart isn’t going to know.” Morton took a deep breath. “I’ll deliver the letter personally and wait for an answer.”

Before Morton could offer his handkerchief, Karla stepped back, sniffed, and wiped her face on the shirt she’d taken from his wardrobe. She sniffed again and was done with paltry emotions.

“Karla,” Morton said, eyeing her nervously. “You will write a polite letter, won’t you?”

“I’ll be a polite as I can be,” Karla assured him.

Morton groaned.

Oh, yes. She would write to the High Lord. And, one way or another, she would get the answer she wanted.

Please. Sweet Darkness, please be my friend again. I miss you. I need you. Drawing on the strength of her Sapphire Jewels, Karla flung one word into the Darkness. *Jaenelle!*

“Karla?” Morton said, touching her arm. “The banquet is about to start. We need to put in an appearance, if only for a little while.”

Karla froze, not even daring to breathe. *Jaenelle?*

Seconds passed.

“Karla?” Morton said.

Karla took a deep breath and exhaled her disappointment. She took the arm Morton offered and went back into the banquet hall.

He stayed close to her for the rest of the evening, and she was grateful for his company. But she would have traded his caring and protection in an instant if that faint but so very dark psychic touch she’d imagined had been real.

2 / Kaeleer

When Andulvar Yaslana settled in the chair in front of the blackwood desk in Saetan’s public study, Saetan looked up from the letter he’d been staring at for the past half hour. “Read this,” he said, handing it to Andulvar.

While Andulvar read the letter, Saetan looked wearily at the stacks of papers on his desk. It had been months since he’d set foot in the Hall, even longer since he’d granted audiences to the Queens who ruled the Provinces and Districts in his Territory. His eldest son, Mephis, had dealt with as much of the official business of Dhemlan as he could, as he had been doing for centuries, but the rest of it…

“Bloodsucking corpse?” Andulvar sputtered.

Saetan watched with a touch of amusement as Andulvar snarled through the rest of the letter. He hadn’t been amused during his first reading, but the signature and the adolescent handwriting had soothed his temper—and added another layer to his sorrow.

Andulvar flung the letter onto the desk. “Who is Karla, and how does she dare write something like this to you?”

“Not only does she dare, but the courier is waiting for a reply.”

Andulvar muttered something vicious.

“As for who she is…” Saetan called in the file he usually kept locked in his private study beneath the Hall. He leafed through the papers filled with his notes and handed one to Andulvar.

Andulvar’s shoulders slumped as he read it. “Damn.”

“Yes.” Saetan put the paper back in the file and vanished it.

“What are you going to say?”

Saetan leaned back in his chair. “The truth. Or part of it. I’ve kept the Dark Council at bay for two years, denying their not unreasonable requests to see Jaenelle. I’ve given no explanation for that denial, letting them think what they chose—and I am aware of what they’ve chosen to think. But her friends? Until now they’ve been too young, or perhaps not bold enough, to ask what became of her. Now they’re asking.” He straightened in his chair and summoned Beale, the Red-Jeweled Warlord who worked as the Hall’s butler.

“Bring the courier to me,” Saetan said when Beale appeared.

“Shall I go?” Andulvar asked, making no move to leave.

Saetan shrugged, already preoccupied with how to word his reply. There hadn’t been much contact between Dhemlan and Glacia in the past few years, but he’d heard enough about Lord Hobart and his ties to Little Terreille to decide on a verbal reply instead of a written one.

Long centuries ago, Little Terreille had been settled by Terreilleans who had been eager for a new life and a new land. Despite that eagerness, the people had never felt comfortable with the races who had been born to the Shadow Realm. So even though Little Terreille was a Territory in Kaeleer, it had looked for companionship and guidance from the Realm of Terreille—and still did, even though most Terreilleans no longer believed Kaeleer existed because access to this Realm had been so limited for so long. Which meant any companionship and guidance coming from Terreille now was coming from Dorothea, one way or another—and that was reason enough for him to feel wary.

Saetan and Andulvar exchanged a quick look when Beale showed the courier into the room.

Andulvar sent a thought on a Red spear thread. *He’s a bit young for an official courier.*

Silently agreeing with Andulvar’s assessment, Saetan lifted his right hand. A chair floated from its place by the wall and settled in front of the desk. “Please be seated, Warlord.”

“Thank you, High Lord.” The young man had the typical fair skin, blond hair, and blue eyes of the Glacian people. Despite his youth, he moved with the kind of assurance usually found in aristo families and responded with a confidence in Protocol that indicated court training.

Not your typical courier, Saetan thought as he watched the young man try to control the urge to fidget. So why are you here, boyo?

“My butler must be having a bad day to overlook introducing you when you entered,” Saetan said mildly. He steepled his fingers, his long, black-tinted nails resting against his chin.

The youth paled a little when he saw the Black-Jeweled ring. He licked his lips. “My name is Morton, High Lord.”

Now you’re not quite so sure that Protocol will protect you, are you, boyo? Saetan didn’t allow his amusement to show. If this boy was going to approach a dark-Jeweled Warlord Prince, it was better he learn the potential dangers. “And you serve?”

“I—I don’t exactly serve in a court yet.”

Saetan raised one eyebrow. “You serve Lord Hobart?” he asked, his voice a bit cooler.

“No. He’s just the head of the family. Sort of an uncle.”

Saetan picked up the letter and handed it to Morton. “Read this.” He sent a thought to Andulvar. *What’s the game? The boy’s not experienced enough to—*

“Nooo,” Morton moaned. The letter fluttered to the floor. “She promised me she’d be polite. I told her I’d be waiting for a reply, and she promised.” He flushed, then paled. “I’ll strangle her.”

Using Craft, Saetan retrieved the letter. Whatever doubts he’d had about motive were gone, but he was curious about why the question was being asked now. “How well do you know Karla?”

“She’s my cousin,” Morton replied in the aggrieved tone of a ruffled male.

“You have my sympathy,” Andulvar said, rustling his dark wings as he shifted in the chair.

“Thank you, sir. Having Karla like you is better than having her not like you, but…” Morton shrugged.

“Yes,” Saetan said dryly. “I have a friend who has a similar effect on me.” He chuckled softly at Morton’s look of astonishment. “Boyo, even being me doesn’t make a difficult witch any less difficult.”

*Especially a Dea al Mon Harpy,* Andulvar sent, amused. *Have you recovered yet from her latest attempt to be helpful?*

*If you’re going to sit there, be useful,* Saetan shot back.

Andulvar turned to Morton. “Did your cousin keep her promise?” When the boy gave him a blank look, he added, “Was she being polite?”

The tips of Morton’s ears turned red. He shrugged helplessly. “For Karla…I guess so.”

“Oh, Mother Night,” Saetan muttered. Suddenly a thought swooped down on him, and he choked. He used the time needed to catch his breath to consider some rather nasty possibilities.

When he was finally in control again, he chose his words carefully. “Lord Morton, your uncle doesn’t know you’re here, does he?” Morton’s nervous look was answer enough. “Where does he think you are?”

“Somewhere else.”

Saetan studied Morton, fascinated by the subtle change in his posture. No longer a youth intimidated by his surroundings and the males he faced, but a Warlord protecting his young Queen. You were wrong, boyo, Saetan thought. You’ve already chosen whom you serve.

“Karla…” Morton gathered his thoughts. “It isn’t easy for Karla. She wears Birthright Sapphire, and she’s a Queen and a natural Black Widow as well as a Healer, and Uncle Hobart…”

Saetan tensed at the bitterness in Morton’s blue eyes.

“She and Uncle Hobart don’t get along,” Morton finished lamely, looking away. When he looked back, he seemed so young and vulnerable. “I know Karla wants her to come visit like she used to, but couldn’t Jaenelle just write a short note? Just to say hello?”

Saetan closed his golden eyes. Everything has a price, he thought. Everything has a price. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes. “I truly wish, with all of my being, that she could.” He took another deep breath. “What I’m about to tell you must go no further than your cousin. I must have your pledge of silence.”

Morton immediately nodded agreement.

“Jaenelle was seriously hurt two years ago. She can’t write, she can’t communicate in any way. She…” Saetan stopped, then resumed when he was sure he could keep his voice steady. “She doesn’t know anyone.”

Morton looked ill. “How?” he finally whispered.

Saetan groped for an answer. The change in Morton’s expression told him he needn’t have bothered. The boy had understood the silence.

“Then Karla was right,” Morton said bitterly. “A male doesn’t have to be that strong if he picks the right time.”

Saetan snapped upright in his chair. “Is Karla being pressed to submit to a male? At fifteen?”

“No. I don’t know. Maybe.” Morton’s hands clenched the arms of the chair. “She was safe enough when she lived with the Black Widows, but now that she’s come back to the family estate…”

“Hell’s fire, boy!” Saetan roared. “Even if they don’t get along, why isn’t your uncle protecting her?”

Morton bit his lip and said nothing.

Stunned, Saetan sank back in his chair. Not here, too. Not in Kaeleer. Didn’t these fools realize what was lost when a Queen was destroyed that way?

“You have to go now,” Saetan said gently.

Morton nodded and rose to leave.

“Tell Karla one other thing. If she needs it, I’ll grant her sanctuary at the Hall and give her my protection. And you as well.”

“Thank you,” Morton said. Bowing to Saetan and Andulvar, he left.

Saetan grabbed his silver-headed cane and limped toward the door.

Andulvar got there first and pressed his hand against the door to keep it closed. “The Dark Council will be screaming for your blood if you give another girl your protection.”

Saetan didn’t speak for a long time. Then he gave Andulvar a purely malevolent smile. “If the Dark Council is so misguided they believe Hobart is a better guardian than I am, then they deserve to see some of Hell’s more unusual landmarks, don’t you think?”

3 / The Twisted Kingdom

There was no physical pain, but the agony was relentless.

Words lie. Blood doesn’t.

You are my instrument.

Butchering whore.

He wandered through a mist-filled landscape full of shattered memories, shattered crystal chalices, shattered dreams.

Sometimes he heard a scream of despair.

Sometimes he even recognized his own voice.

Sometimes he caught a glimpse of a girl with long golden hair running away from him. He always followed, desperate to catch up with her, desperate to explain…

He couldn’t remember what he needed to explain.

Don’t be afraid, he called to her. Please, don’t be afraid.

But she continued to run, and he continued to follow her through a landscape filled with twisting roads that ended nowhere and caverns that were strewn with bones and splashed with blood.

Down, always down.

He followed her, always begging her to wait, always pleading with her not to be afraid, always hoping to hear the sound of her voice, always yearning to hear her say his name.

If he could only remember what it was.

4 / Hell

Hekatah carefully arranged the folds of her full-length cloak while she waited for her demon guards to bring her the cildru dyathe boy. She sighed with satisfaction as her hands stroked the cloak’s fur lining. Arcerian fur. A Warlord’s fur. She could feel the rage and pain locked in his pelt.

The kindred. The four-footed Blood. Compared to humans, they had simple minds that couldn’t conceive of greatness or ambition, but they were fiercely protective when they gave someone their loyalty—and equally fierce when they felt that loyalty was betrayed.

She had made a few little mistakes the last time she had tried to become the High Priestess of all the Realms, mistakes that had cost her the war between Terreille and Kaeleer 50,000 years ago. One mistake had been underestimating the strength of the Blood who lived in the Shadow Realm. The other mistake had been underestimating the kindred.

One of the first things she had done after she’d recovered from the shock of being demon-dead was to exterminate the kindred in Terreille. Some went into hiding and survived, but not enough of them. They would have had to breed with landen animals, and over time the interbreeding had probably produced a few creatures who were almost Blood, but never anything strong enough to wear a Jewel.

The wilder kindred in Kaeleer, however, had withdrawn to their own Territories after the war and had woven countless spells to protect their borders. By the time those fierce defenses had faded enough for anyone to survive passing through them, the kindred had become little more than myths.

Hekatah began to pace. Hell’s fire! How long could it take for two grown males to catch a boy?

After a minute, she stopped pacing and once again arranged the folds of her cloak. She couldn’t allow the boy to see any hint of her impatience. It might make him perversely stubborn. She stroked the cloak’s fur lining, letting the feel of it soothe her.

During the centuries while she had waited for Terreille to ripen again into a worthy prize, she had helped the Territory of Little Terreille maintain a thread of contact with the Realm of Terreille. But it was only in the past few years that she’d established a foothold in Glacia via Lord Hobart’s ambition.

She had chosen Glacia because it was a northern Territory whose people could be isolated more easily from the Blood in other Territories; it had Hobart, a male whose ambitions outstripped his abilities; and it had a Dark Altar. So for the first time in a very long time, she had a Gate at her disposal, and a way for carefully chosen males to slip into Kaeleer in order to hunt challenging prey.

That wasn’t the only little game she was playing in Kaeleer, but the others required time and patience—and the assurance that nothing would interfere with her ambitions this time.

Which was why she was here on the cildru dyathe’s island.

She was just about to question the loyalty of her demon guards when they returned, dragging a struggling boy between them. With a savage curse, they pinned the boy against a tall, flat-sided boulder.

“Don’t hurt him,” Hekatah snapped.

“Yes, Priestess,” one of the guards replied sullenly.

Hekatah studied the boy, who glared back at her. Char, the young Warlord leader of the cildru dyathe. Easy enough to see how he had come by that name. How had he been able to save so much of his body from the fire? He must have had a great deal of Craft skill for one so young. She should have realized that seven years ago when she had tangled with him the first time. Well, she could easily fix that misjudgment.

Hekatah approached slowly, enjoying the wariness in the boy’s eyes. “I mean you no harm, Warlord,” she crooned. “I just need your help. I know Jaenelle walks among the cildru dyathe. I want to see her.”

What was left of Char’s lips curled in a vicious smile. “Not all cildru dyathe are on this island.”

Hekatah’s gold eyes snapped with fury. “You lie. Summon her. Now!”

“The High Lord is coming,” Char said. “He’ll be here any moment.”

“Why?” Hekatah demanded.

“Because I sent for him.”

“Why?”

A strange light filled Char’s eyes. “I saw a butterfly yesterday.”

Hekatah wanted to scream in frustration. Instead, she raised her hand, her fingers curved into a claw. “If you want your eyes, little Warlord, you’ll summon Jaenelle now.”

Char stared at her. “You truly wish to see her?”

“YES!”

Char tipped his head back and let out a strange, wild ululation.

Unnerved by the sound, Hekatah slapped him to make him stop.

“HEKATAH!”

Hekatah ran from the fury in Saetan’s thundering voice. Then she glanced over her shoulder and stopped, shocked excitement making her nerves sizzle.

Saetan leaned heavily on a silver-headed cane, his golden eyes glittering with rage. There was more silver in the thick black hair, and his face was tight with exhaustion. He looked…worn-out.

And he was only wearing his Birthright Red Jewel.

She didn’t even take the time for a fast descent to gather her full strength. She just raised her hand and unleashed the power in her Red-Jeweled ring at his weak leg.

His cry of pain as he fell was the most satisfying sound she’d heard in years.

“Seize him!” she screamed at her demons.

A cold, soft wind sighed across the island.

The guards hesitated for a moment, but when Saetan tried to get up and failed, they drew their knives and ran toward him.

The ground trembled slightly. Mist swirled around the rocks, around the barren earth.

Hekatah also ran toward Saetan, wanting to watch the knives cut deep, wanting to watch his blood run. A Guardian’s blood! The richness, the strength in it! She would feast on him before dealing with that upstart little demon.

A howl rose from the abyss, a sound full of joy and pain, rage and celebration.

Then a tidal wave of dark power flooded the cildru dyathe’s island. Psychic lightning set Hell’s twilight sky on fire. Thunder shook the land. The howling went on and on.

Hekatah fell to the ground and curled up as tight as she could.

Her demons screamed in nerve-shattering agony.

Go away, Hekatah pleaded silently. Whatever you are, go away.

Something icy and terrible brushed against her inner barriers, and Hekatah blanked her mind.

By the time it faded away, the witch storm had faded with it.

Hekatah pushed herself into a sitting position. Her throat worked convulsively when she saw what was left of her demons.

There was no sign of Saetan or Char.

Hekatah slowly got to her feet. Was that Jaenelle—or what was left of Jaenelle? Maybe she wasn’t cildru dyathe. Maybe she had faded from demon to ghost and all that was left was that bodiless power.

It was just as well the girl was dead, Hekatah thought as she caught a White Wind and rode back to the stone building she claimed as her own. It was just as well that whatever was left of Jaenelle would be confined to the Dark Realm. Trying to control that savage power…. It was just as well the girl was dead.

Pain surrounded him, filled him. His head felt like it was stuffed with blankets. He clawed his way through, desperate to reach the muffled voices he heard around him: Andulvar’s angry rumble, Char’s distress.

Hell’s fire! Why were they just sitting there? For the first time in two years, Jaenelle had responded to someone’s call. Why weren’t they trying to keep her within reach?

Because Jaenelle was gliding through the abyss too deep for anyone but him to feel her presence. But he couldn’t just descend to the level of the Black and summon her. He had to be near her physically, he had to be with her to coax her into remaining with her body.

“Why did the witch storm hit him so bad?” Char asked fearfully.

“Because he’s an ass,” Andulvar growled in reply.

He redoubled his efforts to break through the muffling layers just so he could snarl at Andulvar. Maybe he had been channeling too much of the Black strength without giving his body a chance to recover. Maybe he had been foolish when he’d refused to drink fresh blood to maintain his strength. But that didn’t give an Eyrien warrior the right to act like a stubborn, nagging Healer.

Jaenelle would have cornered him until he’d given in.

Jaenelle. So close. He might never have another chance.

He struggled harder. Help me. I have to reach her. Help— “me.”

“High Lord!”

“Hell’s fire, SaDiablo!”

Saetan grabbed Andulvar’s arm and tried to pull himself into a sitting position. “Help me. Before it’s too late.”

“You need rest,” Andulvar said.

“There isn’t time!” Saetan tried to yell. It came out an infuriating croak. “Jaenelle’s still close enough to reach.”

“What?”

The next thing he knew he was sitting up with Andulvar supporting him and Char kneeling in front of him. He focused on the boy. “How did you summon her?”

“I don’t know,” Char wailed. “I don’t know. I was just trying to keep Hekatah busy until you came. She kept demanding to see Jaenelle, so I thought…Jaenelle and I used to play ‘chase me, find me’ and that was the sound we used to make. I didn’t know she would answer, High Lord. I’ve called like that lots of times since she went away, and she’s never answered.”

“Until now,” Saetan said quietly. Why now? He finally noticed he was in a familiar bedroom. “We’re at the Keep in Kaeleer?”

“Draca insisted on bringing you here,” Andulvar said.

The Keep’s Seneschal had given him a bedroom near the Queen’s suite. Which meant he wasn’t more than a few yards away from Jaenelle’s body. Just chance? Or could Draca also feel Jaenelle’s presence?

“Help me,” Saetan whispered.

Andulvar half carried him the few yards down the corridor to the door where Draca waited.

“You will drink a cup of fressh blood when you return,” Draca said.

If I return, Saetan thought grimly, as Andulvar helped him to the bed that held Jaenelle’s frail body. There might not be another chance. He would bring her back or destroy himself trying.

As soon as he was alone with her, he took Jaenelle’s head between his hands, drew every drop of power he had left in his Jewels, and made a quick descent into the abyss until he reached the level of the Black.

*Jaenelle!*

She continued her slow spiral glide deeper into the abyss. He didn’t know if she was ignoring him or just couldn’t hear him.

*Jaenelle! Witch-child!*

His strength was draining too quickly. The abyss pushed against his mind, the pressure quickly turning to pain.

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

She slipped farther and farther away from him. But little eddies of power washed back up to him, and he could taste the rage in them.

Chase me, find me. A child’s game. He had been sending a message of love and safety into the abyss for two years. Char had been sending an invitation to play during that same time.

Silence.

In another moment, he would have to ascend or he would shatter.

Stillness.

Chase me, find me. Hadn’t he really been playing the same game?

He waited, fighting for each second. *Witch-child.*

She slammed into him without warning. Caught in her spiraling fury, he didn’t know if they were rising or descending.

He heard glass shatter in the physical world, heard someone scream. He felt something hit his chest, just below his heart, hard enough to take his breath away.

Not knowing what else to do, he opened his inner barriers fully, a gesture of complete surrender. He expected her to crash through him, rip him apart. Instead, he felt a startled curiosity and a featherlight touch that barely brushed against him.

Then she tossed him out of the abyss.

The abrupt return to the physical world left him dizzy, his senses scrambled. That had to be why he thought he saw a tiny spiral horn in the center of her forehead. That had to be why her ears looked delicately pointed, why she had a golden mane that looked like a cross between fur and human hair. That had to be why his heart felt as if it were beating frantically against someone’s hand.

He closed his eyes, fighting the dizziness. When he opened them a moment later, all the changes in Jaenelle’s appearance were gone, but there was still that odd feeling in his chest.

Gasping, he looked down as he felt fingers curl around his heart.

Jaenelle’s hand was embedded in his chest. When she withdrew her hand, she would pull his heart out with it. No matter. It had been hers long before he’d ever met her. And it gave him an odd feeling of pride, remembering the frustration and delight he’d felt when he’d tried to teach her how to pass one solid object through another.

The fingers curled tighter.

Her eyes opened. They were fathomless sapphire pools that held no recognition, that held nothing but deep, inhuman rage.

Then she blinked. Her eyes clouded, hiding so many things. She blinked again and looked at him. “Saetan?” she said in a rusty voice.

His eyes filled with tears. “Witch-child,” he whispered hoarsely.

He gasped when she moved her hand slightly.

She stared at his chest and frowned. “Oh.” She slowly uncurled her fingers and withdrew her hand.

He expected her hand to be bloody, but it was clean. A quick internal check told him he would feel bruised for a few days, but she hadn’t done any damage. He leaned forward until his forehead rested against hers.

“Witch-child,” he whispered.

“Saetan? Are you crying?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know.”

“You should lie down. You feel kind of peaky.”

Shifting his body until it was beside hers exhausted him. When she turned and snuggled against him, he wrapped his arms around her and held on. “I tried to reach you, witch-child,” he murmured as he rested his cheek against her head.

“I know,” she said sleepily. “I heard you sometimes, but I had to find all the pieces so I could put the crystal chalice back together.”

“Did you put it back together?” he asked, hardly daring to breathe.

Jaenelle nodded. “Some of the pieces are cloudy and don’t fit quite right yet.” She paused. “Saetan? What happened?”

Dread filled him, and he didn’t have the courage to answer that question honestly. What would she do if he told her what had happened? If she severed the link with her body and fled into the abyss again, he wasn’t sure he would ever be able to convince her to return.

“You were hurt, sweetheart.” His arms tightened around her. “But you’re going to be fine. I’ll help you. Nothing can hurt you, witch-child. You have to remember that. You’re safe here.”

Jaenelle frowned. “Where is here?”

“We’re at the Keep. In Kaeleer.”

“Oh.” Her eyelids fluttered and closed.

Saetan squeezed her shoulder. Then he shook her. “Jaenelle? Jaenelle, no! Don’t leave me. Please don’t leave.”

With effort, Jaenelle opened her eyes. “Leave? Oh, Saetan, I’m so tired. Do I really have to leave?”

He had to get control of himself. He had to stay calm so that she would feel safe. “You can stay here as long as you want.”

“You’ll stay, too?”

“I’ll never leave you, witch-child. I swear it.”

Jaenelle sighed. “You should get some sleep,” she murmured.

Saetan listened to her deep, even breathing for a long time. He wanted to open his mind and reach for her, but he didn’t need to. He could feel the difference in the body he still held.

So he reached out to Andulvar instead. *She’s come back.*

A long silence. *Truly?*

*Truly.* And he would need his strength for the days ahead. *Tell the others. And tell Draca I’ll take the cup of fresh blood now.*

5 / Kaeleer

Guided by instinct and a nagging uneasiness, Saetan entered Jaenelle’s bedroom at the Keep without knocking.

She stood in front of a large, freestanding mirror, staring at the naked body reflected there.

Saetan closed the door and limped toward her. While she’d been away from her body, there had still been just enough of a link so that she could eat and could be led on gentle walks that had kept her muscles from atrophying. There had still been enough of a link for her body to slowly answer the rhythm of its own seasons.

Blood females tended to reach puberty later than landens, and witches’ bodies required even more time to prepare for the physical changes that separated a girl from a woman. Inhibited by her absence, Jaenelle’s body hadn’t started changing until after her fourteenth birthday. But while her body was still in the early stages of transformation, it no longer looked like a twelve-year-old’s.

Saetan stopped a few feet behind her. Her sapphire eyes met his in the mirror, and he had to work to keep his expression neutral.

Those eyes. Clear and feral and dangerous before she slipped on the mask of humanity. And it was a mask. It wasn’t like the dissembling she used to do as a child to keep the fact that she was Witch a secret. This was a deliberate effort simply to be human. And that scared him.

“I should have told you,” he said quietly. “I should have prepared you. But you’ve slept through most of the past four days, and I…” His voice trailed off.

“How long?” she asked in a voice full of caverns and midnight.

He had to clear his throat before he could answer. “Two years. Actually, a little more than that. You’ll be fifteen in a few weeks.”

She said nothing, and he didn’t know how to fill the silence.

Then she turned around to face him. “Do you want to have sex with this body?”

Blood. So much blood.

His gorge rose. Her mask fell away. And no matter how hard he looked, he couldn’t find Jaenelle in those sapphire eyes.

He had to give her an answer. He had to give her the right answer.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I’m your legal guardian now. Your adopted father, if you will. And fathers do not have sex with their daughters.”

“Don’t they?” she asked in a midnight whisper.

The floor disappeared under his feet. The room spun. He would have fallen if Jaenelle hadn’t thrown her arms around his waist.

“Don’t use Craft,” he muttered through gritted teeth.

Too late. Jaenelle was already floating him to the couch. As he sank into it, she sat beside him and brushed her shoulder-length hair away from her neck. “You need fresh blood.”

“No, I don’t. I’m just a little dizzy.” Besides, he’d been drinking a cup of fresh human blood twice a day for the past four days—almost as much as he usually consumed in a year.

“You need fresh blood.” There was a definite edge in her voice.

What he needed was to find the bastard who had raped her and tear him apart inch by inch. “I don’t need your blood, witch-child.”

Her eyes flashed with anger. She bared her teeth. “There’s nothing wrong with my blood, High Lord,” she hissed. “It isn’t tainted.”

“Of course it isn’t tainted,” he snapped back.

“Then why won’t you accept the gift? You never refused before.”

There were clouds and shadows now in her sapphire eyes. It seemed that, for her, the price of humanity was vulnerability and insecurity.

Lifting her hand, he kissed her knuckles and wondered if he could delicately suggest that she put on a robe without her taking offense. One thing at a time, SaDiablo. “There are three reasons I don’t want your blood right now. First, until you’re stronger, you need every drop of it for yourself. Second, your body is changing from child to woman, and the potency of the blood changes, too. So let’s test it before I find myself drinking liquid lightning.”

That made her giggle.

“And third, Draca has also decided that I need fresh blood.”

Jaenelle’s eyes widened. “Oh, dear. Poor Papa.” She bit her lip. “Is it all right if I call you that?” she asked in a small voice.

He put his arms around her and held her close. “I would be honored to be called ‘Papa.’” He brushed his lips against her forehead. “The room is a little chilly, witch-child. Do you think you could put on a robe? And slippers?”

“You sound like a parent already,” Jaenelle grumbled.

Saetan smiled. “I’ve waited a long time to fuss over a daughter. I intend to revel in it to the fullest.”

“Oh, lucky me,” Jaenelle growled.

He laughed. “No. Lucky me.”

6 / Kaeleer

Saetan stared at the tonic in the small ravenglass cup and sighed. He had the cup halfway to his lips when someone knocked on the door.

“Come,” he said too eagerly.

Andulvar entered, followed by his grandson, Prothvar, and Mephis, Saetan’s eldest son. Prothvar and Mephis, like Andulvar, had become demon-dead during that long-ago war between Terreille and Kaeleer. Geoffrey, the Keep’s historian/librarian, entered last.

“Try this,” Saetan said, holding out the cup to Andulvar.

“Why?” Andulvar asked, eyeing the cup. “What’s in it?”

Damn Eyrien wariness. “It’s a tonic Jaenelle made for me. She says I’m still looking peaky.”

“You are,” Andulvar growled. “So drink it.”

Saetan ground his teeth.

“It doesn’t smell bad,” Prothvar said, pulling his wings tighter to his body when Saetan glared at him.

“It doesn’t taste bad either,” Saetan said, trying to be fair.

“Then what’s the problem?” Geoffrey asked, crossing his arms. He frowned at the cup, his black eyebrows echoing his widow’s peak. “Are you concerned that she doesn’t have the training to make that kind of tonic? Do you think she’s done it incorrectly?”

Saetan raised one eyebrow. “We’re talking about Jaenelle.”

“Ah,” Geoffrey said, eyeing the cup with some trepidation. “Yes.”

Saetan held the cup out to him. “Tell me what you think.”

Andulvar braced his fists on his hips. “Why are you so eager to share it? If there’s nothing wrong with it, why won’t you drink it?”

“I do. I have. Every day for the past two weeks,” Saetan grumbled. “But it’s just so damn…potent.” The last word was almost a plea.

Geoffrey accepted the cup, took a small sip, rolled the liquid on his tongue, and swallowed. As he handed the cup to Andulvar, he started gasping and pressed his hands to his stomach.

“Geoffrey?” Alarmed, Saetan grabbed Geoffrey’s arm as the older Guardian swayed.

“Is it supposed to feel like that?” Geoffrey wheezed.

“Like what?” Saetan asked cautiously.

“Like an avalanche hitting your stomach.”

Saetan sighed with relief. “It doesn’t last long, and the tonic does have some astonishing curative powers, but…”

“The initial sensation is a bit unsettling.”

“Exactly,” Saetan said dryly.

Andulvar studied the two Guardians and shrugged. He took a sip, passed the cup to Prothvar, who took a sip and passed it to Mephis.

When the cup reached Saetan, it was still two-thirds full. He sighed, took a sip, and set the cup on an empty curio table.

Why couldn’t Draca fill a table with useless bric-a-brac like everyone else? he thought sourly. At least then there would be a way to hide the damn thing since Jaenelle had put some kind of neat little spell on the cup that prevented it from being vanished.

“Hell’s fire,” Andulvar finally said.

“What does she put in it?” Mephis said, rubbing his stomach.

Prothvar eyed Geoffrey. “You know, you’ve almost got some color.”

Geoffrey glared at the Eyrien Warlord.

“What did you all want to see me about?” Saetan asked.

That stopped them cold. Then they began talking all at once.

“You see, SaDiablo, the waif—”

“—it’s a difficult time for a young girl, I do understand that—”

“—doesn’t want to see us—”

“—suddenly so shy—”

Saetan raised his hand to silence their explanations.

Everything has a price. As he looked at them, he knew he had to tell them what the past two weeks had forced him to see. Everything has a price, but, sweet Darkness, haven’t we paid enough?

“Jaenelle didn’t heal.” When no one responded, he wondered if he’d actually said it out loud.

“Explain, SaDiablo,” Andulvar rumbled. “Her body is alive, and now that she’s returned to it, it will get stronger.”

“Yes,” Saetan replied softly. “Her body is alive.”

“Since she’s obviously capable of doing more than basic Craft, her inner web must be intact,” Geoffrey said.

“Her inner web is intact,” Saetan agreed. Hell’s fire. Why was he prolonging this? Because once he actually said it, it would be real.

He watched the knowledge—and the anger—fill Andulvar’s eyes.

“The bastard who raped her managed to shatter the crystal chalice, didn’t he?” Andulvar said slowly. “He shattered her mind, and that pushed her into the Twisted Kingdom.” Pausing, he studied Saetan. “Or did it push her somewhere else?”

“Who knows what lies deep in the abyss?” Saetan said bitterly. “I don’t. Was she lost in madness or simply walking roads the rest of us can’t possibly comprehend? I don’t know. I do know she is more and less and different than she was, and there are some days when it’s hard to find anything left of the child we knew. She told me that she’d put the crystal chalice back together, and from what I can tell, she has. But she doesn’t remember what happened at Cassandra’s Altar. She doesn’t remember anything that took place during the few months before that night. And she’s hiding something. That’s part of the reason she’s withdrawing from us. Shadows and secrets. She’s afraid to trust any of us because of those damn shadows and secrets.”

Mephis finally broke the long silence. “Perhaps,” he said slowly, “if she could be persuaded to see us in one of the public rooms, just for a few minutes at a time, it might help rebuild her trust in us. Especially if we don’t push or ask any difficult questions.” He added sadly, “And is being locked within herself while she lives in her body really any different than being lost in the abyss?”

“No,” Saetan said softly. “It’s not.” It was a risk. Mother Night, was it a risk! “I’ll talk to her.”

Andulvar, Prothvar, Mephis, and Geoffrey left after agreeing to meet him in one of the smaller parlors. Saetan waited for several minutes before walking the few yards that separated his room from the Queen’s suite. Once Jaenelle established her court, no males but her Consort, Steward, and Master of the Guard would be permitted in this wing unless they were summoned. Not even her legal guardian.

Saetan knocked quietly on her bedroom door. When he got no answer, he peeked into the room. Empty. He checked the adjoining sitting room. That was empty, too.

Running his fingers through his hair, he wondered where his wayward child had gone. He could sense that she was nearby. But he’d also learned that Jaenelle left such a strong psychic scent, it was sometimes difficult to locate her. Perhaps it had always been that way, but they’d never spent more than an hour or two together at any given time. Now her presence filled the huge Keep, and her dark, delicious psychic scent was a pleasure and a torment. To feel her, to yearn with all one’s heart to embrace and serve her, and to be locked out of her life…

There could be no greater torture.

And it wasn’t just for Andulvar, Mephis, Prothvar, and Geoffrey that he was willing to risk her emotional stability by asking for contact. There was one other, lately never far from his thoughts. If she didn’t heal emotionally, if she could never endure a man’s touch…

He wasn’t the key that could unlock that final door. There was much he could do, but not that. He wasn’t the key.

Daemon Sadi was.

Daemon…Daemon, where are you? Why haven’t you come?

Saetan was about to retrace his steps, intending to find Draca—she always knew where everyone was in the Keep—when a sound made him turn toward a half-open door at the end of the corridor.

As he walked toward it, he noticed how much better his leg felt since Jaenelle started dosing him with her tonic. If he could stomach it for a couple more weeks, he’d be able to put the cane away—and hopefully the tonic with it.

He had almost reached the door when someone inside the room let out a startled squawk. There was a loud pop fizz boosh, and then a lavender, gray, and rose cloud belched out of the room, followed by a feminine voice muttering, “Damn, damn, and double damn!”

The cloud began a slow descent to the floor.

Saetan held out his hand and stared at the chalky lavender, gray, and rose flecks that covered his skin and shirt cuff. Butterflies churned in his stomach, and they tickled, leaving him with an irrational desire to giggle and flee.

He swallowed the giggle, strapped a bit of mental steel to his backbone, and cautiously peered around the doorway.

Jaenelle stood by a large worktable, her arms crossed and her foot tapping as she frowned at the Craft book hovering above the table. The candle-lights on either side of the book gave off a pretty, stained-glass glow, softening the surrounding chaos. The entire room—and everything in it, including Jaenelle—was liberally dusted with lavender, gray, and rose. Only the book was clean. She must have put a shield around it before beginning…whatever it was.

“I really don’t think I want to know about this,” Saetan said dryly, wondering how Draca was going to react to the mess.

Jaenelle gave him an exasperated, amused look. “No, you really don’t.” Then she gave him her best unsure-but-game smile. “I don’t suppose you’d like to help anyway?”

Hell’s fire! During all the years when he’d been teaching her Craft and trying to unravel one of these quirky spells after the fact, he’d hoped for just this invitation.

“Unfortunately,” he said, his voice full of wistful regret, “there’s something else we have to discuss.”

Jaenelle sat down, on air, hooking her heels on the nonexistent rung of a nonexistent stool, and gave him her full attention.

He remembered, too late, how unnerving it could be to have Jaenelle’s undivided attention.

Saetan cleared his throat and glanced around the room, hoping for inspiration. Maybe her workroom, with the tools of her Craft around her, was the best place to talk after all.

He stepped into the room and leaned against the door frame. A good neutral place, not invading her territory but acknowledging a right to be there. “I’m concerned, witch-child,” he said quietly.

Jaenelle cocked her head. “About what?”

“About you. About the way you avoid all of us. About the way you’re shutting yourself away from everyone.”

Ice filled her eyes. “Everyone has boundaries and inner barriers.”

“I’m not talking about boundaries and inner barriers,” he said, not quite able to keep his voice calm. “Of course everyone has them. They protect the inner web and the Self. But you’ve put up a wall between yourself and everyone else, excluding them from even simple contact.”

“Perhaps you should be grateful for the wall, Saetan,” Jaenelle said in a midnight voice that sent a shiver of fear up his spine.

Saetan. Not Papa. Saetan. And not the way she usually said his name. This sounded like a Queen formally addressing a Warlord Prince.

He didn’t know how to respond to her words or the warning.

She stepped off her invisible stool and turned away from him, resting her hands on the dusty table.

“Listen to me,” he said, restraining the urgency he felt. “You can’t lock yourself away like this. You can’t spend the rest of your life in this room creating glorious spells that no one else will see. You’re a Queen. You’ll have to interact with your court.”

“I’m not going to have a court.”

Saetan stared at her, stunned. “Of course you’ll have a court. You’re a Queen.”

Jaenelle flashed a look at him that made him cringe. “I’m not required to have a court. I checked. And I don’t want to rule. I don’t want to control anyone’s life but my own.”

“But you’re Witch.” The moment he said it, the room chilled.

“Yes,” she said too softly. “I am.” Then she turned around.

She dropped the mask of humanity—and the mask called flesh—and let him truly see her for the first time.

The tiny spiral horn in the center of her forehead. The golden mane that wasn’t quite fur and wasn’t quite hair. The delicately pointed ears. The hands that had sheathed claws. The legs that changed below the knee to accommodate the small hooves. The stripe of golden fur that ran down her spine and ended at the fawn tail that flicked over her buttocks. The exotic face and those sapphire eyes.

Having been Cassandra’s Consort all those years ago, he thought he knew and understood Witch. Now he finally understood that Cassandra and the other Black-Jeweled Queens who had come before her had been called Witch. Jaenelle truly was the living myth, dreams made flesh.

How foolish he’d been to assume all the dreamers had been human.

“Exactly,” Witch said softly, coldly.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered. And so very, very dangerous. She stared at him, puzzled, and he realized there would never be a better time to say what he had to say.

“We love you, Lady,” he told her quietly. “We’ve always loved you, and it hurts more than words can express to be locked out of your life. You don’t know how hard it was for us to wait for those few precious minutes that you could spend with us, to wonder and worry about you when you were gone, to feel jealous of people who didn’t appreciate what you are. Now…” His voice broke. He pressed his lips together and took a deep breath. “We surrendered to you a long time ago. Not even you can change that. Do with us what you will.” He hesitated, then added, “No, witch-child, we are not grateful for the wall.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He left the room as swiftly as he could, tears shining in his eyes.

Behind him came a soft, anguished cry.

He couldn’t stand their kindness. He couldn’t stand their sympathy and understanding. Geoffrey had warmed a glass of yarbarah for him. Mephis had tucked a lap rug over his legs. Prothvar had stoked the fire to help take away the chill. Andulvar had stayed close to him, silent.

He’d started shaking the moment he had entered the safety of the parlor. He would have collapsed on the floor if Andulvar hadn’t caught him and helped him to the chair. They had asked no questions, and except for a hoarsely whispered, “I don’t know,” he had told them nothing about what had happened—or about what he had seen.

And they had accepted it.

An hour later, feeling somewhat restored physically and emotionally, he still couldn’t stand their kindness. What he couldn’t stand even more was not knowing what was happening in that workroom.

The parlor door swung open.

Jaenelle stood on the threshold, holding a tray that contained two small carafes and five glasses. All her masks were back in place.

“Draca said you were all hiding in here,” she said defensively.

“We’re not exactly ‘hiding,’ witch-child,” Saetan replied dryly. “And, if we are, there’s room for one more. Want to join us?”

Her smile was shy and hesitant, but her coltish legs swiftly crossed the room until she stood beside Saetan’s chair. Then she frowned and turned toward the door. “This room used to be larger.”

“Your legs used to be shorter.”

“That explains why the stairs feel so awkward,” she muttered as she filled two glasses from one carafe and three from the other.

Saetan stared at the glass she gave him. His stomach cringed.

“Um,” Prothvar said, as Jaenelle handed out the other glasses.

“Drink it,” Jaenelle snapped. “You’ve all been looking peaky lately.” When they hesitated, her voice became brittle. “It’s just a tonic.”

Andulvar took a sip.

Thank the Darkness for that Eyrien willingness to step onto any kind of battlefield, Saetan thought as he, too, took a sip.

“How much of this do you make at one time, waif?” Andulvar rumbled.

“Why?” Jaenelle said warily.

“Well, you’re quite right about us all feeling peaky. Probably wouldn’t hurt to have another glass later on.”

Saetan started coughing to hide his own dismay and give the others time to school their expressions. It was one thing for Andulvar to step onto the battlefield. It was quite another to drag them all with him.

Jaenelle fluffed her hair. “It starts to lose its potency an hour after it’s made, but it’s no trouble to make another batch later on.”

Andulvar nodded, his expression serious. “Thank you.”

Jaenelle smiled shyly and slipped out of the room.

Saetan waited until he was sure she was out of earshot before turning on Andulvar. “You unconscionable prick,” he snarled.

“That’s a big word coming from a man who’s going to have to drink two glasses of this a day,” Andulvar replied smugly.

“We could always pour it into the plants,” Prothvar said, looking around for some greenery.

“I already tried that,” Saetan growled. “Draca’s only comment was that if another plant should suffer a sudden demise, she’d ask Jaenelle to look into it.”

Andulvar chuckled, giving the other four men a reason to snarl at him. “Everyone expects Hayllians to be devious, but Eyriens are known for their forthright dealings. So when one of us acts deviously…”

“You did it so she’d have a reason to check up on us,” Mephis said, eyeing his glass. “I thank you for that, Andulvar, but couldn’t—”

Saetan sprang to his feet. “It loses its potency after an hour.”

Andulvar raised his glass in a salute. “Just so.”

Saetan smiled. “If we hold back half of each dose so that it’s lost most of its potency and then mix it with the fresh dose…”

“We’ll have a restorative tonic that has a tolerable potency,” Geoffrey finished, looking pleased.

“If she finds out, she’ll kill us,” Prothvar grumbled.

Saetan raised an eyebrow. “All things considered, my fine demon, it’s a little late to be concerned about that, don’t you think?”

Prothvar almost blushed.

Saetan narrowed his golden eyes at Andulvar. “But we didn’t know it would lose its potency until after you asked for a second dose.”

Andulvar shrugged. “Most healing brews have to be taken shortly after they’re made. It was worth the gamble.” He smiled at Saetan with all the arrogance only an Eyrien male was capable of. “However, if you’re admitting your balls aren’t as big—”

Saetan said something pithy and to the point.

“Then there’s no problem, is there?” Andulvar replied.

They looked at each other, centuries of friendship, rivalry, and understanding reflected in two pairs of golden eyes. They raised their glasses and waited for the others to follow suit.

“To Jaenelle,” Saetan said.

“To Jaenelle,” the others replied.

Then they sighed in unison and swallowed half their tonic.

7 / Kaeleer

Not quite content, Saetan watched the lights of Riada, the largest Blood village in Ebon Rih and the closest one to the Keep, shine up from the valley’s fertile darkness like captured pieces of starlight.

He had watched the sun rise today. No, more than that. He had stood in one of the small formal gardens and had actually felt the sun’s warmth on his face. For the first time in more centuries than he cared to count, there had been no lancing pain in his temples, no brutal stomach-twisting headache to tell him just how far he had stepped from the living, no weakening in his strength.

He was as physically strong now as when he first became a Guardian, first began walking that fine line between living and dead.

Jaenelle and her tonic had done that. Had done more than that.

He’d forgotten how sensual food could be, and over the past few days had savored the taste of rare beef and new potatoes, of roasted chicken and fresh vegetables. He’d forgotten how good sleep could feel, instead of that semiawake rest Guardians usually indulged in during the daylight hours.

He’d also forgotten how hunger pangs felt or how fuzzy-brained a man could be when he was beyond tired.

Everything has a price.

He smiled cautiously at Cassandra when she joined him at the window. “You look lovely tonight,” he said, making a small gesture that took in her long black gown, the open-weave emerald shawl, and the way she’d styled her dusty-red hair.

“Too bad the Harpy didn’t bother to dress for the occasion,” Cassandra replied tartly. She wrinkled her nose. “She could have at least worn something around her throat.”

“And you could have refrained from offering to lend her a high-necked gown,” Saetan snapped. Then he clenched his teeth to trap the rest of the words. Titian didn’t need a defender, especially after her slur about the delicate sensibilities of prissy aristo witches.

He watched the lights of Riada wink out, one by one.

Cassandra took a deep breath, let it out in a sigh. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” she said quietly. “The Black were never meant to be Birthright Jewels. I became a Guardian because I thought the next Witch would need a friend, someone to help her understand what she would become after making the Offering to the Darkness. But what has happened to Jaenelle has changed her so much she’ll never be normal.”

“Normal? Just what do you call ‘normal,’ Lady?”

She looked pointedly at the corner of the room where Andulvar, Prothvar, Mephis, and Geoffrey were trying to include Titian in the conversation and keep a respectful distance at the same time.

“Jaenelle just celebrated her fifteenth birthday. Instead of a party and a roomful of young friends, she spent the evening with demons, Guardians—and a Harpy. Can you honestly call that normal?”

“I’ve had this conversation before,” Saetan growled. “And my answer is still the same: for her, that is normal.”

Cassandra studied him for a moment before saying quietly, “Yes, you would see it that way, wouldn’t you?”

He saw the room through a red haze before he got his temper tightly leashed. “Meaning what?”

“You became the High Lord of Hell while you were still living. You wouldn’t see anything wrong with her having the cildru dyathe for playmates or having a Harpy teach her how to interact with males.”

Saetan’s breath whistled between his teeth. “When you foresaw her coming, you called her the daughter of my soul. But those were just words, weren’t they? Just a way to ensure that I would become a Guardian so that my strength would be at your disposal for the protection of your apprentice, the young witch who would sit at your feet, awed by the attention of the Black-Jeweled Witch. Except it didn’t work out that way. The one who came really is the daughter of my soul, and she is awed by no one and sits at no one’s feet.”

“She may be awed by no one,” Cassandra said coldly, “but she also has no one.” Then her voice softened. “And for that, I pity her.”

She has me!

The quick, sharp look Cassandra gave him cut his heart.

Jaenelle had him. The Prince of the Darkness. The High Lord of Hell. More than any other reason, that was why Cassandra pitied her.

“We should join the others,” Saetan said tightly, offering his arm. Despite the anger he felt, he couldn’t turn his back on her.

Cassandra started to refuse his gesture of courtesy until she noticed Andulvar’s and Titian’s cold stares.

“Draca wants to talk with all of us,” Andulvar growled as soon as they approached. He immediately moved away from them, giving himself room to spread his wings. Giving himself room to fight.

Saetan watched him for a moment, then began reinforcing his own considerable defenses. They were different in many ways, but he’d always respected Andulvar’s instincts.

Draca entered the room slowly, calmly. Her hands, as usual, were tucked into the long sleeves of her robe. She waited for them to be seated, waited until their attention was centered on her before pinning Saetan with her reptilian stare.

“The Lady iss fifteen today,” Draca said.

“Yes,” Saetan replied cautiously.

“Sshe wass pleassed with our ssmall offeringss.”

It was sometimes difficult to perceive inflections in Draca’s sibilant voice, but the words sounded more like a command than a question. “Yes,” Saetan said, “I think she was.”

A long silence. “It iss time for the Lady to leave the Keep. You are her legal guardian. You will make the arrangementss.”

Saetan’s throat tightened. The muscles in his chest constricted. “I had promised her that she could stay here.”

“It iss time for the Lady to leave. Sshe will live with you at SsaDiablo Hall.”

“I propose an alternative,” Cassandra said quickly, pressing her fists into her lap. She didn’t even glance at Saetan. “Jaenelle could live with me. Everyone knows who—and what—Saetan is, but I—”

Titian twisted around in her chair. “Do you really believe no one in the Shadow Realm knows you’re a Guardian? Did you really think your masquerading as one of the living had fooled anyone?”

Anger flared in Cassandra’s eyes. “I’ve always been careful—”

“You’ve always been a liar. At least the High Lord has been honest about what he is.”

“But he is the High Lord—and that’s the point.”

“The point is you want to be the one who shapes Jaenelle just like Hekatah wants to shape Jaenelle, to mold her into an image of your choosing instead of letting her be what she is.”

“How dare you speak to me like that? I’m a Black-Jeweled Queen!”

“You’re not my Queen,” Titian snarled.

“Ladies.” Saetan’s voice rolled through the room like soft thunder. He took a moment to steady his temper before turning his attention back to Draca.

“Sshe will live at the Hall,” Draca said firmly. “It iss decided.”

“Since you haven’t discussed this with any of us until now, who decided this?” Cassandra said sharply.

“Lorn hass decided.”

Saetan forgot how to breathe.

Hell’s fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful.

No one argued. No one made so much as a sound.

Saetan realized his hands were shaking. “Could I talk to him? There are some things he may not understand about—”

“He undersstandss, High Lord.”

Saetan looked up at the Seneschal of Ebon Askavi.

“The time hass not yet come for you to meet him,” Draca said. “But it will come.” She tipped her head slightly. It was as much deference as she ever showed to anyone. Except, perhaps, to Jaenelle.

They watched her leave, listening to her slow, careful footsteps until the sound faded away completely.

Andulvar let his breath out in an explosive ffooooh. “When she wants to cut someone off at the knees, she’s got an impressive knife.”

Saetan leaned his head against the chair and closed his eyes. “Doesn’t she though?”

Cassandra carefully rearranged her shawl and stood up, not looking at any of them. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll retire now.”

They rose and bid her good night.

Titian also excused herself. But before she left, she gave Saetan a sly smile. “Living at the Hall with Jaenelle will probably be difficult, High Lord, but not for the reasons you think.”

“Mother Night,” Saetan muttered before turning to the other men.

Mephis cleared his throat. “Telling the waif she has to leave isn’t going to be easy. You don’t have to do it alone.”

“Yes, I do, Mephis,” Saetan replied wearily. “I made her a promise. I’m the one who has to tell her I’m going to break it.”

He said good night and slowly made his way through the stone corridors until he reached the stairs that would take him to Jaenelle’s suite. Instead of climbing them, he leaned against the wall, shivering.

He had promised her that she could stay. He had promised.

But Lorn had decided.

It was long after midnight before he joined her in the private garden connected to her suite. She gave him a sleepy, relaxed smile and held out her hand. Gratefully, he linked his fingers through hers.

“It was a lovely party,” Jaenelle said as they strolled through the garden. “I’m glad you invited Char and Titian.” She hesitated. “And I’m sorry it was so difficult for Cassandra.”

Saetan gave her a considering look through narrowed eyes.

She acknowledged the look with a shrug.

“How much did you hear?”

“Eavesdropping is rude,” she said primly.

“An answer that neatly sidesteps the question,” he replied dryly.

“I didn’t hear anything. But I felt you all grumbling.”

Saetan drifted closer to her. She smelled of wildflowers and sun-drenched meadows and fern-shaded pools of water. It was a scent that was gently wild and elusive, that captivated a male because it didn’t try to capture him.

It relaxed him—and slightly aroused him.

Even knowing it was a Warlord Prince’s natural response to a Queen he felt emotionally bound to, even knowing he would never cross the distinct line that separated a father’s affection from a lover’s passion, he still felt ashamed of his reaction.

He looked at her, wanting the sharp reminder of who she was and how young she was. But it was Witch who looked back at him, Witch whose hand tightened on his so that he couldn’t break the physical link.

“I suppose even a wise man can sometimes be a fool,” she said in her midnight voice.

“I would never—” His voice broke. “You know I would never—”

He saw a flicker of amusement in her ancient, haunted eyes.

“Yes, I know. Do you? You adore women, Saetan. You always have. You like to be near them. You like to touch them.” She held up their hands.

“This is different. You’re my daughter.”

“And so you will keep your distance from Witch?” she asked sadly.

He pulled her into his arms and held her so tightly she let out a breathless squeak. “Never,” he said fiercely.

“Papa?” Jaenelle said faintly. “Papa, I can’t breathe.”

He immediately loosened his hold but didn’t let go.

Soft night sounds filled the garden. The spring wind sighed.

“This mood of yours has something to do with Cassandra, doesn’t it?” Jaenelle asked.

“A little.” He rested his cheek against her head. “We have to leave the Keep.”

Her body tensed so much his ached in response.

“Why?” she finally asked, leaning back far enough to see his face.

“Because Lorn has decided we should live at the Hall.”

“Oh.” Then she added, “No wonder you’re moody.”

Saetan laughed. “Yes. Well. He does have a way of limiting one’s options.” He gently brushed her hair away from her face. “I do want to live at the Hall with you. I want that very much. But if you want to live some-where else or have any reservations about leaving the Keep right now, I’ll fight him over it.”

Her eyes widened until they were huge. “Oh, dear. That wouldn’t be a good idea, Saetan. He’s much bigger than you.”

Saetan tried to swallow. “I’ll still fight him.”

“Oh, dear.” She took a deep breath. “Let’s try living at the Hall.”

“Thank you, witch-child,” he said weakly.

She wrapped an arm around his waist. “You look a bit wobbly.”

“Then I look better than I feel,” he said, draping an arm around her shoulders. “Come along, little witch. The next few days are going to be hectic, and we’ll both need our rest.”

8 / Kaeleer

Saetan opened the front door of SaDiablo Hall and stepped into orchestrated chaos.

Maids flitted in every direction. Footmen lugged pieces of furniture from one room to another for no reason he could fathom. Gardeners trotted in with armloads of freshly cut flowers.

Standing in the center of the great hall, holding a long list in one hand while conducting the various people and parcels to their rightful places with the other, was Beale, his Red-Jeweled butler.

Somewhat bemused, Saetan walked toward Beale, hoping for an explanation. By the time he’d taken half a dozen steps, he realized that a walking obstacle had not been taken into account in this frenzied dance. Maids bumped into him, their annoyed expressions barely changing upon recognizing their employer, and their “Excuse me, High Lord” just short of being rude.

When he finally reached Beale, he gave his butler a sharp poke in the shoulder.

Beale glanced back, noticed Saetan’s stony expression, and lowered his arms. A thud immediately followed, and a maid began wailing, “Now look what you’ve done.”

Beale cleared his throat, tugged his vest down over his girth, and waited, a slightly flushed but once more imperturbable butler.

“Tell me, Beale,” Saetan crooned, “do you know who I am?”

Beale blinked. “You’re the High Lord, High Lord.”

“Ah, good. Since you recognize me, I must still be in human form.”

“High Lord?”

“I don’t look like a freestanding lamp, for example, so no one’s going to try to tuck me into a corner and put a couple of candle-lights in my ears. And I won’t be mistaken for an animated curio table that someone will leash to a chair so I don’t wander off too far.”

Beale’s eyes bugged out a bit but he quickly recovered. “No, High Lord. You look exactly as you did yesterday.”

Saetan crossed his arms and took his time considering this. “Do you suppose if I go into my study and stay there, I might escape being dusted, polished, or otherwise rearranged?”

“Oh, yes, High Lord. Your study was cleaned this morning.”

“Will I recognize it?” Saetan murmured. He retreated to his study and sighed with relief. It was all the same furniture, and it was all arranged the same way.

Slipping out of the black tunic-styled jacket, he tossed it over the back of a chair, settled into the leather chair behind his desk, and rolled up the sleeves of his white silk shirt. Looking at the closed study door, he shook his head, but his eyes were a warm gold and his smile was an understanding one. After all, he had brought this on himself by telling them in advance.

Tomorrow, Jaenelle was coming home.