1 / Kaeleer

It started going wrong the moment the two members of the Dark Council walked through the front door, looked around, and shivered.

SaDiablo Hall was a dark-gray structure that rose above the land and cast a long shadow. He’d built it to be imposing, but hadn’t planned on having a stony-faced, Red-Jeweled butler frightening his guests before they even crossed the threshold. As for the chill in the air…Helene had let him know, with stiff courtesy, what she thought of the Council coming to poke and pry into her domain, and all of the servants had spent the day scurrying away from the kitchen and Mrs. Beale.

Dark-Jeweled houses always had Blood servants, but when all the witches in a household decided to express their displeasure, the phrase “cold comfort” took on a whole new meaning.

“Good afternoon,” Saetan said, coming forward to greet the two men.

The elder of the two bowed. “We appreciate your taking the time to see us, High Lord. I’m Lord Magstrom. This is Lord Friall.”

Saetan liked Lord Magstrom. A man in his twilight years, he had a kind face framed by a cloud of white hair and blue eyes that probably twinkled most of the time. Those eyes were serious now but not condemning. Lord Magstrom, at least, would make his decision based on his own integrity and honor.

Lord Friall, on the other hand, had already decided. Weedy-looking for all the hair cream and finery, he kept glancing around with distaste and dabbing his lips with a scented, lace-edged handkerchief.

Saetan led them to the formal drawing room to the right of the great hall. It was a large room, but the furniture was arranged so that tall, painted screens could be placed across its width to divide it. The screens were in place, making this section appear cozy. The plastered walls were painted ivory. All the pictures were serene watercolors. The furniture was dark but not heavy and comfortably arranged over subtly patterned Dharo carpets. There was a bouquet of fresh flowers on a table near the windows. Saetan watched Lord Magstrom tactfully look over the room and knew the man was as pleased with the tasteful decorations as he was.

“It’s a delightful room, High Lord,” Lord Magstrom said as he accepted a seat. “Do you use it often?”

Saetan shoved his hands into his sweater pockets. “No,” he said after a slight but noticeable hesitation. “We don’t have many formal guests.” He turned toward a movement in the doorway. “Ah, Beale.”

The butler stood in the doorway, empty-handed.

Saetan raised an eyebrow. “Refreshments for our guests?”

“They’ll be ready momentarily, High Lord.” Beale bowed and retreated, leaving the door open.

Saetan was tempted to close the door but decided against it. No point forcing Beale to demean himself by listening at the keyhole.

“Have we come at an awkward time?” Lord Friall asked, looking pointedly at Saetan’s casual attire while he continued to pat his lips with the scented handkerchief.

Perfume won’t help what’s troubling you, Lord Friall, Saetan thought coldly. My psychic scent permeates the very stones of the Hall. Saetan glanced down at the white cotton shirt unbuttoned low enough so that the Black Jewel around his neck wasn’t completely hidden, the black cotton trousers that were already rumpled, and the sweater. “I gather you were expecting a more formal meeting. However, since I had understood that the Council wanted some indication of our usual living arrangements, those two expectations are incompatible.”

“Surely—” Friall began, but he was cut off by Beale bringing in the refreshment tray.

Saetan studied the tray. It was sparse by Mrs. Beale’s usual standards. There were plenty of sandwiches but none of the nutcakes or spiced tarts. “I don’t suppose Mrs. Beale would—”

Beale set the tray on a table with an almost-inaudible thump.

“No,” Saetan said dryly, “I don’t suppose she would.” He poured the coffee and offered the sandwiches while he tried to ignore the twinkle in Lord Magstrom’s eyes. Settling into a corner of the couch where he could keep an eye on the door, he smiled at Lord Friall and wondered if his clenched teeth would survive the afternoon. “You were saying?”

“Surely—”

The front door slammed.

Catching the psychic scent and the emotional undercurrents, Saetan whistled a sharp command and resigned himself to disaster.

A moment later, Karla stuck her head around the corner. “Kiss kiss,” she said, doing her best to look innocent.

Having already dealt with several of the coven’s spells that had gone awry, Karla trying to look innocent scared him silly. But, if he was lucky, he might never have to know what she’d been up to.

Karla pointed toward the ceiling. “I’m late for my art lesson.”

Saetan groaned softly and massaged his temple. Had he remembered to tell Dujae not to come today? “Please ask Jaenelle to come down. These gentlemen would like to see her.”

Karla’s ice-blue eyes swept over Magstrom and Friall. “Why?” She jerked her chin toward Lord Magstrom. “The grandfather looks harmless enough, but why would she want to talk to a fribble?”

Friall sputtered.

Lord Magstrom raised his cup to hide his smile.

Saetan was sure half his teeth were going to shatter. “Now.”

“Oh, all right. Kiss kiss,” Karla said, and was gone.

“Lady Karla is a friend of your ward?” Lord Magstrom asked mildly.

“Yes.” Saetan’s lips twitched. “She and Jaenelle’s other friends are staying with us for the summer—if I survive it.”

Lord Magstrom blinked.

“She’s a little bitch,” Friall sputtered, dabbing his lips with his handkerchief. “Hardly a suitable companion for your ward.”

“Karla’s a Queen and a natural Black Widow,” Saetan said coldly, “as well as a Healer. She’s an exuberant—but formidable—young lady. Like my daughter.”

He caught Lord Magstrom’s arrested look. Hadn’t the Council checked the register at the Keep? As soon as Jaenelle had returned to them, he and Geoffrey had prepared the listing for her. They had agreed not to include the Territory—or Realm—where she had been born, or anything else that could lead someone back to her Chaillot relatives, but they had included that the Black was her Birthright Jewel. Didn’t the Council know who, and what, they were dealing with? Or had the Tribunal chosen not to tell these men?

Lord Magstrom accepted another cup of coffee. “Your…daughter…is a Black Widow Queen? And a Healer as well?”

“Yes,” Saetan replied. “Didn’t the Council mention it?”

Lord Magstrom looked troubled. “No, they didn’t. Perhaps—”

A woman let out a screech that made all three men jump. As Lord Magstrom dabbed at the spilled coffee and murmured apologies, a young wolf leaped into the drawing room. Friall let out a screech of his own and leaped behind his chair. Veering away from the screeching human, the wolf bounded behind the couch, came around the other side, and finally pressed himself against Saetan’s legs, his head and one paw in Saetan’s lap and a pleading expression in his eyes.

Saetan reminded himself that, compared to most days, they were having a quiet afternoon. He rubbed the young wolf’s head and sighed. “Now what have you done?”

“I’ll tell you what he’s done.” A red-faced woman filled the drawing room doorway.

Friall whimpered.

The wolf whined.

Lord Magstrom stared.

Mother Night, Mother Night, Mother Night. “Ah, Mrs. Beale,” Saetan said calmly while he pressed a damp palm into the wolf’s fur.

Mrs. Beale wasn’t fat. She was just…large. And she didn’t need to use Craft to lift a fifty-pound sack of flour with one hand.

Mrs. Beale pointed a finger at the wolf. “That walking muff just ate the chickens I was preparing for tonight’s dinner.”

Saetan looked down at the wolf. “Bad muff,” he said mildly.

The wolf whined, but the tip of his tail dusted the floor.

Saetan sighed and turned his attention back to the huffing woman. “If there’s no time to prepare more of our own, perhaps you could send someone to the butcher’s in Halaway?”

Mrs. Beale huffed even more and said in a voice that rattled the windows, “Those chickens had been marinating in my special plum wine sauce since last night.”

“Must have been tasty,” Saetan murmured.

The wolf licked his chops and whuffed softly.

Mrs. Beale growled.

“What about a different meat?” Saetan said quickly. “I’m sure our young friend could find a couple of rabbits.”

“Rabbits?” Mrs. Beale waved her hand, slicing the air in several directions. “I’m to fill rabbits with my nut and rice stuffing?”

“No, of course not. How foolish of me. A stew perhaps? I noticed last week that Jaenelle and Karla had second helpings of your stew.”

“Noticed myself that that serving dish had come back empty,” Mrs. Beale muttered. She pointed at the wolf. “Two rabbits. And not scrawny ones either.” She turned on her heel and stomped away.

Lord Magstrom sighed gustily.

Lord Friall stumbled into his chair.

Saetan wondered if he had any bone left in his legs. This was turning into a typical afternoon after all. He scratched the wolf behind the ears. “You understand?” He held up two fingers. “Two plump bunnies for Mrs. Beale. Tarl says there are plenty of them fattening themselves up in the vegetable garden.” He gave the wolf a last scratch. “Off with you.”

After nuzzling Saetan’s hand, the wolf trotted out the door.

“You let a woman like that work here when there are children in the house?” Friall sputtered. “And you keep a wolf for a pet?”

“Mrs. Beale is an excellent cook,” Saetan replied mildly. Besides, he added silently, who would have the balls to dismiss her? “And the wolf isn’t a pet. He’s kindred. Several of them live with us. Another sandwich, Lord Magstrom?”

Looking a bit dazed, Lord Magstrom took another sandwich, stared at it for a moment, then set it on his plate.

“What’s going on?” Jaenelle asked. Smiling politely at Magstrom and Friall, she settled next to Saetan on the couch.

“We’re having bunny stew for dinner instead of chicken.”

“Ah. That explains Mrs. Beale.” Her lips twitched. “I suppose I should explain human territoriality to the wolves to avoid further misunderstandings.”

“At least Mrs. Beale’s territory,” Saetan said, smiling at his fair-haired daughter, aware that the way Jaenelle sat so close to him was open to misinterpretation.

“Is that your usual way of dressing, Lady Angelline?” Lord Friall asked, once more dabbing his lips with his handkerchief.

Jaenelle looked at the baggy overalls she had acquired from one of the gardeners and the white silk shirt Saetan had unknowingly donated to her wardrobe. She lifted one loose braid and studied the feathers, small bells, and seashells attached to the strips of leather woven into her hair. Then her eyes swept over Friall. “Sometimes,” she said coolly. “Do you always dress like that?”

“Of course,” Friall said proudly.

“Why?”

Friall stared at her.

*Remember their delicate sensibilities, witch-child.*

*Screw their delicate sensibilities.*

Saetan flinched. Her mood had shifted.

He dropped one arm around her shoulders. “Lord Magstrom would like to ask you a few questions.” Hopefully the older Warlord felt the emotional currents in the room and would tread carefully.

“Before the interrogation begins, may I ask you something?”

Lord Magstrom fiddled with his cup. “This isn’t an interrogation, Lady,” he said gently.

“Really?” she said in her midnight voice.

Magstrom shivered. His hand shook as he set his cup on the table.

Hoping to divert her, Saetan groaned theatrically. “What do you want to ask?”

Her sapphire eyes studied him. Concern faded to exasperated amusement. “It isn’t that bad.”

“That’s what you said the last time.”

Jaenelle gave him her best unsure-but-game smile. “Dujae wants to know if we can have a wall.”

He tried not to panic. “A wall? Dujae wants one of my walls?”

“Yes.”

Saetan pressed his fingertips against his temple. Something was clogging his throat. He wasn’t sure if it was a shriek or a laugh. “Why does Dujae want a wall?”

“We’re going to paint it.” She pondered this for a moment. “Well, I guess saying we’re going to paint it isn’t quite accurate. We’re going to draw on it. Dujae says we need to think more expansively and the only way to do that is to have an expansive canvas to work on and the only thing big enough is a wall.”

Uh-huh. “I see.” Saetan looked around the tastefully decorated room and sighed. “There are lots of empty rooms here. Why don’t you pick one in the same wing as the rumpus room.”

Jaenelle frowned. “We don’t have a rumpus room.”

Saetan tweaked one of her braids. “You wouldn’t say that if you’d ever been in the room under it while you were all doing…whatever.”

Jaenelle gave him a look of amused tolerance. “Thank you, Papa.” She bussed his cheek and bounded off the couch.

Saetan grabbed the back of her overalls and pulled her down beside him. “Dujae can wait a bit. Lord Magstrom has a few questions.”

The cold fire was back in her eyes, but she settled against him on the couch, her hands demurely in her lap, and gave the two men a look of polite impatience.

Saetan nodded at Lord Magstrom.

His hands loosely clasped on the arms of the chair, Lord Magstrom smiled at Jaenelle. “Is art a favorite study of yours, Lady Angelline?” he asked politely. “I have a granddaughter about your age who enjoys ‘mucking about with colors,’ as she puts it.”

At the mention of a granddaughter, Jaenelle looked at Lord Magstrom with interest. “I enjoy drawing, but not as much as music,” she said after a moment’s thought. “Much more than mathematics.” She wrinkled her nose. “But then, anything’s better than mathematics.”

“Arnora holds mathematics in the same high regard,” Lord Magstrom said seriously, but his blue eyes twinkled.

Jaenelle’s lips twitched. “Does she? A sensible witch.”

“What other subjects do you enjoy?”

“Learning about plants and gardening and healing and weaponry and equitation is fun…and languages. And dancing. Dancing’s wonderful, don’t you think? And of course there’s Craft, but that’s not really a lesson, is it?”

“Not really a lesson?” Lord Magstrom looked startled. He accepted another cup of coffee. “With so much studying, you don’t have much time to socialize,” he said slowly.

Jaenelle frowned and looked at Saetan.

“I believe Lord Magstrom is referring to dances and other public gatherings,” he said carefully.

Her frown deepened. “Why do we need to go out for dancing? We’ve got enough people here who play instruments and we dance whenever we want to. Besides, I promised Morghann I’d spend a few days in Scelt with her when they have the harvest dances, and Kalush’s family invited me to go to the theater with them, and Gabrielle—”

“Dujae,” Friall said tightly. “Dujae is teaching you to draw?”

Saetan squeezed Jaenelle’s shoulder but she shrugged away from him.

“Yes, Dujae is teaching me to draw,” Jaenelle said, the chill back in her voice.

“Dujae is dead.”

“For centuries now.”

Friall dabbed at his lips. “You study drawing with a demon?”

“Just because he’s a demon doesn’t make him less of an artist.”

“But he’s a demon.”

Jaenelle shrugged dismissively. “So are Char and Titian and a number of my other friends. Who I call a friend is no business of yours, Lord Friall.”

“No business,” Friall sputtered. “It most certainly is the Council’s business. It was a show of faith that the Council allowed something like the High Lord to keep a young girl in the first place—”

“Something like the High Lord?”

“—and to soil a young girl’s sensibilities by forcing her to consort with demons—”

“He never forces me. No one forces me.”

“—and submit to his own lustful attentions—”

The room exploded.

There was no time to think, no time to protect himself from the spiraling fury rising out of the abyss.

Drawing everything he could from his Black Jewels, Saetan threw himself on Jaenelle as she lunged for Friall. Wild, vicious sounds erupted from her as she fought to break free and reach the Warlord, who stared at her in shock while windows shattered, paintings crashed to the floor, plaster cracked as psychic lightning scored the walls, and the furniture was ripped to pieces.

Hanging on grimly, Saetan let the room go, using his strength to shield the other men, using himself as a buffer between Jaenelle’s rage and flesh. She wasn’t trying to hurt him. That was the terrifying irony. She was simply trying to get past the barriers he was placing between her and Friall. He opened his mind, intending to press against her inner barriers and force her to feel a little of the pain he was enduring. But there were no barriers. There was only the abyss and a long, mind-shattering fall.

*Please, witch-child. Please!*

She came at him with frightening speed, cocooned him in black mist, and then brought him up to the depth of the Red Jewel before she turned and glided back down into the comfortable sanctuary of the abyss.

Silence.

Stillness.

His head throbbed mercilessly. His tongue hurt. His mouth was full of blood. He felt too brittle to move. But his mind was intact.

She loved him. She wouldn’t deliberately hurt him. She loved him.

Pulling that thought around his bruised mind and battered body like a warm cloak, Saetan surrendered to oblivion.

Lord Magstrom woke to a none-too-gentle slap. Blinking to clear his vision, he focused on the dark wings and stern face.

“Drink this,” the Eyrien snapped, shoving a glass into Magstrom’s hands. He stepped back, fists braced on his hips. “Your companion is finally coming around. He’s lucky to be here at all.”

Magstrom gratefully sipped his drink and looked around. Except for the chairs he and Friall were sitting in, the room was empty. The painted screens that divided the room were gone. The furniture on the other side was tumbled but intact. If not for the black streaks on the ivory walls that looked like lightning gone to ground, he might have thought they’d been moved to a different room, that it had been a hallucination of some kind.

He’d heard of Andulvar Yaslana, the Demon Prince. He knew it was a measure of his own terror that he found shivering comfort in having an Ebon-gray-Jeweled demon standing over him. “The High Lord?” he asked.

Andulvar stared at him. “He almost shattered the Black trying to keep you safe. He’s exhausted, but he’ll recover with a few days of rest.” Then he snorted. “Besides, it’ll give the waif an excuse to dose him with one of her restorative tonics, and that, thank the Darkness, should keep her from thinking too much about what happened.”

“What did happen?”

Andulvar nodded at Friall. Beale was still waving smelling salts under Friall’s nose, but the butler’s expression strongly suggested he’d rather toss the intruder onto the drive and be done with it. “He pissed her off. Not a smart thing to do.”

“Then she’s unstable? Dangerous?”

Andulvar slowly spread his dark wings. He looked huge. And there was no concern in his gold eyes, only an unspoken threat.

“Simply by being Blood, we’re all dangerous, Lord Magstrom,” Andulvar growled softly. “She belongs to the family, and we belong to her. Never forget that.” He folded his wings and crouched beside Magstrom’s chair. “But in truth, Saetan’s the only thing that stands between you and her. Don’t forget that either.”

An hour later, Magstrom and Friall’s coach rolled down the well-kept drive, then onto the road that ran through Halaway.

It was dusk on a late summer afternoon. Wildflowers painted meadows with bright colors. Trees stretched their branches high above the road, creating cool tunnels. It was beautiful land, lovingly tended, shadowed for thousands of years by SaDiablo Hall and the man who ruled there.

Shadowed and protected.

Magstrom shivered. He was a Warlord who wore Summer-sky Jewels. He acted as the caretaker of the village where he’d been born and where he’d contentedly spent his life. Until he’d been asked to serve on the Dark Council, his dealings with those who wore darker Jewels had been diplomatic and, fortunately, seldom. The Blood in Goth, Little Terreille’s capital, were interested in court intrigue, not in a village that looked across a river into the wooded land of Dea al Mon.

But now a curtain had been drawn back, just a little, and he had seen dark power, truly dark power.

Saetan’s the only thing that stands between you and her.

The girl had to stay with the High Lord, Magstrom thought as the coach rolled through Halaway to the landing web where they would catch the Winds and go home. For all their sakes, she had to stay.

Saetan woke slowly as someone settled on the end of his bed. Grunting, he propped himself up on one elbow and stroked the candle-light on the bedside table just enough to dimly light the room.

Jaenelle sat cross-legged on his bed, her eyes haunted, her face pinched and pale. She handed him a glass. “Drink this. It’ll help soothe your nerves.”

He took a sip and then another. It tasted of moonlight, summer heat, and cool water. “This is wonderful, witch-child. You should have a glass yourself.”

“I’ve had two.” She tried to smile but couldn’t quite manage it. She fluffed her hair and bit her lower lip. “Saetan, I don’t like what happened today. I don’t like what…almost happened today.”

He drained the glass, set it on the bedside table, and reached for her hand. “I’m glad. Killing should never be easy, witch-child. It should leave a scar on your soul. Sometimes it’s necessary. Sometimes there’s no choice if we’re trying to defend what we cherish. But if there’s an alternative, take it.”

“They’d come here to condemn you, to hurt you. They had no right.”

“I’ve been insulted by fools before. I survived.”

Even in the dim light he saw her eyes change.

“Just because he was using words instead of a knife, you can’t dismiss it, Saetan. He hurt you.”

“Of course he hurt me,” Saetan snapped. “Being accused of—” He closed his eyes and squeezed her hand. “I don’t tolerate fools, Jaenelle, but I also don’t kill them for being fools. I simply keep them out of my life.” He sat up and took her other hand. “I am your sword and your shield, Lady. You don’t have to kill.”

Witch studied him with her ancient, haunted sapphire eyes. “You’ll take the scars on your soul so that mine remains unmarked?”

“Everything has a price,” he said gently. “Those kinds of scars are part of being a Warlord Prince. You’re at a crossroads, witch-child. You can use your power to heal or to harm. It’s your choice.”

“One or the other?”

He kissed her hand. “Not always. As I said, sometimes destruction is necessary. But I think you’re more suited to healing. It’s the road I’d choose for you.”

Jaenelle fluffed her hair. “Well, I do like making healing brews.”

“I noticed,” he said dryly.

She laughed, but the amusement quickly faded. “What will the Dark Council do?”

He leaned back on his pillows. “There’s nothing they can do. I won’t let them take you away from your family and friends.”

She kissed his cheek. The last thing she said before she left his bedroom was, “And I won’t let them put more scars on your soul.”

2 / Kaeleer

He had expected it, even prepared for it. It still hurt.

Jaenelle stood silently in the petitioner’s circle, her fingers demurely laced in front of her, her eyes fixed on the seal carved into the front of the blackwood bench where the Tribunal sat. She wore a dress she had borrowed from one of her friends, and her hair was pulled back in a tight, neat braid.

Knowing the Council watched his every move, Saetan stared at nothing, waiting for the Tribunal to begin their vicious little game.

Because he had anticipated the Council’s decision, he’d allowed no one but Andulvar to come with them. Andulvar could take care of himself. He would take care of Jaenelle. The moment the Tribunal announced the Council’s verdict, the moment Jaenelle protested and turned to him for help…

Everything has a price.

Over 50, 000 years ago, he’d been instrumental in creating the Dark Council. Now he’d destroy it. One word from her, and it would be done.

The First Tribune began to speak.

Saetan didn’t listen. He scanned the faces of the Council. Some of the witches looked more troubled than angry. But most of their eyes glittered like feral, slithery things gathered for the kill. He knew some of them. Others were new, replacements for the fools who had challenged him once before in this room. As he watched them watching him, his regret at his decision to destroy them trickled away. They had no right to take his daughter away from him.

“—and so it’s the careful opinion of this Council that appointing a new guardian would be in your best interest.”

Tensed, Saetan waited for Jaenelle to turn to him. He’d gone deep into the Black before they’d reached the Council chambers. There were dark Jewels here that might hold out long enough to try to attack, but the Black unleashed would shatter every mind caught in the explosion of psychic energy. Andulvar was strong enough to ride out the psychic storm. Jaenelle would be held safe, protected in the eye of the storm.

Saetan took a deep breath.

Jaenelle looked at the First Tribune. “Very well,” she said quietly, clearly. “When the sun next rises, you may appoint a new guardian—unless you reconsider your decision before then.”

Saetan stared at her. No. No! She was the daughter of his soul, his Queen. She couldn’t, wouldn’t walk away from him.

She did.

She didn’t look at him when she turned and walked down the center of the chamber to the doors at the far end. When she reached the doors, she sidestepped away from Andulvar’s outstretched hand.

The doors closed.

Voices murmured. Colors swirled. Bodies moved past him.

He couldn’t move. He’d thought he was too old for illusions, too heart-bruised to hope, too hardened to dream. He’d been wrong. Now he swallowed the bitterness of hope, choked on the ashes of dreams.

She didn’t want him.

He wanted to die, wanted, desperately, that final death before pain and grief overwhelmed him.

“Let’s get out of here, SaDiablo.”

Andulvar led him away from the smug faces and the glittering eyes.

Tonight, before the sun rose again, he would find a way to die.

He’d forgotten the children would be waiting for him.

“Where’s Jaenelle?” Karla asked, trying to look past him and Andulvar as they entered the family drawing room.

He wanted to slink away to his suite, where he could lick his wounds in private and decide how to accomplish the end.

He would lose them, too. They’d have no reason to visit, no reason to talk with him once Jaenelle was gone.

Tears pricked his eyes. Grief squeezed his throat.

“Uncle Saetan?” Gabrielle asked, searching his face.

Saetan cringed.

“What happened?” Morghann demanded. “Where’s Jaenelle?”

Andulvar finally answered. “The Dark Council is going to choose another guardian. Jaenelle’s not coming back.”

“WHAT?” they yelled in unison.

Their voices pummeled him, questioning, demanding. He was going to lose all of these children who had crept into his heart over the past few weeks, whom he’d foolishly allowed himself to love.

Karla raised her hand. The room was instantly silent. Gabrielle moved forward until the two girls stood shoulder to shoulder.

“The Council appointed another guardian,” Karla said, spacing out the words as she narrowed her eyes.

“Yes,” Saetan whispered. His legs were going to buckle. He had to get away from them before his legs buckled.

“They must be mad,” Gabrielle said. “What did Jaenelle say?”

Saetan forced himself to focus on Karla and Gabrielle. It would be the last time he would ever see them. But he couldn’t answer them, couldn’t get the damning words out.

Andulvar guided Saetan to a couch and pushed him down. “She said they could appoint a new guardian in the morning.”

“Were those her exact words?” Gabrielle asked sharply.

“What difference does it make?” Andulvar snarled. “She made the decision to walk away from—”

“Damn your wings, you son of a whoring bitch,” Karla screamed at him. “What did she say?”

“Stop it!” Saetan shouted. He couldn’t stand having them argue, having the last hour with them tainted by anger. “She said—” His voice cracked. He clamped his hands between his knees, but it didn’t stop them from shaking. “She said when the sun next rose they could appoint another guardian unless they reconsidered their decision by then.”

The mood in the room changed to a little uneasiness blended with strong approval and calm acceptance. Puzzled, Saetan watched them.

Karla plopped down on the couch beside him and wrapped her arms around one of his. “In that case, we’ll all stay right here and wait with you.”

“Thank you, but I’d rather be alone.” Saetan tried to rise, but Chaosti’s stare unnerved him so badly he couldn’t find his legs.

“No, you wouldn’t,” Gabrielle said, squeezing past Andulvar so that she could settle on the other side of him.

“I want to be alone right now,” Saetan said, trying, but failing, to get that soft thunder into his voice.

Chaosti, Khary, and Aaron formed a wall in front of him, flanked by the other young males. Morghann and the rest of the coven circled the couch, trapping him.

“We’re not going to let you do something stupid, Uncle Saetan,” Karla said gently. Her wicked smile bloomed. “At least wait until the sun next rises. You’re not going to want to miss it.”

Saetan stared at her. She knew what he intended to do. Defeated, he closed his eyes. Today, tomorrow, what difference did it make? But not while they were still here. He wouldn’t do that to them.

Satisfied, Karla and Gabrielle snuggled close to him while the other girls drifted toward the other couches.

Khary rubbed his hands together. “Why don’t I see if Mrs. Beale is willing to brew up some tea?”

“Sandwiches would be good, too,” Aaron said enthusiastically. “And some spiced tarts, if we didn’t finish them. I’ll go with you.”

*SaDiablo?* Andulvar said on an Ebon-gray spear thread.

Saetan kept his eyes closed. *I won’t do anything stupid.*

Andulvar hesitated. *I’ll tell Mephis and Prothvar.*

No reason to answer. No answer to give. Because of him, Jaenelle would be lost to all of them. Would her new guardian welcome the wolves and the unicorns? Would he welcome the Dea al Mon and Tigre, the centaurs and satyrs? Or would she be forced to sneak an hour with them now and then, as she had done as a child?

As the hours passed and the children dozed in chairs or on the floor around him, he let it all go. He’d savor this time with them, savor the weight and warmth of Karla’s and Gabrielle’s heads nestled on his shoulders. Time enough to deal with the pain…after the sun rose.

“Wake up, SaDiablo.”

Saetan sensed Andulvar’s urgency but didn’t want to respond, didn’t want to tear the veil of sleep where he’d found a little comfort.

“Damn it, Saetan,” Andulvar hissed, “wake up.”

Reluctantly, Saetan opened his eyes. At first he felt grateful that Andulvar stood in front of him, blocking his view of the windows and the traitorous morning. Then he realized the candle-lights were lit, and necessary, and there was a flicker of fear in the Eyrien’s eyes.

Andulvar stepped aside.

Saetan rubbed his eyes. Sometime during the night Karla and Gabrielle had slumped from his shoulders and were now using his thighs for pillows. He couldn’t feel his legs.

He finally looked at the windows.

It was dark.

Why was Andulvar shoving him awake in the middle of the night?

Saetan glanced at the clock on the mantle and froze. Eight o’clock.

“Mrs. Beale wants to know if she should serve breakfast,” Andulvar said, his voice strained.

The boys began to stir.

“Breakfast?” Khary said, stifling a yawn as he ran his fingers through his curly brown hair. “Breakfast sounds grand.”

“But,” Saetan stammered. The clock was wrong. It had to be wrong. “But it’s still dark.”

Chaosti, the Child of the Wood, the Dea al Mon Warlord Prince, gave him a fierce, satisfied smile. “Yes, it is.”

A duet of giggles followed Chaosti’s words as Karla and Gabrielle pushed themselves upright.

Saetan’s heart pounded. The room spun slowly. He’d thought the Council’s eyes had held a feral glitter, but that had been tame compared to these children who smiled at him, waiting.

“Black as midnight,” Gabrielle said with sweet venom.

“Caught on the edge of midnight,” Karla added. She rested her forearm on his shoulder and leaned toward him. “How long do you think it’s going to take the Council to reconsider their decision, High Lord? A day? Maybe two?” She shrugged and rose. “Let’s find breakfast.”

With Andulvar in the lead, the children drifted out of the family drawing room, chatting and unconcerned.

Watching them, Saetan remembered something Titian had told him years before. They know what she is. He saw Khardeen, Aaron, and Chaosti exchange a look before Khary and Aaron followed the others. Chaosti stayed by the window, waiting.

Another triangle of power, Saetan thought as he approached the window. Almost as strong and just as deadly. May the Darkness help whoever stood in their way. “You knew,” he said quietly as he stared out the window at the moonless, starless, unbroken night. “You knew.”

“Of course,” Chaosti said, smiling. “Didn’t you?”

“No.”

Chaosti’s smile faded. “Then we owe you an apology, High Lord. We thought you were worried about what was going to happen. We didn’t realize you didn’t understand.”

“How did you know?”

“She warned them when she set the terms. ‘When the sun next rises.’” Chaosti shrugged. “Obviously the sun wasn’t going to rise.”

Saetan closed his eyes. He was the Black-Jeweled High Lord of Hell, the Prince of the Darkness. He wasn’t sure that was a sufficient match for these children. “You’re not afraid of her, are you?”

Chaosti looked startled. “Afraid of Jaenelle? Why should I be? She’s my friend, my Sister, and my cousin. And she’s the Queen.” He tipped his head. “Are you?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes I’m very afraid of what she might do.”

“Being afraid of what she might do isn’t the same as being afraid of Jaenelle.” Chaosti hesitated, then added, “She loves you, High Lord. You are her father, by her choice. Did you really think she’d let you go unless that’s what you wanted?”

Saetan waited until Chaosti joined the others before answering.

Yes. May the Darkness help him, yes. He’d let his feelings tangle up his intellect. He’d been prepared to destroy the Council in order to keep her. He should have remembered what she’d said about not letting the Council put more scars on his soul.

She had stopped the Council, and she had stopped him.

It shamed him that he hadn’t understood what Karla, Gabrielle, Chaosti, and the others had known as soon as they heard the phrasing she’d used. Loving her as he did, living with her while she stretched daily toward the Queen she’d become, he should have known.

Feeling better, he headed for the breakfast room.

There was just one thing that still troubled him, still produced a nagging twinge between his shoulder blades.

How in the name of Hell had Jaenelle done it?

3 / Hell

Hekatah stared out the window at the sere landscape. Like the other Realms, Hell followed the seasons, but even in summer, it was still a cold, forever-twilight land.

It had gone wrong again. Somehow, it had gone wrong.

She’d counted on the Council’s being able to separate Saetan and Jaenelle. She hadn’t foreseen the girl resisting in such a spectacular, frightening way.

The girl. So much power waiting to be tapped. There had to be a way to reach her, had to be some kind of bait with which to entice her.

As the thought took shape, Hekatah began to smile.

Love. A young man’s ardor pitted against a father’s affection. For all her power, the girl was a softhearted idiot. Torn between her own desires and another’s needs—needs she could safely accommodate since she’d already been opened—she’d comply. Wouldn’t she? If the male was skilled and attractive? After a while, with the help of an addictive aphrodisiac, she’d need the mounting far more than she’d need a father. Rejection would be all the discipline required if she balked at something her beloved wanted. All that dark, lovely power offered to a cock and balls who would, of course, be controlled by Hekatah.

Hekatah nibbled on her thumbnail.

This game required patience. If she was frightened of sexual overtures and repelled all advances…No need to worry about that. Saetan would never tolerate it, would never permit her to become frigid. He strongly believed in sexual pleasure—as strongly as he believed in fidelity. The latter had been a nuisance. The former guaranteed his little darling would be ripe for the picking in a year or two.

Smiling, Hekatah turned away from the window.

At least that gutter son of a whore was good for something.

4 / Kaeleer

Saetan handed Lord Magstrom a glass of brandy before settling into the chair behind his blackwood desk. It was barely afternoon, but after three “days” of unyielding night, he doubted many men were going to quibble about when they tossed back the first glass.

Saetan steepled his fingers. At least the fools in the Council had the sense to send Lord Magstrom. He wouldn’t have granted an audience to anyone else. But he didn’t like the Warlord’s haggard appearance, and he hoped the elderly man would fully recover from the strain of the past three days. He’d spent most of his long life living between sunset and sunrise, and even he found this unnatural darkness a strain on his nerves. “You wanted to see me, Lord Magstrom?”

Lord Magstrom’s hand shook as he sipped the brandy. “The Council is very upset. They don’t like being held hostage this way, but they’ve asked me to put a proposal before you.”

“I’m not the one you have to negotiate with, Warlord. Jaenelle set the terms, not me.”

Lord Magstrom looked shocked. “We assumed—”

“You assumed wrong. Even I don’t have the power to do this.”

Lord Magstrom closed his eyes. His breathing was too rapid, too shallow. “Do you know where she is?”

“I think she’s at Ebon Askavi.”

“Why would she go there?”

“It’s her home.”

“Mother Night,” Magstrom whispered. “Mother Night.” He drained the glass of brandy. “Do you think we’ll be able to see her?”

“I don’t know.” No point telling Magstrom that he’d already tried to see Jaenelle and, for the first time in his life, had been politely but firmly refused entrance to the Keep.

“Would she talk to us?”

“I don’t know.”

“Would—Would you talk to her?”

Saetan stared at Magstrom, momentarily shocked before fiery cold rage washed through him. “Why should I?” he said too softly.

“For the sake of the Realm.”

“You bastard!” Saetan’s nails scored the blackwood desk. “You try to take my daughter away from me and you expect me to smooth it over? Did you learn nothing from your last visit? No. You just chose to tear apart the life she’s starting to build again with no thought to what it might do to her. You try to tear out my heart, and then when you discover there are penalties for playing your vicious little games, you want me to fix it. You dismissed me as her guardian. If you want to end this, you go up to Ebon Askavi and you face what’s waiting for you there. And in case you don’t yet realize who you’re dealing with, I’ll tell you. Witch is waiting for you, Magstrom. Witch in all her dark glory. And the Lady isn’t pleased.”

Magstrom moaned and collapsed in the chair.

“Damn.” Saetan took a deep breath and leashed his temper as he filled another glass with two fingers of brandy, called in a small vial from his stock of healing powders, and tapped in the proper dosage. Cradling Magstrom’s head, he said, “Drink this. It’ll help.”

When Magstrom was once more aware and breathing easier, Saetan returned to his own chair. Bracing his head in his hands, he stared at the nail marks on the desk. “I’ll take her the Council’s proposal exactly as it’s given to me, and I’ll bring back her answer exactly as it’s given to me. I’ll do nothing more.”

“After what you said, why would you do that?”

“You wouldn’t understand,” Saetan snapped.

Magstrom was silent for a moment. “I think I need to understand.”

Saetan ran his fingers through his thick black hair and closed his golden eyes. He took a deep breath. If their positions were reversed, wouldn’t he want an answer? “I stand at the window and worry about the sparrows and the finches and all the other creatures of the day, all the innocents who can’t comprehend why the daylight doesn’t come. I cradle a flower in my hand, hoping it will survive, and feel the land grow colder with each passing hour. I’m not going for the Council or even the Blood. I’m going to plead for the sparrows and the trees.” He opened his eyes. “Now do you understand?”

“Yes, High Lord, I do.” Lord Magstrom smiled. “How fortunate that the Council agreed to let me negotiate the terms of the proposal. If you and I can reach an agreement, perhaps it will be acceptable to the Lady as well.”

Saetan tried, but he couldn’t return the smile. They’d never seen Jaenelle’s sapphire eyes change, never seen her turn from child to Queen, never seen Witch. “Perhaps.”

He’d felt grateful when Draca granted him entrance to the Keep. He didn’t feel quite so grateful about it when Jaenelle pounced on him the moment he entered her workroom.

“Do you understand this?” she demanded, thrusting a Craft book into his hands and pointing to a paragraph.

His insides churning, he called in his half-moon glasses, positioned them carefully on his nose, and obediently read the paragraph. “It seems simple enough,” he said after a moment.

Jaenelle plopped on air, spraddle-legged. “I knew it,” she muttered, crossing her arms. “I knew it was written in male.”

Saetan vanished his glasses. “I beg your pardon?”

“It’s gibberish. Geoffrey understands it but can’t explain it so that it makes sense, and you understand it. Therefore, it’s written in male—only comprehensible to a mind attached to a cock and balls.”

“Considering his age, I don’t think Geoffrey’s balls are the problem, witch-child,” Saetan said dryly.

Jaenelle snarled.

Stay here, a part of him whispered. Stay with her in this place, in this way. They don’t love you, never cared about you unless they wanted something from you. Don’t ask her. Let it go. Stay.

Saetan closed the book and held it tight to his chest. “Jaenelle, we have to talk.”

Jaenelle fluffed her hair and eyed the closed book.

“We have to talk,” he insisted.

“About what?”

That she’d pretend not to know pricked his temper. “Kaeleer, for a start. You have to break the spell or the web or whatever you did.”

“When it ends is the Council’s choice.”

He ignored the warning in her voice. “The Council asked me—”

“You’re here on behalf of the Council?”

Between one breath and the next, he watched a disgruntled young witch change into a sleek, predatory Queen. Even her clothes changed as she furiously paced the length of her workroom. By the time she finally stopped in front of him, her face was a cold, beautiful mask, her eyes held the depth of the abyss, her nails were painted a red so dark it was almost black, and her hair was a golden cloud caught up at the sides by silver combs. Her gown seemed to be made of smoke and cobwebs, and a Black Jewel hung above her breasts.

She’d gotten one of her Black Jewels set, he thought as his heart pounded. When had she done that?

He looked into her ancient eyes, silently challenging.

“Damn you, Saetan,” she said with no emotion, no heat.

“I live for your pleasure, Lady. Do with me what you will. But release Kaeleer from midnight. The innocent don’t deserve to suffer.”

“And whom do you call innocent?” she asked in her midnight voice.

“The sparrows, the trees, the land,” he answered quietly. “What have they done to deserve having the sun taken away?”

He saw the hurt in her eyes before she yanked the book out of his hands and turned away.

“Don’t be daft, Saetan. I would never hurt the land.”

Never hurt the land. Never hurt the land. Never never never.

Saetan watched the air currents in the room. They were pretty. Reds, violets, indigos. It didn’t matter that air currents didn’t have color. Didn’t even matter if he was hallucinating. They were pretty.

“Is there a chair in this room?” He wondered if she heard him. He wondered if he said the words out loud.

Jaenelle’s voice made the colors dance. “Didn’t you get any rest?”

A chair hugged him, warm against his back. A thick shawl wrapped around his shoulders, a throw covered his legs. A healing brew spiked with brandy thawed his tight muscles. Warm, gentle hands smoothed back his hair, caressed his face. And a voice, full of summer winds and midnight, said his name over and over.

He needn’t fear her. There was nothing to fear. He needed to take these things in stride and not become distraught over the magnitude of her spells. After all, she was still wearing her Birthright Jewels, still cutting her Craft baby teeth. When she made the Offering…

He whimpered. She shushed him.

Cocooned in the warmth, he found his footing again. “The sun’s been rising for the sparrows and the trees hasn’t it, witch-child?”

“Of course,” she said, settling on the arm of the chair.

“In fact, it’s been rising for everything but the Blood.”

“Yeesss.”

“All the Blood?”

Jaenelle fluffed her hair and snarled. “I couldn’t get the species separated so I had to lump them all together. But I did send messages to the kindred so they’d know it was temporary,” she added hurriedly. “At least, I hope it’s temporary.”

Saetan snapped upright in the chair. “You did this without knowing for sure you could undo it?”

Jaenelle frowned at him. “Of course I can undo it. Whether I undo it depends on the Council.”

“Ah.” He needed to sleep for a week—as soon as he saw the sun rise. “The Council asked me to tell you that they’ve reconsidered.”

“Oh.” Jaenelle shifted on the chair arm. The layers of her gown split, revealing her entire leg.

She had nice legs, his fair-haired daughter. Strong and lean. He’d strangle the first boy who tried to slip his hand beneath her skirt and stroke that silky inner thigh.

“Would you help me translate that paragraph?” Jaenelle asked.

“Don’t you have something to do first?”

“No. It has to be done at the proper hour, Saetan,” she added as his eyebrow started to rise.

“Then we might as well fill the time.”

They were still struggling with that paragraph two hours later. He was almost willing to agree that there were some things that couldn’t be translated between genders, but he kept trying to explain it anyway because it filled him with perverse delight.

Despite her strength and intuition, there were still, thank the Darkness, a few things his fair-haired Lady couldn’t do.