1 / Kaeleer

Waiting for dinner, Saetan’s stomach tightened another notch.

Jaenelle had been home for a week, helping Lucivar adjust to the family—and helping the family adjust to Lucivar—when a pointed letter from the Dark Council arrived, reminding her that she had not finished her visit to Little Terreille.

He still didn’t understand Lucivar’s cryptic remark, “Knees or bones, Cat,” but Jaenelle had stomped out of the Hall spitting Eyrien curses, and Lucivar had seemed grimly pleased.

That had been three days ago.

She had returned abruptly that afternoon, snarled at Beale, “Tell Lucivar I used my knee,” and had locked herself in her room.

Disturbed, Beale had informed him of her return and the comment meant for Lucivar, and had added that the Lady seemed unwell.

Jaenelle always seemed unwell after a visit to Little Terreille. He’d never been able to pry the reason for that out of her. Nothing she said about the activities she’d participated in explained the strained, haunted look in her eyes, the weight loss, the restless nights afterward, or the inability to eat.

The only person besides Beale who saw Jaenelle after she returned was Karla. And Karla, teary-eyed and distressed, had picked a fight with the one person she could count on to give her a battle—Lucivar.

After enduring a vicious harangue about males, Lucivar had hauled her out to the lawn, handed her one of the Eyrien sticks, and let her try to whack him. He’d pushed and taunted her until her muscles and emotions finally gave out. He’d offered no explanation, and the fury in his eyes had warned all of them not to ask.

The dining room door opened. Andulvar, Prothvar, and Mephis joined him, the concern in their eyes needing no words.

Karla arrived a minute later, moving stiffly. Lucivar came in behind her, threw an arm around her shoulders—which, amazingly, produced no temperamental explosion—and helped her into a chair.

Beale appeared, looking as strained as Saetan felt, and said, “The Lady says she will be unable to join you for dinner.”

Lucivar pulled out the chair on Saetan’s right. “Tell the Lady she’s joining us for dinner. She can come down on her own two feet or over my shoulder. Her choice.”

Beale’s eyes widened.

A low growl of displeasure came, unexpectedly, from Mephis.

The room smelled dangerous.

Wanting to avoid the confrontation building up between the men in the family, Saetan nodded to Beale, silently backing Lucivar.

Beale hastily retreated.

Lucivar just leaned against the chair and waited.

Jaenelle appeared a few minutes later, her face drained of color except for the dark smudges underneath her eyes.

Smiling that lazy, arrogant smile, Lucivar pulled out the chair beside his and waited.

Jaenelle swallowed hard. “I—I’m sorry. I can’t.”

She moved fast. Lucivar moved faster.

In stunned silence, they watched him drag her to her place at the table and dump her in the chair. She immediately shot upward, smacking into the fist he calmly held above her head. Dazed, she didn’t protest when he pushed her chair up to the table and sat down beside her.

Saetan sat down, torn between his concern for Jaenelle and his desire to treat Lucivar to the same kind of affection.

Andulvar, Prothvar, and Mephis took their seats, bristling. If Lucivar noticed the anger being directed at him, he ignored it.

The arrogance of not acknowledging the displeasure of males of equal or darker rank galled Saetan, but he held his tongue and his temper. There would be time to unleash both later.

“You’re going to eat,” Lucivar said calmly.

Jaenelle stared at the place setting in front of her. “I can’t.”

“Cat, if we have to dump the soup on the floor so that you can puke into the tureen, then that’s what we’ll do. But you’re going to eat.”

Jaenelle snarled at him.

A pale, shaky footman brought the soup.

Lucivar put a ladle full into her bowl and filled his own halfway. He picked up his spoon and waited.

Her snarl grew louder as she reluctantly picked up her spoon.

After a narrow-eyed, considering look at Lucivar, Karla asked a question about a Craft lesson she was working on.

Mephis responded, and the discussion covered the first course.

Jaenelle ate one spoonful of soup.

Andulvar shifted in his seat, rustling his wings.

Saetan flicked a glance at Andulvar, warning him to keep still. He’d caught the scent of feminine anger. He’d caught Lucivar’s tightly focused awareness of Jaenelle and her rising temper—a temper Lucivar was able to provoke with frightening ease.

With each dish offered in the second course, Lucivar selected food for her, pricked at her, scraped away her self-control.

“Liver?” Lucivar asked.

“Only if it’s yours,” she snapped, her eyes glittering queerly.

Lucivar smiled slightly.

By the end of the second course, Jaenelle was an explosion waiting for a spark, and Saetan couldn’t understand the point of taunting her.

Until the meat course.

Lucivar slipped a small piece of prime rib onto her plate and then stacked two large pieces on his own.

Jaenelle stared at the tender, pink-centered meat for a long moment. Then she picked up her knife and fork and began to eat with single-minded intensity. When the meat was gone, she turned to her right and looked at Karla’s plate.

Karla’s face paled to a ghastly white.

When Jaenelle turned to her left and Saetan got a good look at her eyes, he realized that Lucivar had turned the meal into a violent, brilliantly choreographed dance designed to bring the predatory side of Witch to the surface.

Finally her attention fixed on Lucivar’s plate. Snarling softly, she licked her lips and raised her fork.

Keeping his movements slow and deliberate, Lucivar transferred the second piece of prime rib from his plate to hers.

She stabbed the meat with her fork and bared her teeth at him.

Lucivar withdrew his utensils and hands and calmly resumed his meal while Jaenelle devoured the meat.

By the time they reached the fruit and cheese course, Jaenelle’s attention was entirely focused on Lucivar and his offerings of food. When he held up the last grape, she stared at it for a moment, then wrinkled her nose and sat back with a contented sigh.

And the woman-child Saetan knew and loved returned.

For the first time since the meal began, Lucivar looked at the other men sitting at the table, and Saetan felt keen sympathy for this son with the battle-weary look in his golden eyes.

After the coffee was served, Lucivar took a deep breath and turned to Jaenelle. “By the way, you owe me a piece of jewelry.”

“What jewelry?” Jaenelle asked, baffled.

“Kaeleer’s equivalent to the Ring of Obedience.”

She choked on her coffee.

Lucivar thumped her back until she gave him a teary-eyed glare. He smiled at her. “Will you tell them, or shall I?”

Jaenelle looked at the men who made up her family. She hunched her shoulders, and said in a small voice, “In order to fill the immigration requirement, Lucivar’s going to serve me for the next five years.”

This time Saetan choked.

“And?” Lucivar prodded.

“I’ll come up with something,” Jaenelle said testily. “Although why you want to wear one of those Rings is beyond me.”

“I did a little checking while you were gone. Males have to wear a Restraining Ring as part of the immigration requirements.”

Jaenelle let out an exasperated snort. “Lucivar, who’s going to be foolish enough to ask you to prove you’re wearing one?”

“That Ring is physical proof that I serve you, and I want it.”

Jaenelle gave Saetan one fleeting, pleading look—which he ignored. “All right. I’ll come up with something,” she growled, pushing her chair back. “Karla and I are going to take a walk.”

Karla, gathering her wits faster than the men could, moaned to her feet and shuffled after Jaenelle.

Andulvar, Prothvar, and Mephis swiftly found excuses to leave.

After the brandy and yarbarah were brought to the table, Saetan dismissed the footmen, grimly amused by their strained eagerness to return to the servants’ hall. His staff didn’t gossip to outsiders—Beale and Helene saw to that—but only a fool would think they didn’t talk among themselves. Lucivar’s arrival had caused quite a stir. Lucivar in service to their Lady…

If tonight was a sample of what to expect, it was going to be an interesting—and long—five years.

“You play an intriguing game,” Saetan said quietly as he warmed a glass of yarbarah. “And a dangerous one.”

Lucivar shrugged. “Not so dangerous, as long as I don’t push her past surface temper.”

Saetan studied Lucivar’s carefully neutral expression. “But do you understand who, and what, lies beneath that surface temper?”

Lucivar smiled tiredly. “I know who she is.” He sipped his brandy. “You don’t approve of my serving her, do you?”

Saetan rolled his glass between his hands. “You’ve been able to do more in three months to improve her physical and emotional health than I’ve been able to do in two years. That galls a little.”

“You laid a stronger foundation than you realize.” Lucivar grinned. “Besides, a father’s supposed to be strong, supportive, and protective. Older brothers, on the other hand, are naturally a pain in the ass and are inclined to be overprotective bullies.”

Saetan smiled. “You’re an overprotective bully?”

“So I’m told frequently and with great vigor.”

Saetan’s smiled faded. “Be careful, Lucivar. She has some deep emotional scars you’re not aware of.”

“I know about the rape—and about Briarwood. When she’s pushed too hard, she talks in her sleep.” Lucivar refilled his glass and met Saetan’s cool stare. “I slept with her. I didn’t mount her.”

Slept with her. Saetan kept a tight rein on his temper while he sifted through the implications of that statement and weighed it against the amount of physical contact Jaenelle allowed Lucivar without retreating into that chilling emotional blankness that always scared the rest of them. “She didn’t object?” he asked carefully.

Lucivar snorted. “Of course she objected. What woman wouldn’t after being hurt that badly? But she objected more to having her patient sleeping in front of the hearth, and I objected just as strongly to having the Healer who saved my life sleeping in front of the hearth. So we reached an agreement. I didn’t complain about the way she hogged the pillows, tangled the covers, sprawled over more than her share of the bed, made those cute little noises that we don’t call snoring no matter what it sounds like, and growled at everything and everyone until she had her first cup of coffee. And she didn’t complain about the way I hogged the pillows, tangled the covers, sprawled over more than my share of the bed, made funny noises that woke her up and stopped the minute she was awake, and tended to be overly cheerful in the morning. And we both agreed that neither of us wanted the other for sex.”

Which, for Jaenelle, would have made the difference.

“Do you pay much attention to who immigrates to Kaeleer?” Lucivar asked suddenly.

“Not much,” Saetan replied cautiously.

Lucivar studied his brandy. “You wouldn’t know if a Hayllian named Greer came in, would you?”

The question chilled him. “Greer is dead.”

Lucivar fixed his eyes on the dining room wall. “Being the High Lord of Hell, you could arrange a meeting, couldn’t you?”

Why was Lucivar straining to breathe evenly?

“Greer is dead, not just a citizen of the Dark Realm.”

Lucivar’s jaw tightened. “Damn.”

Saetan clenched his teeth. Sweet Darkness, how was Lucivar involved with Greer? “Why are you so interested in him?”

Lucivar’s hands curled into tight fists. “He was the bastard who raped Jaenelle.”

Saetan’s temper exploded. The dining room windows shattered. Zigzag cracks raced across the ceiling. Swearing viciously, he rechanneled the power to strike the drive out front, turning the gravel into powder.

Greer. Another link between Hekatah and Dorothea.

Saetan sank his nails into the table, tearing through the wood again and again, an unsatisfying exercise since he wanted flesh beneath his nails.

The training was too deeply ingrained in him. Damn the Darkness, it was too deeply ingrained. He couldn’t kill a witch in cold blood. And if he was going to break the code of honor he’d lived by all his life, he should have done it more than five years ago when it might have made a difference, might have saved Jaenelle. Not now, when she already bore the scars. Not now, when it wouldn’t change anything.

Hands clamped on his wrists. Tightened. Tightened some more.

“High Lord.”

He should have torn that bastard apart the first time Greer asked about Jaenelle. Should have shredded his mind. What was wrong with him? Had he become too tame, too docile? What was he doing, trying to appease those puny fools in the Dark Council when they were doing something that hurt his daughter, his Queen?

“High Lord.”

And who was this fool who dared lay hands on the Prince of the Darkness, the High Lord of Hell? No more. No more.

“Father.”

Saetan gulped air, fought to clear his head. Lucivar. Lucivar was pinning his arms to the table.

Someone pounded on the door. “Saetan! Lucivar!”

Jaenelle. Sweet Darkness, not Jaenelle. He couldn’t see her now.

“SAETAN!”

“Please,” he whispered. “Don’t let her—”

The door shattered.

“Get out, Cat,” Lucivar snapped.

“What—”

“OUT!”

Andulvar’s voice. “Go upstairs, waif. We’ll take care of this.”

Voices arguing, fading.

“Yarbarah?” Lucivar asked after a long, tense silence.

Saetan shuddered, shook his head. Until he was settled, if he tasted blood, he would want it hot from the vein. “Brandy.”

Lucivar pressed a glass into his hand.

Saetan gulped the brandy. “You should have gotten out of here.”

Lucivar raised his glass with an unsteady hand and offered a wobbly grin. “I’ve had some experience tangling with the Black. All in all, you’re not too bad. Daemon always scared the shit out of me when he turned savage.” He drained his glass and refilled both of them. “I hope you didn’t redecorate in here recently. You’re going to have to do it again, but it doesn’t look like the room’s going to fall in on us.”

“The girls didn’t like the wallpaper anyway.” Ten good reasons to hold his temper. Ten good reasons to unleash it. And always, always, for Blood males like him, the fine line he had to walk to hold on to the balance between two conflicting instincts. “The Harpies executed Greer,” he said abruptly. “They have a distinct sensibility when it comes to that sort of thing.”

Lucivar nodded.

Steady. He would need to be steady for the days ahead. “Lucivar, see if you can persuade Jaenelle to show you Sceval. You should meet Kaetien and the other unicorns.”

Lucivar regarded him steadily. “Why?”

“I have some business I want to take care of. I’ll need to stay at the Keep in Terreille for a few days, and I’d prefer it if Jaenelle wasn’t around to ask questions or wonder where I was.”

Lucivar considered this for a minute. “Do you think you can do it?”

Saetan sighed wearily. “I won’t know until I try.”

2 / Terreille

Saetan carefully secured his Black-Jeweled ring to the center of the large tangled web. It had taken two days of searching through Geoffrey’s Hourglass archives to find the answer. It had taken two more to construct the web. He’d given himself two nerve-fraying days more to rest and slowly gather his strength.

Draca had said nothing when he’d asked for a guest room and workroom at the Terreille Keep, but the workroom had been supplied with a frame large enough to hold the tangled web. Geoffrey had said nothing about the requested books, but he had added a couple of books Saetan wouldn’t have thought of.

Saetan took a deep breath. It was time.

Normally a Black Widow needed physical contact to guide someone out of the Twisted Kingdom. But sometimes blood-ties could cross boundaries otherwise impossible to cross, and no one had a stronger tie to Daemon than he did. The tie of father to son; more, the bond of that night at Cassandra’s Altar.

And the Blood shall sing to the Blood.

Pricking his finger, Saetan placed a drop of blood on the four anchor threads that held the web to its wooden frame. The blood flowed down the top threads, and up the bottom threads. Just as the drops reached his ring, Saetan lightly touched the Black Jewel, smearing it with blood.

The web glowed. Saetan sang the spell that opened the dreamscape that would lead him to the one he sought.

A tortured landscape, full of blood and shattered crystal chalices.

Taking another deep breath, Saetan focused his eyes on the Black-Jeweled ring and began the inward journey into madness.

*Daemon.*

He raised his head.

The words circled, waiting for him. The edges of the tiny island crumbled a little more.

*Daemon.*

He knew that voice. You are my instrument.

*Daemon!*

He looked up. Flattened himself against the pulpy ground.

A hand hovered over him, reached for him. A light-brown hand with long, black-tinted nails. A wrist appeared. Part of a forearm. Straining to reach him.

He knew that voice. He knew that hand. He hated them.

*Daemon, reach for me. I can show you the road back.*

Words lie. Blood doesn’t.

The hand shook with the effort to reach him.

*Daemon, let me help you. Please.*

Inches separated them. All he had to do was raise his hand and he could leave this island.

His fingers twitched.

*Daemon, trust me. I can help you.*

Blood. So much blood. A sea of it. He would drown in it. Because he’d trusted that voice once and he’d done something…he’d done…

*LIAR!* he screamed. *I’ll never trust you!*

*Daemon.* An anguished plea.

*NEVER!*

The hand began to fade.

Fear swamped him. He didn’t want to be alone in this sea of blood with the words circling, waiting to slice into him again and again. He wanted to grab the hand and hold tight, wanted whatever lies might ease this pain for a little while.

But he owed someone this pain because he’d done something…

Butchering whore.

That voice, that hand had tricked him into hurting someone. But, sweet Darkness, how he wanted to trust, wanted to hold on.

*Daemon.* A whisper of sound.

The hand faded, withdrew.

He waited.

The words circled and circled. The island crumbled a little more.

He waited. The hand didn’t return.

He pressed himself against the pulpy ground and wept in relief.

Saetan sank to his knees. The threads of the tangled web were blackened, crumbling. He caught his ring as it fell from the center of the web and slipped it on his finger.

So close. A hand span at most. A moment of trust. That’s all it would have taken to begin the journey out of that pain and madness.

That’s all it would have taken.

Stretching out on the cold stone floor, Saetan pillowed his head on his arms and wept bitterly.

3 / Kaeleer

Saetan looked at Lucivar and shook his head.

“Well,” Lucivar said, his voice tight, “you tried.” After a minute he added, “You’re wanted in the kitchen.”

“In the kitchen? Why?” Saetan asked as Lucivar herded him toward Mrs. Beale’s undisputed territory.

Lucivar smiled and dropped a friendly hand on Saetan’s shoulder.

The gesture filled him with foreboding. “How was your trip?”

“Traveling with Cat is an experience.”

“Do I really want to know about this?”

“No,” Lucivar said cheerfully, “but you’re going to anyway.”

Jaenelle sat cross-legged on the kitchen floor. A brown-and-white Sceltie puppy tumbled about in front of her. Her lap was full of a large, white…kitten?

“Hello, Papa,” Jaenelle said meekly.

*Papa High Lord,* said the puppy. When Saetan didn’t answer, the puppy looked at Jaenelle. *Papa High Lord?*

“Kindred.” Saetan cleared his throat. His voice went back to a deep baritone. “The Scelties are kindred?”

“Not all of them,” Jaenelle said defensively.

“About the same ratio of Blood to landen as other species,” Lucivar said, grinning. “You’re taking this a lot better than Khardeen did. He sat down in the middle of the road and became hysterical. We had to drag him over to the side before he got run over by a cart.”

A muffled chuckle-snort came from the direction of the worktable where Mrs. Beale was busily chopping up some meat.

“And with that one little explanation, the humans suddenly realized why some of the Scelties matured so late and had a longer life span,” Lucivar added with annoying cheerfulness. “After Ladvarian made it clear that Cat belonged to him—”

*Mine!* said the puppy.

The kitten lifted a large, white, furry paw and squashed the puppy.

*Ours!* said the puppy, wriggling out from beneath the paw.

“—we fixed a strong sedative for the Warlord who had just discovered that his bitch was also a Priestess.”

“Mother Night.” Saetan switched to a Red spear thread. *Why does a male Sceltie have a name with an Eyrien feminine ending?*

*That’s what he said his name is. Who am I to argue?* “After that,” Lucivar continued, “Khary dragged us to Tuathal to see Lady Duana, who had a few pointed things to say about not being told there were kindred in her Territory.”

Yes, he was sure the Queen of Scelt would have had quite a few things to say—and would have a few more to say to him.

Jaenelle hid her face in the kitten’s fur.

Lucivar, damn his soul, seemed to be enjoying this now that he could dump it into someone else’s lap.

Since Jaenelle wasn’t jumping into the conversation, Lucivar continued the tale. “In the invigorating discussion that followed, it came out that there are also two breeds of horses who are kindred.”

Saetan swayed. Lucivar propped him up.

The Scelts were noted horsemen. Khary’s and Morghann’s families especially were passionate about horses.

“Imagine how surprised people were when they discovered their horses could talk back to them,” Lucivar said.

Saetan knelt beside Jaenelle. At least if he fainted now he wouldn’t fall so far. “And our feline Brother?”

Jaenelle’s fingers tightened in the kitten’s fur. Her eyes held a dark, dangerous look. “Kaelas is Arcerian. He’s an orphan. His mother was killed by hunters.”

Kaelas. In the Old Tongue, the word meant “white death.” It usually referred to a kind of snowstorm that came with little warning—swift, violent, and deadly.

Saetan switched to a spear thread again. *I suppose no one named him, either.*

*Nope,* Lucivar replied.

Saetan didn’t like the sober caution in Lucivar’s tone. He reached out to pet the kitten.

Kaelas took a swipe at him.

“Hey!” Jaenelle said sharply. “Don’t swat the High Lord.”

Kaelas snarled, displaying an impressive set of baby teeth. The claws weren’t anything to shrug off either.

“Here you are, sweeties,” Mrs. Beale cooed, setting two bowls on the kitchen floor. “Some meat and warm milk.”

Saetan eyed his cook. This was the same woman who always cornered him whenever the wolf pups chased the bunnies through her garden? Then he looked at the bowl of chopped meat and frowned. “Isn’t that the cold roast you were going to serve for lunch?”

Mrs. Beale glared at him. Lucivar prudently stepped behind him.

Abandoning the kitchen to Mrs. Beale and her charges, Saetan headed for his suite. Lucivar went with him.

“The puppy’s cute,” Saetan said. If that was the best he could do, he definitely needed to rest.

“Don’t let puppy cute fool you,” Lucivar said quietly. “He’s a Warlord, and there’s a shrewd intelligence inside that furry little head. Combine that with a large Warlord Prince predator and you’ve got a partnership that needs to be handled with care.”

Saetan stopped at the door of his suite. “Lucivar, just how big do Arcerian cats get?”

Lucivar grinned. “Let’s just say you ought to start putting strengthening spells on the furniture now.”

“Mother Night,” Saetan muttered, stumbling to his bed. The paperwork on his desk could wait. He didn’t need to look for trouble.

He’d just started to doze off when he felt eyes staring at him. Rolling over, Saetan blinked at Ladvarian and Kaelas. Someone—he snorted—had already taught Ladvarian to air walk. True, the puppy wobbled, but he was, after all, a puppy.

Groaning, Saetan rolled back over, hoping they would go away.

Two bodies landed on the bed.

Well, he didn’t have to worry about rolling over on the Sceltie. He wasn’t going to roll anywhere with Kaelas pressed against his back—except, perhaps, onto the floor.

And where was Jaenelle?

The Lady, he was told, was taking a bath. They wanted a nap. Since Papa High Lord was taking a nap, they would stay with him.

With grim determination, Saetan closed his eyes.

He didn’t need to look for trouble. It had just pounced on him.