1 / Kaeleer

Carrying a glass globe and a small glass bowl, both cobalt blue, Tersa walked a few feet into her backyard, her bare feet sinking into ankle-deep snow. The full moon played hide-and-seek among the clouds, much as the vision had eluded her throughout the day. She had lived within visions for so many centuries, she understood that this one needed to be given a physical shape before revealing itself.

Letting her body be the dreamscape’s instrument, she used Craft to sail the globe and bowl through the air. When they reached the center of the lawn, they settled quietly into the snow.

She took a step toward them, then looked down. Her nightgown brushed the snow, disturbing it. That wouldn’t do. Pulling it off, she tossed it near the cottage’s back door and walked toward the globe and bowl. She stopped. Yes. This was the right place to begin.

One long stride to keep the snow pristine between her shuffled footsteps from the cottage and the footsteps that would guide the vision. Placing one foot carefully in front of the other, heel to toe, she waited. There was something else, something more.

Using Craft to sharpen a fingernail, she cut the instep of each foot deep enough for the blood to run freely. Then she walked the vision’s pattern. When it brought her back to her first footstep, she leaped to reach the snow disturbed by shuffled footsteps.

As she turned to see the pattern, the journeymaid Black Widow who was staying with her for a few weeks called out, “Tersa? What are you doing outside at this time of night?”

Snarling, Tersa whirled back to face the young witch.

The journeymaid studied her face for a moment. Fetching the discarded nightgown, she tore it into strips, wrapped Tersa’s feet to absorb the blood, then moved aside.

Urgency pushed Tersa up the stairs to her bedroom. Opening the curtains, she looked down at the yard and the lines she had drawn in the snow with her blood.

Two sides of a triangle, strong and connected. The father and the brother. The third side, the father’s mirror, was separated from the other two and the middle was worn away. If it broke fully, that side would never be strong enough again to complete the triangle.

Moonlight and shadows filled the yard. The cobalt globe and bowl that rested in the center of the triangle became sapphire eyes.

“Yes,” Tersa whispered. “The threads are now in place. It’s time.”

Receiving Jaenelle’s silent permission, Saetan entered her sitting room. He glanced at the dark bedroom where Kaelas and Ladvarian were awake and anxious. Which meant Lucivar would be appearing soon. In the five months since he’d begun serving her, Lucivar had become extraordinarily sensitive to Jaenelle’s moods.

Saetan sat down on the hassock in front of the overstuffed chair where Jaenelle was curled up. “Bad dream?” he asked. She’d had quite a few restless nights and bad dreams in the past few weeks.

“A dream,” she agreed. She hesitated for a moment. “I was standing in front of a cloudy crystal door. I couldn’t see what was behind it, wasn’t sure I wanted to see. But someone kept trying to hand me a gold key, and I knew that if I took it, the door would open and then I would have to know what was hidden behind it.”

“Did you take the key?” He kept his voice soft and soothing while his heart began to pound in his chest.

“I woke up before I touched it.” She smiled wearily.

This was the first time she remembered one of those dreams upon waking. He had a good idea what memories were hidden behind that crystal door. Which meant they needed to talk about her past soon. But not tonight. “Would you like a brew to help you sleep?”

“No, thank you. I’ll be all right.”

He kissed her forehead and left the room.

Lucivar waited for him in the corridor. “Problem?” Lucivar asked.

“Perhaps.” Saetan took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “Let’s go down to the study. There’s something we need to discuss.”

2 / Kaeleer

“Cat!” Lucivar rushed into the great hall. He didn’t know what had set her off, but after talking with Saetan last night, he wasn’t about to let her go anywhere by herself.

Fortunately, Beale was equally reluctant to let the Lady rush out the door without telling someone her destination.

Caught between them, Jaenelle unleashed her frustration with enough force to make all the windows rattle. “Damn you both! I have to go.”

“Fine.” Lucivar approached her slowly, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. “I’m going with you. Where are we going?”

Jaenelle raked her fingers through her hair. “Halaway. Sylvia just sent a message. Something’s wrong with Tersa.”

Lucivar exchanged a look with Beale. The butler nodded. Saetan and Mephis would be back at any moment from their meeting with Lady Zhara, the Queen of Amdarh, Dhemlan’s capital—and Beale would remain in the great hall until they arrived.

“Let me go!” Jaenelle wailed.

Thank the Darkness, it didn’t occur to her to use force against them. She could easily eliminate what amounted to token resistance.

“In a minute,” Lucivar said, swallowing hard when her eyes turned stormy. “You can’t go out in your socks. There’s snow on the ground.”

Jaenelle swore. Lucivar called in her winter boots and handed them to her while a breathless footman brought her winter coat and the belted, wool cape with wing slits that served as a coat for him.

A minute later, they were flying toward Tersa’s cottage.

The journeymaid Black Widow who was staying with Tersa flung the door open as soon as they landed. “In the bedroom,” she said in a worried voice. “Lady Sylvia is with her.”

Jaenelle raced up to the bedroom with Lucivar right behind her.

Seeing them, Sylvia sagged against the dresser, the relief in her face overshadowed by stark concern. Lucivar put his arm around her, uneasy about the way she clung to him.

Jaenelle circled the bed to face Tersa, who was frantically packing a small trunk. Scattered among the clothing strewn on the bed were books, candles, and a few things Lucivar recognized as tools only a Black Widow would own.

“Tersa,” Jaenelle said in a quiet, commanding voice.

Tersa shook her head. “I have to find him. It’s time now.”

“Who do you have to find?”

“The boy. My son. Daemon.”

Lucivar’s heart clogged his throat as he watched Jaenelle pale.

“Daemon.” Jaenelle shuddered. “The gold key.”

“I have to find him.” Tersa’s voice rang with frustration and fear. “If the pain doesn’t end soon, it will destroy him.”

Jaenelle gave no sign of having heard or understood the words. “Daemon,” she whispered. “How could I have forgotten Daemon?”

“I must go back to Terreille. I must find him.”

“No,” Jaenelle said in her midnight voice. “I’ll find him.”

Tersa stopped her restless movements. “Yes,” she said slowly, as if trying hard to remember something. “He would trust you. He would follow you out of the Twisted Kingdom.”

Jaenelle closed her eyes.

Still holding Sylvia, Lucivar braced himself against the wall. Hell’s fire, why was the room slowly spinning?

When Jaenelle opened her eyes, Lucivar stared, unable to look away. He’d never seen her eyes look like that. He hoped he’d never again see her eyes look like that. Jaenelle swept out of the room.

Leaving Sylvia to manage on her own, Lucivar raced after Jaenelle, who was striding toward the landing web at the edge of the village.

“Cat, the Hall’s in the other direction.”

When she didn’t answer him, he tried to grab her arm. The shield around her was so cold it burned his hand.

She passed the landing web and kept walking. He fell into step beside her, not sure what to say—not sure what he dared say.

“Stubborn, snarly male,” she muttered as tears filled her eyes. “I told you the chalice needed time to heal. I told you to go someplace safe. Why didn’t you listen to me? Couldn’t you obey just once?” She stopped walking.

Lucivar watched her grief slowly transform into rage as she turned in the direction of the Hall.

“Saetan,” she said in a malevolent whisper. “You were there that night. You…”

Lucivar didn’t try to keep up with her when she ran back to the Hall. Instead, he sent a warning to Beale on a Red spear thread. Beale, in turn, informed him that the High Lord had just arrived.

He hoped his father was prepared for this fight.

3 / Kaeleer

He felt her coming.

Too nervous to sit, Saetan leaned against the front of his blackwood desk, his hands locked on the surface in a vise grip.

He’d had two years to prepare for this, had spent countless hours trying to find the right phrases to explain the brutality that had almost destroyed her. But, somehow, he had never found the right time to tell her. Even after last night, when he realized the memories were trying to surface, he had delayed talking to her.

Now the time had come. And he still wasn’t prepared.

He’d arrived home to find Beale fretting in the great hall, waiting to convey Lucivar’s warning: “She remembers Daemon—and she’s furious.”

He felt her enter the Hall and hoped he could now find a way to help her face those memories in the daylight instead of in her dreams.

His study door blew off the hinges and shattered when it hit the opposite wall. Dark power ripped through the room, breaking the tables and tearing the couch and chairs apart.

Fear hammered at him. But he also noted that she didn’t harm the irreplaceable paintings and sculpture.

Then she stepped into the room, and nothing could have prepared him for the cold rage focused directly at him.

“Damn you.” Her midnight voice sounded calm. It sounded deadly.

She meant it. If the malevolence and loathing in her eyes was any indication of the depth of her rage, then he was truly damned.

“You heartless bastard.”

His mind chattered frantically. He couldn’t make a sound. He desperately hoped that her feelings for him would balance her fury—and knew they wouldn’t, not with Daemon added to the balance.

She walked toward him, flexing her fingers, drawing part of his attention to the dagger-sharp nails he now had reason to fear.

“You used him. He was a friend, and you used him.”

Saetan gritted his teeth. “There was no choice.”

“There was a choice.” She slashed open the chair in front of his desk. “THERE WAS A CHOICE!”

His rising temper pushed the fear aside. “To lose you,” he said roughly. “To stand back and let your body die and lose you. I didn’t consider that a choice, Lady. Neither did Daemon.”

“You wouldn’t have lost me if the body had died. I would have eventually put the crystal chalice back together and—”

“You’re Witch, and Witch doesn’t become cildru dyathe. We would have lost you. Every part of you. He knew that.”

That stopped her for a moment.

“I gave him all the strength I had. He went too deep into the abyss trying to reach you. When I tried to draw him back up, he fought me and the link between us snapped.”

“He shattered his crystal chalice,” Jaenelle said in a hollow voice. “He shattered his mind. I put it back together, but it was so terribly fragile. When he rose out of the abyss, anything could have damaged him. A harsh word would have been enough at that point.”

“I know,” Saetan said cautiously. “I felt him.”

The cold rage filled her eyes again. “But you left him there, didn’t you, Saetan?” she said too softly. “Briarwood’s uncles had arrived at the Altar, and you left a defenseless man to face them.”

“He was supposed to go through the Gate,” Saetan replied hotly. “I don’t know why he didn’t.”

“Of course you know.” Her voice became a sepulchral croon. “We both know. If a timing spell wasn’t put on the candles to snuff them out and close the Gate, then someone had to stay behind to close it. Naturally it was the Warlord Prince who was expected to stay.”

“He may have had other reasons to stay,” Saetan said carefully.

“Perhaps,” she replied with equal care. “But that doesn’t explain why he’s in the Twisted Kingdom, does it, High Lord?” She took a step closer to him. “That doesn’t explain why you left him there.”

“I didn’t know he was in the Twisted Kingdom until—” Saetan clamped his teeth to hold the words back.

“Until Lucivar came to Kaeleer,” Jaenelle finished for him. She waved a hand dismissively before he could speak. “Lucivar was in the salt mines of Pruul. I know there was nothing he could do. But you.”

Saetan spaced out the words. “Getting you back was the first requirement. I gave my strength to that task. Daemon would have understood that, would have demanded it.”

“I came back two years ago, and there’s nothing draining your strength now.” Pain and betrayal filled her eyes. “But you didn’t even try to reach him, did you?”

“Yes, I tried! DAMN YOU, I TRIED!” He sagged against the desk. “Stop acting like a petty little bitch. He may be your friend, but he’s also my son. Do you really think I wouldn’t try to help him?” The bitter failure filled him again. “I was so close, witch-child. So close. But he was just out of reach. And he didn’t trust me. If he would have tried a little, I would have had him. I could have shown him the way out of the Twisted Kingdom. But he didn’t trust me.”

The silence stretched.

“I’m going to get him back,” Jaenelle said quietly.

Saetan straightened up. “You can’t go back to Terreille.”

“Don’t tell me what I can or can’t do,” Jaenelle snarled.

“Listen to me, Jaenelle,” he said urgently. “You can’t go back to Terreille. As soon as she realized you were there, Dorothea would do everything she could to contain you or destroy you. And you’re still not of age. Your Chaillot relatives could try to regain custody.”

“I’ll take that chance. I’m not leaving him to suffer.” She turned to leave the room.

Saetan took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Since I’m his father, I can reach him without needing physical contact.”

“But he doesn’t trust you.”

“I can help you, Jaenelle.”

She turned back to look at him, and he saw a stranger.

“I don’t want your help, High Lord,” she said quietly.

Then she walked away from him, and he knew she was doing a great deal more than simply walking out of a room.

Everything has a price.

Lucivar found her in the gardens a couple of hours later, sitting on a stone bench with her hands pressed between her knees hard enough to bruise. Straddling the bench, he sat as close as he could without touching her. “Cat?” he said softly, afraid that even sound would shatter her. “Talk to me. Please.”

“I—” She shuddered.

“You remember.”

“I remember.” She let out a laugh full of knife-sharp edges. “I remember all of it. Marjane, Dannie, Rose. Briarwood. Greer. All of it.” She glanced at him. “You’ve known about Briarwood. And Greer.”

Lucivar brushed a lock of hair away from his face. Maybe he should get it cut short, the way Eyrien warriors usually wore it. “Sometimes when you have bad dreams you talk in your sleep.”

“So you’ve both known. And said nothing.”

“What could we have said, Cat?” Lucivar asked slowly. “If we had forced someone else to remember something that emotionally scarring, you would have thrown a fit—as well as a few pieces of furniture.”

Jaenelle’s lips curved in a ghost of a smile. “True.” Her smile faded. “Do you know the worst thing about it? I forgot him. Daemon was a friend, and I forgot him. That Winsol, before I was…he gave me a silver bracelet. I don’t know what happened to it. I had a picture of him. I don’t know what happened to that either. And then he gave everything he had to help me, and when it was done, everyone walked away from him as if he didn’t matter.”

“If you had remembered the rape when you first came back, would you have stayed? Or would you have fled from your body again?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then if forgetting Daemon was the price that had to be paid in order to keep those memories at bay until you were strong enough to face them…He would say it was a fair price.”

“It’s very easy to make statements about what Daemon would say since he’s not here to deny them, isn’t it?” Tears filled her eyes.

“You’re forgetting something, little witch,” Lucivar said sharply. “He’s my brother, and he’s a Warlord Prince. I’ve known him longer and far better than you.”

Jaenelle shifted on the bench. “I don’t blame you for what happened to him. The High Lord—”

“If you’re going to demand that the High Lord shoulder the blame for Daemon being in the Twisted Kingdom, then you’re going to have to shovel some of that blame onto me as well.”

She twisted around to face him, her eyes chilly.

Lucivar took a deep breath. “He came to get me out of Pruul. He wanted me to go with him. And I refused to go because I thought he had killed you, that he was the one who had raped you.”

“Daemon?”

Lucivar swore viciously. “Sometimes you can be incredibly naive. You have no idea what Daemon is capable of doing when he goes cold.”

“You really believed that?”

He braced his head in his hands. “There was so much blood, so much pain. I couldn’t get past the grief to think clearly enough to doubt what I’d been told. And when I accused him, he didn’t deny it.”

Jaenelle looked thoughtful. “He seduced me. Well, seduced Witch. When we were in the abyss.”

“He what?” Lucivar asked with deadly calm.

“Don’t get snarly,” Jaenelle snapped. “It was a trick to make me heal the body. He didn’t really want me. Her. He didn’t…” Her voice trailed away. She waited a minute before continuing. “He said he’d been waiting for Witch all his life. That he’d been born to be her lover. But then he didn’t want to be her lover.”

“Hell’s fire, Cat,” Lucivar exploded. “You were a twelve-year-old who had recently been raped. What did you expect him to do?”

“I wasn’t twelve in the abyss.”

Lucivar narrowed his eyes, wondering what she meant by that.

“He lied to me,” she said in a small voice.

“No, he didn’t. He meant exactly what he said. If you had been eighteen and had offered him the Consort’s ring, you would have found that out quick enough.” Lucivar stared at the blurry garden. He cleared his throat. “Saetan loves you, Cat. And you love him. He did what he had to do to save his Queen. He did what any Warlord Prince would do. If you can’t forgive him, how will you ever be able to forgive me?”

“Oh, Lucivar.” Sobbing, Jaenelle threw her arms around him.

Lucivar held her, petted her, took aching comfort from the way she held him tight. His silent tears wet her hair. His tears were for her, whose soul wounds had been reopened; for himself, because he may have lost something precious so soon after it was found; for Saetan, who may have lost even more; and for Daemon. Most of all, for Daemon.

It was almost twilight when Jaenelle gently pulled away from him. “There’s someone I need to talk to. I’ll be back later.”

Worried, Lucivar studied her slumped shoulders and pale face. “Where—” Caution warred with instinct. He floundered.

Jaenelle’s lips held a shadow of an understanding smile. “I’m not going anywhere dangerous. I’ll still be in Kaeleer. And no, Prince Yaslana, this isn’t risky. I’m just going to see a friend.”

He let her go, unable to do anything else.

Saetan stared at nothing, holding the pain at bay, holding the memories at bay. If he released his hold and they flooded in…he wasn’t sure he would survive them, wasn’t sure he would even try.

“Saetan?” Jaenelle hovered near the open study doorway.

“Lady.” Protocol. The courtesies given and granted when a Warlord Prince addressed a Queen of equal or darker rank. He’d lost the privilege of addressing her any other way, of being anything more.

When she entered the room, he walked around the desk. He couldn’t sit while she was standing, and he couldn’t offer her a seat since the rest of the furniture in his study had been destroyed and he hadn’t allowed Beale to clear up the mess.

Jaenelle approached hesitantly, her lower lip caught between her teeth, her hands twining restlessly. She didn’t look at him.

“I talked to Lorn.” Her voice quivered. She blinked rapidly. “He agreed with you that I shouldn’t go to Terreille—except the Keep. We decided that I would create a shadow of myself that can interact with people so that I can search for Daemon while my body remains safe at the Keep. I’ll only be able to search three days out of every month because of the physical drain the shadow will place on me, but I know someone I think will help me look for him.”

“You must do what you think best,” he said carefully.

She looked at him, her beautiful, ancient, haunted eyes full of tears. “S-Saetan?”

Still so young for all her strength and wisdom.

He opened his arms, opened his heart.

She clung to him, trembling violently.

She was the most painful, most glorious dance of his life.

“Saetan, I—”

He pressed a finger against her lips. “No, witch-child,” he said with gentle regret. “Forgiveness doesn’t work that way. You may want to forgive me, but you can’t do it yet. Forgiving someone can take weeks, months, years. Sometimes it takes a lifetime. Until Daemon is whole again, all we can do is try to be kind to one another, and understanding, and take each day as it comes.” He held her close, savoring the feeling, not knowing when, or if, he’d ever hold her like this again. “Come along, witch-child. It’s almost dawn. You need to rest now.”

He led her to her bedroom but didn’t enter. Safe in his own room, he felt the loneliness already pressing down on him.

He curled up on his bed, unable to stop the tears he’d held back throughout the long, terrible night. It would take time. Weeks, months, maybe years. He knew it would take time.

But, please, sweet Darkness, please don’t let it take a lifetime.

4 / Terreille

Surreal walked down the neglected street toward the market square, hoping her icy expression would offset her vulnerable physical state. She shouldn’t have used that witch’s brew to suppress last month’s moontime, but the Hayllian guards Kartane SaDiablo had sent after her had been breathing down her neck then and she hadn’t felt safe enough to risk being defenseless during the days when her body couldn’t tolerate the use of her power beyond basic Craft.

Damn all Blood males to the bowels of Hell. When a witch’s body made her vulnerable for a few days, it also made every Blood male a potential enemy. And right now she had enough enemies to worry about.

Well, she’d pick up a few things at the market and then hole up in her rooms with a couple of thick novels and wait it out.

Stifled, frightened cries came from the alley up ahead.

Calling in a long-bladed knife, Surreal slipped to the edge of the alley and peeked around the corner.

Four large, surly Hayllian men. And one girl who was barely more than a child. Two of the men stood back, watching, as one of their comrades held the girl and the other’s hands yanked her clothes aside.

Damn, damn, damn. It was a trap. There was no other reason for Hayllians to be in this part of the Realm, especially in this part of a dying city. She should just slip back to her rooms. If she was careful, they might not find her. There would be other Hayllians waiting around the places where she might purchase a ticket for a Web Coach, so that was out. And riding the Winds without the protection of a Coach might not be suicidal right now, but it would feel damn close.

But there was that girl. If she didn’t intervene, that child was going to end up under those four brutes. Even if someone “rescued” her afterward, she’d be passed from man to man until the constant use or the brutality of one of them killed her.

Taking a deep breath, Surreal rushed into the alley.

An upward slash opened one man from armpit to collarbone. She swung her arm, just missing the girl’s face, and managed to get in a shallow slash across the other’s chest while she tried to pull the girl away.

Then the other two men joined the fight.

Diving under a fist that would have pulped one side of her head, Surreal rolled, sprang up, took two running steps and, because no one tried to stop her from going deeper into the alley, spun around.

A dead end behind her, and the Hayllians blocking the only way out.

Surreal looked at the girl, wanting to express her regret.

Smiling greedily as one of the unwounded men dropped a small bag of coins into her hands, the girl pulled her clothes together and hurried out of the alley.

Mercenary little bitch.

Surreal tried hard to remember the other girls she’d helped over the past five years, but remembering them didn’t diminish the overwhelming sense of betrayal. Well, she’d come full circle. She’d come up from living in stinking alleys. Now she’d die in one, because she wasn’t about to let Kartane SaDiablo truss her up and hand her over as a present to the High Priestess of Hayll.

The men stepped forward, smiling viciously.

“Let her go.”

The quiet, eerie, midnight voice came from behind her.

Surreal watched the men, watched surprise, uneasiness, and fear harden into a look that always meant pain for a woman.

“Let her go,” the voice said again.

“Go to Hell,” the largest Hayllian said, stepping forward.

A mist rose up behind the men, forming a wall across the alley.

“Just slit the bitch’s throat and be done with it,” the man with the shoulder wound said.

“Can’t have any fun and games with the half-breed, so the other will have to learn some manners,” the largest man said.

Thick mist suddenly filled the alley. Eyes, like burning red gems, appeared, and something let out a wet-sounding snarl.

Surreal screamed breathlessly as a hand clamped on her left arm.

“Come with me,” said that terrifyingly familiar midnight voice.

The mist swirled, too thick to see the person guiding her through it as easily as if it were clear water.

More snarls. Then high-pitched, desperate screams.

“W-what—” Surreal stammered.

“Hell Hounds.”

To the right of her, something hit the ground with a wet plop.

Surreal tried hard to swallow, tried hard not to breathe.

The next step took them out of the mist and back to the welcome sight of the neglected street.

“Are you staying around here?” the voice asked.

Surreal finally looked at her companion and felt a stab of disappointment immediately followed by a sense of relief. The woman was her height, and the body in the form-fitting black jumpsuit, though slender, definitely didn’t belong to the child she remembered. But the long hair was golden, and the eyes were hidden behind dark glasses.

Surreal tried to pull away. “I’m grateful you got my ass out of that alley, but my mother told me not to tell strangers where I live.”

“We’re not strangers, and I’m sure that’s not all Titian told you.”

Surreal tried again to pull away. The hand on her arm clamped down harder. Finally realizing she still held a weapon in her other hand, Surreal swung the knife, bringing it down hard on the woman’s wrist.

The knife went through as if there was nothing there and vanished.

“What are you?” Surreal gasped.

“An illusion that’s called a shadow.”

“Who are you?”

“Briarwood is the pretty poison. There is no cure for Briarwood.” The woman smiled coldly. “Does that answer your question?”

Surreal studied the woman, trying to find some trace of the child she remembered. After a minute, she said, “You really are Jaenelle, aren’t you? Or some part of her?”

Jaenelle smiled, but there was no humor in it. “I really am.” A pause. Then, “We need to talk, Surreal. Privately.”

Oh, yes, they needed to talk. “I have to go to the market first.”

The hand with the dagger-sharp, black-tinted nails tightened for a moment before releasing her. “All right.”

Surreal hesitated. Snarls and crunching noises came out of the mist behind them. “Don’t you have to finish the kill?”

“I don’t think that’ll be a problem,” Jaenelle said dryly. “Piles of Hound shit aren’t much of a threat to anyone.”

Surreal paled.

Jaenelle’s lips tightened. “I apologize,” she said after a minute. “We all have facets to our personalities. This has brought out the nastier ones in mine. No one will enter the alley and nothing will leave. The Harpies will arrive soon and take care of things.”

Surreal led the way to the market square, where she bought folded breads filled with chicken and vegetables from one vendor, small beef pies from another, and fresh fruit from a third.

“I’ll make you a healing brew,” Jaenelle said when they finally returned to Surreal’s rooms.

Still wondering why Jaenelle had sought her out, Surreal nodded before retreating into the bathroom to get cleaned up. When she returned, there was a covered plate on the small kitchen table and a steaming cup filled with a witch’s brew.

Settling into a chair, Surreal sipped the brew and felt the pain in her abdomen gradually dull. “How did you find me?” she asked.

For the first time, there was amusement in Jaenelle’s smile. “Well, sugar, since you’re the only Gray Jewel in the entire Realm of Terreille, you’re not that hard to find.”

“I didn’t know someone could be traced that way.”

“Whoever is hunting you can’t use that method. It requires wearing a Jewel equal or darker than yours.”

“Why did you find me?” Surreal asked quietly.

“I need your help. I want to find Daemon.”

Surreal stared at the cup. “Whatever he did at Cassandra’s Altar that night was done to help you. Hasn’t he suffered enough?”

“Too much.”

There was sorrow and regret in Jaenelle’s voice. The eyes would have told her more. “Do you have to wear those damn dark glasses?” Surreal asked sharply.

Jaenelle hesitated. “You might find my eyes disturbing.”

“I’ll take the chance.”

Jaenelle raised the glasses.

Those eyes belonged to someone who had experienced the most twisted nightmares of the soul and had survived.

Surreal swallowed hard. “I see what you mean.”

Jaenelle replaced the glasses. “I can bring him out of the Twisted Kingdom, but I need to make the link through his body.”

If only Jaenelle had come a few months ago.

“I don’t know where he is,” Surreal said.

“But you can look for him. I can stay in this form only three days out of the month. He’s running out of time, Surreal. If he isn’t shown the road back soon, there won’t be anything left of him.”

Surreal closed her eyes. Shit.

Jaenelle poured the rest of the brew into Surreal’s cup. “Even a Gray-Jeweled witch’s moontime shouldn’t give her this much pain.”

Surreal shifted. Winced. “I suppressed last month’s time.” She wrapped her hands around the cup. “Daemon lived with me for a little while. Until a few months ago.”

“What happened a few months ago?”

“Kartane SaDiablo happened,” Surreal said viciously. Then she smiled. “Your spell or web or whatever it was you spun around Briarwood’s uncles did a good job on him. You wouldn’t even recognize the bastard.” She paused. “Robert Benedict is dead, by the way.”

“How unfortunate,” Jaenelle murmured, her voice dripping venom. “And dear Dr. Carvay?”

“Alive, more or less. Not for much longer from what I’ve heard.”

“Tell me about Kartane…and Daemon.”

“Last spring, Daemon showed up at the flat where I was living. Our paths have crossed a few times since—” Surreal faltered.

“Since the night at Cassandra’s Altar.”

“Yes. He’s like Tersa used to be. Show up, stay a couple of days, and vanish again. This time he stayed. Then Kartane showed up.” Surreal drained her cup. “Apparently he’s been hunting for Daemon for some time, but, unlike Dorothea, he seems to have a better idea of where to look. He started demanding that Daemon help him get free of this terrible spell someone had put on him. As if he’d never done anything to deserve it. When it became apparent that Daemon was lost in the Twisted Kingdom and, therefore, useless, Kartane looked at me—and noticed my ears. At the same moment he realized I was Titian’s child—and his—Daemon exploded and threw him out.

“I guess he figured that bringing Sadi to Dorothea wouldn’t buy him enough help, but bringing Dorothea his only possible offspring would be a solid bargaining chip. And a female offspring who could continue the bloodline would provide strong incentive—even if she was a half-breed.

“Daemon insisted that we leave immediately because Kartane would return after dark with guards. And he did.

“Before Daemon and I caught the Wind and headed out, we had agreed on a city in another Territory. He was right behind me, riding close. And then he wasn’t there anymore. I haven’t seen him since.”

“And you’ve been running since then.”

“Yeah.” She felt so tired. She wanted to lose herself in a book, in sleep. Too much of a risk now. The rest of the Hayllian guards would start wondering about those four men, would start looking soon.

“Eat your food, Surreal.”

Surreal bit into the folded bread and finally wondered why she hadn’t tested that brew—and wondered why she didn’t care.

Jaenelle checked the bedroom, then studied the worn sofa in the living area. “Do you want to tuck up in bed or curl up here?”

“Can’t,” Surreal mumbled, annoyed because she was going to cry.

“Yes, you can.” Taking comforters and pillows from the bedroom, Jaenelle turned the sofa into an inviting nest. “I can stay two more days. No one will disturb you while I’m here.”

“I’ll help you search,” Surreal said, snuggling into the sofa.

“I know.” Jaenelle smiled dryly. “You’re Titian’s daughter. You wouldn’t do anything else.”

“Don’t know if I like being that predictable,” Surreal grumbled.

Jaenelle made another cup of the healing brew, gave Surreal first choice of two new novels, and settled into a chair.

Surreal drank her brew, read the first page of the novel twice, and gave up. Looking at Jaenelle, questions buzzed inside her head.

She didn’t want to hear the answers to any of them.

For now, it was enough that, once they found Daemon, Jaenelle would bring him out of the Twisted Kingdom.

For now, it was enough to feel safe.