1 / Hell

Saetan slammed the book down on the desk and shook with rage.

A month since that plea for knowledge. A month of waiting for some word, some indication that she was all right. He’d tried to enter Beldon Mor, but Cassandra had been right. The psychic mist surrounding the city was a barrier that only the dead could feel, a barrier that kept them all out. Jaenelle was taking no chances with whatever secret lay behind the mist, and her lack of trust was a blade between his ribs.

Embroiled in his own thoughts, he didn’t realize someone else was in the study until he heard his name called a second time.

“Saetan?” Such pain and pleading in that small, weary voice. “Please don’t be angry with me.”

His vision blurred. His nails dug into the blackwood desk, gouging its stone-hard wood. He wanted to vent all the fear and anger that had been growing in him since he’d last seen her, months ago. He wanted to shake her for daring to ask him to swallow his anger. Instead he took a deep breath, smoothed his face into as neutral a mask as he could create, and turned toward her.

The sight of her made him ill.

She was a skeleton with skin. Her sapphire eyes were sunk into her skull, almost lost in the dark circles beneath them. The golden hair he loved to touch hung limp and dull around her bruised face. There were rope burns and dried blood on her ankles and wrists.

“Come here,” he said, all emotion drained from his voice. When she didn’t move, he took a step toward her. She flinched and stepped back. His voice became soft thunder. “Jaenelle, come here.”

One step. Two. Three. She stared at his feet, shaking.

He didn’t touch her. He didn’t trust himself to control the jealousy and spite that seared him as he looked at her. She preferred staying with her family and being treated like this over being with him, who loved her with all his being but wasn’t entrusted with her care because he was a Guardian, because he was the High Lord of Hell.

Better that she play with the dead than become one of them, he thought bitterly. She wasn’t strong enough right now to fight him. He would keep her here for a few days and let her heal. Then he would bring that bastard of a father to his knees and force him to relinquish all paternal rights. He would—

“I can’t leave them, Saetan.” Jaenelle looked up at him.

The tears sliding down her bruised face twisted his heart, but his face was stone-carved, and he waited in silence.

“There’s no one else. Don’t you see?”

“No, I don’t see.” His voice, although controlled and quiet, rumbled through the room. “Or perhaps I do.” His cold glance raked her shaking body. “You prefer enduring this and remaining with your family to living with me and what I have to offer.”

Jaenelle blinked in surprise. Her eyes lost some of their haunted look, and she became thoughtful. “Live with you? Do you mean it?”

Saetan watched her, puzzled.

Slowly, regretfully, she shook her head. “I can’t. I’d like to, but I can’t. Not yet. Rose can’t do it by herself.”

Saetan dropped to one knee and took her frail, almost transparent hands in his. She flinched at his touch but didn’t pull away. “It wouldn’t have to be in Hell, witch-child,” he said soothingly. “I’ve opened the Hall in Kaeleer. You could live there, maybe attend the same school as your friends.”

Jaenelle giggled, her eyes momentarily dancing with amusement. “Schools, High Lord. They live in many places.”

He smiled tenderly and bowed his head. “Schools, then. Or private tutors. Anything you wish. I can arrange it, witch-child.”

Jaenelle’s eyes filled with tears as she shook her head. “It would be lovely, it truly would, but…not yet. I can’t leave them yet.”

Saetan bit back the arguments and sighed. She had come to him for comfort, not a fight. And since he couldn’t officially serve her until she established a court, he had no right to stand between her and her family, no matter what he felt. “All right. But please remember, you have a place to come to. You don’t have to stay with them. But…I’d be willing to make the appropriate arrangements for your family to visit or live with you, under my supervision, if that’s what you wish.”

Jaenelle’s eyes widened. “Under your supervision?” she said weakly. She let out a gurgle of laughter and then tried to look stern. “You wouldn’t make my sister learn sticks with Prothvar, would you?”

Saetan’s voice shook with amusement and unshed tears. “No, I wouldn’t make her learn sticks with Prothvar.” He carefully drew her into his arms and hugged her frail body. Tears spilled from his closed eyes when her arms circled his neck and tightened. He held her, warmed her, comforted her. When she finally pulled away from him, he stood quickly, wiping the tears from his face.

Jaenelle looked away. “I’ll come back as soon as I can.”

Nodding, Saetan turned toward the desk, unable to speak. He never heard her move, never heard the door open, but when he turned back to say good-bye, she was already gone.

2 / Terreille

Surreal lay beneath the sweating, grunting man, thrusting her hips in the proper rhythm and moaning sensuously whenever a fat hand squeezed her breasts. She stared at the ceiling while her hands roamed up and down the sweaty back in not-quite-feigned urgency.

Stupid pig, she thought as a slobbering kiss wet her neck. She should have charged more for the contract—and would have if she’d known how unpleasant he would be in bed. But he only had the one shot, and he was almost at his peak.

The spell now. Ah, to weave the spell.

She turned her mind inward, slipped from the calm depths of the Green to the stiller, deeper, more silent Gray, and quickly wove her death spell around him, tying it to the rhythms of the bed, to the quickened heartbeat and raspy breathing.

Practice had made her adept at her Craft.

The last link of the spell was a delay. Not tomorrow, but the day after, or the one after that. Then, whether it was anger or lust that made the heart pound, the spell would burst a vessel in his heart, sear his brain with the strength of the Gray, shatter his Jewel, and leave nothing but carrion behind.

It was an offhand remark Sadi had made once that convinced Surreal to be thorough in her kills. Daemon entertained the possibility that the Blood, being more than flesh, could continue to wear the Jewels after the body’s death—and remember who had helped them down the misty road to Hell. He’d said, “No matter what you do with the flesh, finish the kill. After all, who wants to turn a corner one day and meet up with one of the demon-dead who would like to return the favor?”

So she always finished the kill. There would be nothing traceable, nothing that could lead them to her. The Healers that practiced in Terreille now, such as they were, would assume he had burned out his mind and his Jewels trying to save his body from the physical death.

Surreal came out of her reverie as the grunts and thrusts increased for a moment. Then he sagged. She turned her head, trying not to breathe the enhanced odor of his unwashed body.

When he finally lay on his back, snoring, Surreal slipped out of bed, pulled on a silk robe, and wrinkled her nose. The robe would have to be cleaned before she could wear it again. Hooking her hair behind her ears, she went to the window and pulled the curtain aside.

She had to decide where to go now that this contract was done. She should have made the decision days ago, but she’d kept hesitating because of the recurring dreams that washed over her mind like surf over a beach. Dreams about Titian and Titian’s Jewel. Dreams about needing to be someplace, about being needed someplace.

Except Titian couldn’t tell her where.

Maybe there were just too many lights in this old, decrepit city. Maybe she couldn’t decide because she couldn’t see the stars.

Stars. And the sea. Someplace clean, where she could take a light schedule and spend her days reading or walking by the sea.

Surreal smiled. It had been three years since she’d last spent time with Deje. Chaillot had some beautiful, quiet beaches on the east side. On a clear day, you could even see Tacea Island. And there was a Sanctuary nearby, wasn’t there? Or some kind of ancient ruin. Picnic lunches, long solitary walks. Deje would be happy to see her, wouldn’t push to fill every night.

Yes. Chaillot.

Surreal turned from the window when the man grunted and thrashed onto his side. The Sadist was right. There were so many ways to efficiently kill a man other than splattering his blood over the walls.

It was too bad they didn’t give her as much pleasure.

3 / Terreille

Lucivar Yaslana listened to the embroidered half-truths Zuultah was spewing about him to a circle of nervous, wide-eyed witches and wondered if snapping a few female necks would add color to the stories. Reluctantly putting aside that pleasant fantasy, he scanned the crowded room for some diversion.

Daemon Sadi glided past him.

Lucivar sucked in his breath, suppressed a grin, and turned back to Zuultah’s circle. The last time the Queens had gotten careless about keeping them separated, he and Daemon had destroyed a court during a fight that escalated from a disagreement over whether the wine being served was just mediocre or was really colored horse piss.

Forty years ago. Enough time among the short-lived races for the randy young Queens to convince themselves that they could control him and Daemon or, even better, that they were the Queens strong-willed enough and wonderful enough to tame two dark-Jeweled Warlord Princes. Well, this Eyrien Warlord Prince wasn’t tamable—at least, not for another five years. As for the Sadist…Any man who referred to his bedroom skills as poisoned honey wasn’t likely to be tamed or controlled unless he chose to be.

It was late in the evening before Lucivar got the chance to slip out to the back garden. Daemon had gone out a few minutes before, after an abrupt, snarling disagreement with Lady Cornelia.

Moving with a hunter’s caution, Lucivar followed the ribbon of chilled air left by Daemon’s passing. He turned a corner and stopped.

Daemon stood in the middle of the gravel path, his face raised to the night sky while the delicate breeze riffled his black hair.

The gravel under Lucivar’s feet shifted slightly.

Daemon turned toward the sound.

Lucivar hesitated. He knew what that sleepy, glazed look in Daemon’s eyes meant, remembered only too well what had happened in courts when that tender, murderous smile had lasted for more than a brief second. Nothing, and no one, was safe when Daemon was in this mood. But, Hell’s fire, that’s what made dancing with the Sadist fun.

Smiling his own lazy, arrogant smile, Lucivar stepped forward and slowly stretched his dark wings their full span before tucking them tight to his body. “Hello, Bastard.”

Daemon’s smile thawed. “Hello, Prick. It’s been a long time.”

“So it has. Drunk any good wines lately?”

“None that you’d appreciate.” Daemon studied Lucivar’s clothes and raised an eyebrow. “You’ve decided to be a good boy?”

Lucivar snorted. “I decided I wanted decent food and a decent bed for a change and a few days out of Pruul, and all I have to do is lick the bottom of Zuultah’s boots when she returns from the stable.”

“Maybe that’s your trouble, Prick. You’re not supposed to lick her boots, you’re supposed to kiss her ass.” He turned and glided down the path.

Remembering why he’d wanted to talk to Daemon, Lucivar followed reluctantly until they reached a gazebo tucked in one corner of the garden where they couldn’t be seen from the mansion. Daemon smiled that cold, sweet smile and stepped aside to let him enter first.

Never let a predator smell fear.

Annoyed by his own uneasiness, Lucivar turned to study the luminescent leaves of the firebush nearby. He stiffened when Daemon came up behind him, when the long nails whispered over his shoulders, teasing his skin in a loverlike fashion.

“Do you want me?” Daemon whispered, brushing his lips against Lucivar’s neck.

Lucivar snorted and tried to pull away, but the caressing hand instantly became a vise. “No,” he said flatly. “I endured enough of that in Eyrien hunting camps.” With a teeth-baring grin, he turned around. “Do you really think your touch makes my pulse race?”

“Doesn’t it?” Daemon whispered, a strange look in his eyes.

Lucivar stared. Daemon’s voice was too crooning, too silky, too dangerously sleepy. Hell’s fire, Lucivar thought desperately as Daemon’s lips brushed his, what was wrong with him? This wasn’t his kind of game.

Lucivar jerked back. Daemon’s nails dug into the back of his neck. The sharp thumbnails pricked his throat. Keeping his fists pressed against his thighs, Lucivar closed his eyes and submitted to the kiss.

No reason to feel humiliation and shame. His body was responding to stimulation the same way it would to cold or hunger. Physical response had nothing to do with feelings or desire. Nothing.

But, Mother Night, Daemon could set a stone on fire!

“Why are you doing this?” Lucivar gasped. “At least tell me why.”

“Why not?” Daemon replied bitterly. “I have to whore for everyone else, why not you?”

“Because I don’t want you to. Because you don’t want to. Daemon, this is madness! Why are you doing this?”

Daemon pressed his forehead against Lucivar’s. “Since you already know the answer, why ask me?” He kneaded Lucivar’s shoulders. “I can’t stand being touched by them anymore. Ever since…I can’t stand the feel of them, the smell of them, the taste of them. They’ve raped everything I am until there’s nothing clean left to offer.”

Lucivar wrapped his hands around Daemon’s wrists. The shame and bitterness saturating Daemon’s psychic scent scraped a nerve he had refused to probe over the past five years. Once she was old enough to understand what it meant, would that sapphire-eyed little cat despise them for the way they’d been forced to serve? It wouldn’t matter. He would fight with everything in him for the chance to serve her. And so would Daemon. “Daemon.” He took a deep breath. “Daemon, she’s come.”

Daemon pulled away. “I know. I’ve felt her.” He stuffed his shaking hands into his trouser pockets. “There’s trouble around her—”

“What trouble?” Lucivar asked sharply.

“—and I keep wondering if he can—if he will—protect her.”

“Who? Daemon!”

Daemon dropped to the floor, clutching his groin and moaning.

Swearing under his breath, Lucivar wrapped his arms around Daemon and waited. Nothing else could be done for a man enduring a bolt of pain sent through the Ring of Obedience.

By the time it was over and Daemon got to his feet, his beautiful, aristocratic face had hardened into a cold, pain-glazed mask and his voice was empty of emotion. “It seems Lady Cornelia requires my presence.” He flicked a twig off his jacket sleeve. “You’d think she would know better by now.” He hesitated before he left the gazebo. “Take care, Prick.”

Lucivar leaned against the gazebo long after Daemon’s footsteps had faded away. What had happened between Daemon and the girl? And what did “Take care, Prick” mean? A warm farewell…or a warning?

“Daemon?” Lucivar whispered, remembering another place and another court. “Daemon, no.” He ran toward the mansion. “Daemon!”

Lucivar charged through the open glass doors and shoved his way through gossiping knots of women, briefly aware of Zuultah’s angry face in front of him. He was halfway up the stairs leading to the guest rooms when a bolt of pain from the Ring of Obedience brought him to his knees. Zuultah stood beside him, her face twisted with fury. Lucivar tried to get to his feet, but another surge from the Ring bent him over so far his forehead pressed against the stairs.

“Let me go, Zuultah.” His voice cracked from the pain.

“I’ll teach you some manners, you arrogant—”

Lucivar twisted around to face her. “Let me go, you stupid bitch,” he hissed. “Let me go before it’s too late.”

It took her a long minute to understand she wasn’t what he feared, and another long minute before he could get to his feet.

With one hand pressed to his groin, Lucivar hauled himself up the stairs and pushed himself into a stumbling run toward the guest wing. There was no time to think about the crowd growing behind him, no time to think about anything except reaching Cornelia’s room before…

Daemon opened Cornelia’s door, closed it behind him, calmly tugged his shirt cuffs into place, and then smashed his fist into the wall.

Lucivar felt the mansion shudder as the power of the Black Jewel surged into the wall.

Cracks appeared in the wall, running in every direction, opening wider and wider.

“Daemon?”

Daemon tugged his shirt cuffs down once more. When he finally looked at Lucivar, his eyes were as cold and glazed as a murky gemstone—and no more human.

Daemon smiled.

Lucivar shivered.

“Run,” Daemon crooned. Seeing the crowd filling the hall behind Lucivar, he calmly turned and walked the other way.

The mansion continued to shudder. Something crashed nearby.

Licking his lips, Lucivar opened Cornelia’s door. He stared at the bed, at what was on the bed, and fought to control his heaving guts. He turned away from the open door and stood there, too numb to move.

He smelled smoke, heard the roar of flames consuming a room. People screamed. The mansion walls rumbled as they split farther and farther. He looked around, confused, until part of the ceiling crashed a few feet away from him.

Fear cleared his head, and he did the only sensible thing.

He ran.

4 / Terreille

Dorothea SaDiablo, the High Priestess of Hayll, paced the length of her sitting room, the floor-length cocoon she wore over a simple dark dress billowing out behind her. She tapped her fingertips together, over and over, absently noting that her cousin Hepsabah grew more agitated as the silence and pacing continued.

Hepsabah squirmed in her chair. “You’re not really bringing him back here?” Her voice squeaked with her growing panic. She tried to keep her hands still because Dorothea found her nervous gestures annoying, but the hands were like wing-clipped birds fluttering hopelessly in her lap.

Dorothea shot a dagger glance in Hepsabah’s direction and continued pacing. “Where else can I send him?” she snapped. “It may be years before anyone is willing to sign a contract for him. And with the stories flying, I may not be able to even make a present of the bastard. With so much of that place burned beyond recognition…and Cornelia’s room untouched. Too many people saw what was in that bed. There’s been too much talk.”

“But…he’s not there, and he’s not here. Where is he?”

“Hell’s fire, how should I know. Nearby. Skulking somewhere. Maybe twisting a few other witches into shattered bones and pulped flesh.”

“You could summon him with the Ring.”

Dorothea stopped pacing and stared at her cousin through narrowed eyes. Their mothers had been sisters. The bloodline was good on that side. And the consort who’d sired Hepsabah had shown potential. How could two of Hayll’s Hundred Families have produced such a simpering idiot? Unless her dear aunt had seeded herself with a piece of gutter trash. To think Hepsabah was the best she had to work with to try to keep some rein on him. That had been a mistake. Maybe she should have let that mad Dhemlan bitch keep him. No. There were other problems with that. The Dark Priestess had warned her. As much good as it did.

Dorothea smiled at Hepsabah, pleased to see her cousin shrink farther into the chair. “So you think I should summon him? Use the Ring when the debris in that place is barely cooled? Are you willing to be the one to welcome him home if I bring him back that way?”

Hepsabah’s smooth, carefully painted face crumpled with fear. “Me?” she wailed. “You wouldn’t make me do that. You can’t make me do that. He doesn’t like me.”

“But you’re his mother, dear,” Dorothea purred.

“But you know…you know…”

“Yes, I know.” Dorothea continued pacing, but slower. “So. He’s in Hayll. He signed in this morning at one of the posting stations. He’ll be here soon enough. Let him have a day or two to vent his rage on someone else. In the meantime, I’ll have to arrange a bit of educational entertainment. And I’ll have to think about what to do with him. The Hayllian trash and the landens don’t understand what he is. They like him. They think that pittance generosity he shows them is the way he is. I should have preserved the image of Cornelia’s bedroom in a spelled crystal and shown them what he’s really like. No matter. He won’t stay long. I’ll find someone foolish enough to take him.”

Hepsabah got to her feet, smoothed her gold dress over her padded, well-curved body, and patted her coiled black hair. “Well. I should go and see that his room is ready.” She let out a tittering laugh behind her hand. “That’s a mother’s duty.”

“Don’t rub against his bedpost too much, dear. You know how he hates the scent of a woman’s musk.”

Hepsabah blinked, swallowed hard. “I never,” she sputtered indignantly, and instantly began to pout. “It’s just not fair.”

Dorothea tucked a stray hair back into Hepsabah’s elegant coils. “When you start getting thoughts like that, dear, remember Cornelia.”

Hepsabah’s brown skin turned gray. “Yes,” she murmured as Dorothea led her to the door. “Yes, I’ll remember.”

5 / Terreille

Daemon glided down the crowded sidewalk, his ground-eating stride never breaking as people around him skittered out of his way, filling back in as he passed. He didn’t see them, didn’t hear the murmuring voices. With his hands in his trouser pockets, he glided through the crowds and the noise, unaware and uncaring.

He was in Draega, Hayll’s capital city.

He was home.

He’d never liked Draega, never liked the tall stone buildings that shouldered against one another, blocking out the sun, never liked the concrete roads and the concrete sidewalks with the stunted, dusty trees growing out of circular patches of earth cut out of the concrete. Oh, there were a thousand things to do here: theaters, music halls, museums, places to dine. All the things a long-lived, arrogant, useless people needed to fill the empty hours. But Draega…If he could be sure that two particular witches would lie crushed and buried in the rubble, he would tear the city apart without a second thought.

He swung into the street, weaving his way between the carriages that came to a stuttering halt, oblivious of their irate drivers. One or two passengers thrust their heads through a side window to shout at him, but when they saw his face and realized who he was, they hastily pulled their heads back in, hoping he hadn’t noticed them.

Since he’d arrived that morning, he’d been following a psychic thread that tugged him toward an unknown destination. He wasn’t troubled by the pull. Its chaotic meandering told him who was at the other end. He didn’t know why she was in Draega of all places, but her need to see him was strong enough to pull him toward her.

Daemon entered the large park in the center of the city, veered to the footpath leading to the southern end, and slowed his pace. Here among the trees and grass, with the street sounds muted, he breathed a little easier. He crossed a footbridge that spanned a trickling creek, hesitated for a moment, then took the right-hand fork in the path that led farther into the park.

Finally he came to a small oval of grass. A lacy iron bench filled the back of the oval. A half-circle of lady’s tears formed a backdrop, the small, white-throated blue flowers filling the bushes. Two old, tall trees stood at either end of the oval, their branches intertwining high above, letting a dappling of sunlight reach the ground.

The tugging stopped.

Daemon stood in the oval of grass, slowly turning full circle. He started to turn away when a low giggle came from the bushes.

“How many sides does a triangle have?” a woman’s husky voice asked.

Daemon sighed and shook his head. It was going to be riddles.

“How many sides does a triangle have?” the voice asked again.

“Three,” Daemon answered.

The bushes parted. Tersa shook the leaves from her tattered coat and pushed her tangled black hair from her face. “Foolish boy, did they teach you nothing?”

Daemon’s smile was gentle and amused. “Apparently not.”

“Give Tersa a kiss.”

Resting his hands on her thin shoulders, Daemon lightly kissed her cheek. He wondered when she’d eaten last but decided not to ask. She seldom knew or cared, and asking would only make her unhappy.

“How many sides does a triangle have?”

Daemon sighed, resigned. “Darling, a triangle has three sides.”

Tersa scowled. “Stupid boy. Give me your hand.”

Daemon obediently held out his right hand. Tersa grasped the long, slender fingers with her own frail-looking sticks and turned his hand palm up. With the forefinger nail of her right hand, she began tracing three connecting lines on his palm, over and over again. “A Blood triangle has four sides, foolish boy. Like the candelabra on a Dark Altar. Remember that.” Over and over until the lines began to glow white on his golden-brown palm. “Father, brother, lover. Father, brother, lover. The father came first.”

“He usually does,” Daemon said dryly.

She ignored him. “Father, brother, lover. The lover is the father’s mirror. The brother stands between.” She stopped tracing and looked up at him. It was one of those times when Tersa’s eyes were clear and focused, yet she was looking at some place other than where her body stood. “How many sides does a triangle have?”

Daemon studied the three white lines on his palm. “Three.”

Tersa drew in her breath, exasperated.

“Where’s the fourth side?” he asked quickly, hoping to avoid hearing the question again.

Tersa snapped her thumb and forefinger nail together, then pressed the knife-sharp forefinger nail into the center of the triangle in Daemon’s palm. Daemon hissed when her nail cut his skin. He jerked his hand back, but her fingers held him in a grip that hurt.

Daemon watched the blood well in the hollow of his palm. Still holding his fingers in an iron grip, Tersa slowly raised his hand toward his face. The world became fuzzy, unfocused, mist-shrouded. The only painfully clear thing Daemon could see was his hand, a white triangle, and the bright, glistening blood.

Tersa’s voice was a singsong croon. “Father, brother, lover. And the center, the fourth side, the one who rules all three.”

Daemon closed his eyes as Tersa raised his hand to his lips. The air was too hot, too close. Daemon’s lips parted. He licked the blood from his palm.

It sizzled on his tongue, red lightning. It seared his nerves, crackled through him and gathered in his belly, gathered into a white-hot ember waiting for a breath, a single touch that would turn his kindled maleness into an inferno. His hand closed in a fist and he swayed, clenching his teeth to keep from begging for that touch.

When he opened his eyes, the oval of grass was empty. He slowly opened his hand. The lines were already fading, the small cut healed.

“Tersa?”

Her voice came back to him, distant and fading. “The lover is the father’s mirror. The Priest…He will be your best ally or your worst enemy. But the choice will be yours.”

“Tersa!”

Almost gone. “The chalice is cracking.”

“Tersa!”

A surge of rage honed by terror rushed through him. Closing his hand, he swung his arm straight and shoulder-high. The shock of his fist connecting with one of the trees jarred him to his heels. Daemon leaned against the tree, eyes closed, forehead pressed to the trunk.

When he opened his eyes, his black coat was covered with gray-green ashes. Frowning, Daemon looked up. A denial caught in his throat, strangling him. He stepped back from the tree and sat down on the bench, his face hidden in his hands.

Several minutes later, he forced himself to look at the tree.

It was dead, burned from within by his fury. Standing among the green living things, its gray skeletal branches still reached for its partner. Daemon walked over to the tree and pressed his palm against the trunk. He didn’t know if there was a way to probe it to see if sap still ran at its core, or if it had all been crystallized by the heat of his rage.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. Gray-green dust continued to fall from the upper branches. A few minutes ago, that dust had been living green leaves. “I’m sorry.”

Taking a deep breath, Daemon followed the path back the way he’d come, hands in his pockets, head down, shoulders slumped. Just before leaving the park, he turned around and looked back. He couldn’t see the tree, but he could feel it. He shook his head slowly, a grim smile on his lips. He’d buried more of the Blood than they would ever guess, and he mourned a tree.

Daemon brushed the ash from his coat. He’d have to report to Dorothea soon, tomorrow at the latest. There were two more stops he wanted to make before presenting himself at court.

6 / Terreille

“Honey, what’ve you been doing to yourself? You’re nothing but skin and bones.”

Surreal slumped against the reception desk, grimaced, and sucked in her breath. “Nothing, Deje. I’m just worn out.”

“You been letting those men make a meal out of you?” Deje looked at her shrewdly. “Or is it your other business that’s run you down?”

Surreal’s gold-green eyes were dangerously blank. “What business is that, Deje?”

“I’m not a fool, honey,” Deje said slowly. “I’ve always known you don’t really like this business. But you’re still the best there is.”

“The best female,” Surreal replied, wearily hooking her long black hair behind her pointed ears.

Deje put her hands on the counter and leaned toward Surreal, worried. “Nobody paid you to dance with…Well, you know how fast gossip can fly, and there was talk of some trouble.”

“I wasn’t part of it, thank the Darkness.”

Deje sighed. “I’m glad. That one’s demon-born for sure.”

“If he isn’t, he should be.”

“You know the Sadist?” Deje asked, her eyes sharp.

“We’re acquainted,” Surreal said reluctantly.

Deje hesitated. “Is he as good as they say?”

Surreal shuddered. “Don’t ask.”

Deje looked startled but quickly regained her professional manner. “No matter. None of my business anyway.” Coming around the desk, she put an arm around Surreal’s shoulders and led her down the hall. “A garden room, I think. You can sit out quietly in the evening, eat your meals in your room if you choose. If anyone notices you’re here and makes a request for your company, I’ll tell them it’s your moontime and you need your rest. Most of them wouldn’t know the difference.”

Surreal gave Deje a shaky grin. “Well, it’s the truth.”

Deje shook her head and clucked her tongue in annoyance as she opened the door and led Surreal into the room. “Sometimes you’ve no more sense than a first-year chit, pushing yourself at a time when the Jewels will squeeze you dry if you try to tap into them.” She muttered to herself as she pulled down the bedcovers and plumped the pillows. “Get into a nice comfy nightie—not one of those sleek things—and get into bed. We’ve got a hearty soup tonight. You’ll have that. And I’ve got some new novels in the library, nice fluff reading. I’ll bring a few of them; you can take your pick. And—”

“Deje, you should’ve been someone’s mother,” Surreal laughed.

Deje put her hands on her ample hips and tried to look offended. “A fine thing to say to someone in my business.” She made a shooing motion with her hands. “Into bed and not another word from you. Honey? Honey, what’s wrong?”

Surreal sank onto the bed, tears rolling silently down her cheeks. “I can’t sleep, Deje. I have dreams that I’m supposed to be somewhere, do something. But I don’t know where or what it is.”

Deje sat on the bed and wiped the tears from Surreal’s face. “They’re only dreams, honey. Yes, they are. You’re just worn out.”

“I’m scared, Deje,” Surreal whispered. “There’s something really wrong with him. I can feel it. Once I started running, hoping I was going in the opposite direction, that whole damn continent wasn’t big enough. I need a clean place for a while.” Surreal looked at Deje, her large eyes full of ghosts. “I need time.”

Deje stroked Surreal’s hair. “Sure, honey, sure. You take all the time you need. Nobody’s going to push you in my house. Come on now, get into bed. I’ll bring you something to eat and a little something to help you sleep.” She gave Surreal a quick kiss on the forehead and hurried out of the room.

Surreal put on an old, soft nightgown and climbed into bed. It was good to be back at Deje’s house, good to be back in Chaillot. Now if only the Sadist would stay away, maybe she could get some sleep.

7 / Terreille

Daemon knocked on the kitchen door.

Inside, the spright little tune someone was singing stopped.

Waiting for the door to open, Daemon looked around, pleased to see that the snug little cottage was in good repair. The lawn and flower beds were neatly tended. The summer crop in the vegetable garden was almost done, but the healthy vines at one end promised a good crop of pumpkins and winter squash.

Still too early for pumpkins. Daemon sighed with regret while his mouth watered at the memory of Manny’s pumpkin tarts.

At the back of the yard were two sheds. The smaller one probably contained gardening tools. The larger one was Jo’s woodshop. The old man was probably tucked away in there coaxing an elegant little table out of pieces of wood, oblivious to everything except his work.

The kitchen door remained closed. The silence continued.

Concerned, Daemon opened the door enough to slip his head and shoulders inside and look around.

Manny stood by her worktable, one floury hand pressed to her bosom.

Damn. He should have realized a Warlord Prince’s appearance would frighten her. He’d changed enough since he’d last seen her that she might not recognize his psychic scent.

Putting on his best smile, he said, “Darling, if you’re going to pretend you’re not home, the least you can do is close the windows. The smell of those nutcakes will draw the most unsavory characters.”

Manny gave a cry of relief and joy, hustled around the worktable, and shuffle-ran toward the door, her floury hands waving cheerfully in front of her. “Daemon!”

Daemon stepped into the kitchen, slid one arm around the woman’s thick waist, and twirled her around.

Manny laughed and flapped her arms. “Put me down. I’m getting flour all over your nice coat.”

“I don’t care about the coat.” He kissed her cheek and set her carefully on her feet. With a bow and a flourish of his wrist, he presented her with a bouquet of flowers. “For my favorite lady.”

Misty-eyed, Manny bent her head to smell the flowers. “I’ll put these in some water.” She bustled around the kitchen, filled a vase, and spent several minutes arranging the flowers. “You go into the parlor and I’ll bring out some nutcakes and tea.”

Manny and Jo had been servants in the SaDiablo court when he was growing up. Manny had taken care of him, practically raised him. And the darling was still trying.

Hiding a smile, Daemon stuffed his hands in his pockets and scuffed his gleaming black shoe against the kitchen floor. He looked at her through his long black lashes. “What’d I do?” he said in a sad, slightly pouty, little-boy voice. “What’d I do not to deserve a chair in the kitchen anymore?”

Trying to sound exasperated, Manny only laughed. “No use trying to raise you proper. Sit down, then, and behave yourself.”

Daemon laughed, lighthearted and boyish, and plunked himself gracelessly into one of the kitchen chairs. Manny pulled out plates and cups. “Although why you want to stay in the kitchen is beyond me.”

“The kitchen is where the food is.”

“Guess there’s some things boys never grow out of. Here.” Manny set a glass in front of him.

Daemon looked at the glass, then looked at her.

“It’s milk,” she added.

“I did recognize it,” he said dryly.

“Good. Then drink it.” She folded her arms and tapped her foot. “No milk, no nutcakes.”

“You always were a martinet,” Daemon muttered. He picked up the glass, grimaced, and drank it down. He handed her the glass, giving her his best boyish smile. “Now may I have a nutcake?”

Manny laughed, shaking her head. “You’re impossible.” She put the kettle on for tea and began transferring the nutcakes to a platter. “What brings you here?”

“I came to see you.” Daemon crossed his legs and steepled his fingers, resting them lightly on his chin.

She glanced up, gasped, and then busily rearranged the cakes.

Puzzled by the stunned look on her face, Daemon watched her rearrange everything twice. Searching for a neutral topic, he said, “The place looks good. Keeping it up isn’t too much work for you?”

“The young people in the village help out,” Manny said mildly.

Daemon frowned. “Aren’t there sufficient funds for a handyman and cleaning woman?”

“Sure there are, but why would I want some other grown woman clumping about my house, telling me how to polish my furniture?” She grinned slyly. “Besides, the girls are willing to help with the heavy work in exchange for pocket money, a few of my special recipes, and a chance to flirt with the boys without their parents standing around watching them. And the boys are willing to help with the outside work in exchange for pocket money, food, and an excuse to strip off their shirts and show their muscles to the girls.”

Daemon’s laughter filled the kitchen. “Manny, you’ve become the village matchmaker.”

Manny smiled smugly. “Jo’s working on a cradle right now for one of the young couples.”

“I hope there was a wedding beforehand.”

“Of course,” Manny said indignantly. She thumped the platter of nutcakes in front of him. “Shame on you, teasing an old woman.”

“Do I still get nutcakes?” he asked contritely.

She ruffled his hair in answer and took the kettle off the stove.

Daemon stared into space. So many questions, and no answers.

“You’re troubled,” Manny said, filling the tea ball.

Daemon shook himself. “I’m looking for information that may be hard to find. A friend told me to beware of the Priest.”

Manny slipped the tea ball into the pot to steep. “Huh. Anyone with a lick of sense takes care around the Priest.”

Daemon stared at her. She knew the Priest. Were the answers really this close? “Manny, sit down for a moment.”

Manny ignored him and hurriedly slid the cups onto the table, keeping out of his reach. “The tea’s ready now. I’ll call Jo—”

“Who is the Priest?”

“—he’ll be glad to see you.”

Daemon uncoiled from the chair, clamped one hand around her wrist, and pulled her into the other chair. Manny stared at his hand, at the ring finger that wore no Jeweled ring, at the long, black-tinted nails.

“Who is the Priest?”

“You mustn’t talk about him. You must never talk about him.”

“Who is the Priest?” His voice became dangerously soft.

“The tea,” she said weakly.

Daemon poured two cups of tea. Returning to the table, he crossed his legs and steepled his fingers. “Now.”

Manny lifted the cup to her lips but found the tea too hot to drink. She set the cup down again, fussing with its handle until it was exactly parallel to the edge of the table. Finally she dropped her hands in her lap and sighed.

“They never should have taken you away from him,” she said quietly, looking at memories. “They never should have broken the contract. The Hourglass coven in Hayll has been failing since then, just like he said it would. No one breaks a contract with the Priest and survives.

“You were supposed to go to him for good that day, the day you got your Birthright Jewel. You were so proud that he was going to be there, even though the Birthright Ceremony was in the afternoon instead of evening like it usually is. They planned it that way, planned to make him come in the harshest light of day, when his strength would be at its lowest.

“After you had your Birthright Red Jewel and were standing with your mother and Dorothea and all of Dorothea’s escorts, waiting for the okay to walk out of the ceremonial circle to where he was waiting and kneel to him in service…that’s when that woman, that cruel, scheming woman said you belonged to the Hourglass, that paternity was denied, that he couldn’t have sired you, that she’d had her guards service the Dhemlan witch afterward to ensure she was seeded. It was a warm afternoon, but it got so cold, so awfully cold. Dorothea had all the Hourglass covens there, dozens and dozens of Black Widows, watching him, waiting for him to walk into the circle and break honor with them.

“But he didn’t. He turned away.

“You almost broke free. Almost reached him. You were crying, screaming for him to wait for you, fighting the two guards who were holding your arms, your fingers clenched around that Jewel. There was a flash of Red light, and the guards were flung backward. You hurled yourself forward, trying to reach the edge of the circle. He turned, waiting. One of the guards tackled you. You were only a handspan away from the edge. I think if so much as a finger had crossed that circle, he would have swept you away with him, wouldn’t have worried anymore if it was good for you to live with him, or to live without your people.

“You didn’t make it. You were too young, and they were too strong.

“So he left. Went to that house you keep visiting, the house you and your mother lived in, and destroyed the study. Tore the books apart, shredded the curtains, broke every piece of furniture in the room. He couldn’t get the rage out. When I finally dared open the door, he was kneeling in the middle of the room, his chest heaving, trying to get some air, a crazy look in his eyes.

“He finally got up and made me promise to look after you and your mother, to do the best I could. And I promised because I cared about you and her, and because he’d always been kind to me and Jo.

“After that, he disappeared. They took your Red Jewel and put the Ring of Obedience on you that night. You wouldn’t eat. They told me I had to make you eat. They had plans for you and you weren’t going to waste away. They locked Jo up in a metal box, put him out where there wasn’t any shade and said he’d get food and water when I got you to eat. When I got you to eat two days in a row, they’d let him out.

“For three days you wouldn’t eat, no matter how I begged. I don’t think you heard me at all during those days. I was desperate. At night, when I’d go out and stand as close to the box as I was allowed, I’d hear Jo whimpering, his skin all blistered from touching that hot metal. So I did something bad to you. I dragged you out one morning and made you look at that box. I told you you were killing my man out of spite, that he was being punished because you were a bad boy and wouldn’t eat, and if he died I would hate you forever and ever.

“I didn’t know Dorothea had run your mother off. I didn’t know I was all you had left. But you knew. You felt her go.

“You did what I said. You ate when I told you, slept when I told you. You were more a ghost than a child. But they let Jo out.”

Manny wiped the tears from her face with the edge of her apron. She took a sip of cold tea.

Daemon closed his eyes. Before coming here, he’d gone to that crumbling, abandoned house he’d once lived in, searching for answers as he did every time he was in this part of the Realm. Memories, so elusive and traitorous, always teased him when he walked through the rooms. But it was the wrecked study that really drew him back, the room where he could almost hear a deep, powerful voice like soft thunder, where he could almost smell a sharp, spicy, masculine scent, where he could almost feel strong arms around him, where he could almost believe he had once been safe, protected, and loved.

And now he finally knew why.

Daemon slipped his hand over Manny’s and squeezed gently. “You’ve told me this much, tell me the rest.”

Manny shook her head. “They did something so you would forget him. They said if you ever found out about him, they’d kill you.” She looked at him, pleading. “I couldn’t let them kill you. You were the boy Jo and I couldn’t have.”

A door in his mind that he’d never known existed began to open.

“I’m not a boy anymore, Manny,” Daemon said quietly, “and I won’t be killed that easily.” He made another pot of tea, put a fresh cup in front of her, and settled back in his chair. “What was…is his name?”

“He has many names,” Manny whispered, staring at her cup.

“Manny.” Daemon fought for patience.

“They call him the Seducer. The Executioner.”

He shook his head, still not understanding. But the door opened a little wider.

“He’s the High Priest of the Hourglass.”

A little wider.

“You’re stalling,” Daemon snapped, clattering the cup against the saucer. “What’s my father’s name? You owe me that. You know what it’s been like for me being a bastard. Did he ever sign the register?”

“Oh, yes,” she said hurriedly. “But they changed that page. He was so proud of you and the Eyrien boy. He didn’t know, you know, about the girl being Eyrien. Luthvian, that was her name. She didn’t have wings or scars where wings were removed. He didn’t know until the boy was born. She wanted to cut the wings off, raise the boy as Dhemlan maybe. But he said no, in his soul the boy was Eyrien, and it would be kinder to kill him in the cradle than to cut his wings. She cried at that, scared that he really would kill the babe. I think he would have if she’d ever done anything that might have damaged the wings. He built her a snug little cottage in Askavi, took care of her and the boy. He would bring him to visit sometimes. You’d play together…or fight together. It was hard to tell which. Then she got scared. She told me Prythian, Askavi’s High Priestess, told her he only wanted the boy for fodder, wanted a supply of fresh blood to sup on. So she gave the boy to Prythian to hide, and ran away. When she went back for him, Prythian wouldn’t tell her where he was, just laughed at her, and—”

“Manny,” Daemon said in a soft, cold voice. “For the last time, who is my father?”

“The Prince of the Darkness.”

A little wider.

“Manny.”

“The Priest is the High Lord, don’t you understand?” Manny cried.

“His name.”

“No.”

“His name, Manny.”

“To whisper the name is to summon the man.”

The door blew open and the memories poured out.

Daemon stared at his hands, stared at the long, black-tinted nails.

Mother Night.

He swallowed hard and shook his head. It wasn’t possible. As much as he would like to believe it, it wasn’t possible. “Saetan,” he said quietly. “You’re telling me my father is Saetan?”

“Hush, Daemon, hush.”

Daemon leaped up, knocking the chair over. “No, I will not hush. He’s dead, Manny. A legend. An ancestor far removed.”

“Your father.”

“He’s dead.”

Manny licked her lips and closed her eyes. “One of the living dead. One of the ones called Guardians.”

Daemon righted the chair and sat down. He felt ill. No wonder Dorothea used to beat him when he would nurse the hurt of being excluded by pretending that Saetan was his father. It hadn’t been pretend after all. “Are you sure?” he asked finally.

“I’m sure.”

Daemon laughed harshly. “You’re mistaken, Manny. You must be. I can’t imagine the High Lord of Hell bedding that bitch Hepsabah.”

Manny squirmed.

Memories kept pouring over him, puzzle pieces floating into place.

“Not Hepsabah,” he said slowly, feeling crushed by the magnitude of the lies that had made up his life. No, not Hepsabah. A Dhemlan witch…who’d been driven out of the court. “Tersa.” He braced his head in his hands. “Who else could it be but Tersa.”

Manny reached toward him but didn’t touch him. “Now you know.”

Daemon’s hands shook as he lit a black cigarette. He watched the smoke curl and rise, too weary to do anything else. “Now I know.” He closed his eyes and whispered, “My best ally or my worst enemy. And the choice will be mine. Sweet Darkness, why did it have to be him?”

“Daemon?”

He shook his head and tried to smile reassuringly.

He spent another hour with Manny and Jo, who had finally come in from the woodshop. He entertained them with slightly risqué stories about the Blood aristos he’d served in various courts and told them nothing about his life. It would hurt him beyond healing if Manny ever thought of him as Hayll’s Whore.

When he finally left, he walked for hours. He couldn’t stop shaking. The pain of a lifetime of lies grew with each step until his rage threatened to tear apart what was left of his self-restraint.

It was dawn when he caught the Red Wind and rode to Draega.

For the first time in his life, he wanted to see Dorothea.