1 / Terreille

As Kartane SaDiablo walked from his suite to the audience rooms, he wondered if he’d fortified himself with one glass of brandy too many before appearing before his mother and making a formal return to her court. If not, the whole damn court was acting queer. The Blood aristos scurried through the halls, eyes darting ahead and behind them as they traveled in tight little clusters. The males in the court usually acted like that, jostling and shoving until one of them was pushed to the front and offered as the sacrifice. Being the object of Dorothea’s attention, whether she was pleased with a man or angry, was always an unpleasant experience. But for the women to act that way as well…

When he saw a servant actually smile, he finally understood.

By then it was too late.

He felt the cold as he swung around a corner and skidded to a stop in front of Daemon. He’d stopped trying long ago to understand his feelings whenever he saw Daemon—relief, fear, anger, envy, shame. Now he simply wondered if Daemon was finally going to kill him.

Kartane retreated to the one emotional gambit he had left. He pulled his lips into a sneering smile and said, “Hello, cousin.”

“Kartane.” Daemon’s toneless court voice, laced with boredom.

“So you’ve been called back to court. Was Aunt Hepsabah getting lonely?” That’s it. Remind him of what he is.

“Was Dorothea?”

Kartane tried to keep the insolence in his voice, tried to keep the sneer, tried not to remember all the things he couldn’t forget.

“I was about to report to Dorothea,” Daemon said mildly, “but I can delay it for a few more minutes. If you have to see her, why don’t you go ahead. She’s never in the best of moods after she’s seen me.”

Kartane felt as if he’d been slapped. Daemon hated him, had hated him for centuries for what he’d said, for the things he’d done. But Daemon remembered, too, and because he remembered, he would still extend this much courtesy and compassion toward his younger cousin.

Not daring to speak, Kartane nodded and hurried down the hall.

He didn’t go directly to the audience room where Dorothea waited. Instead, he flung himself into the first empty room he could find. Leaning against the locked door, he felt tears burn his eyes and trickle down his cheeks as he whispered, “Daemon.”

Daemon was the cousin whose position within the family had never quite been explained to the child Kartane except that it was tenuous and different from his own. Kartane had been Dorothea’s spoiled, privileged only child, with a handful of servants, tutors, and governesses jumping to obey his slightest whim. He had also been just another jewel for his mother, property that she preened herself with, showed off, displayed.

It wasn’t Dorothea or the tutors or governesses that Kartane ran to as a child when he scraped his knee and wanted comforting, or felt lonely, or wanted to brag about his latest small adventure. Not to them. He had always run to Daemon.

Daemon, who always had time to talk and, more important, to listen. Daemon, who taught him to ride, to fence, to swim, to dance. Daemon, who patiently read the same book to him, over and over and over, because it was his favorite. Daemon, who took long, rambling walks with him. Daemon, who never once showed any displeasure at having a small boy attached to his heels. Daemon, who held him, rocked him, soothed him when he cried. Daemon, who plundered the kitchen late at night, even though it was forbidden, to bring Kartane fruit, rolls, cold joints of meat—anything to appease the insatiable hunger he always felt because he could never eat his fill under his mother’s watchful eye. Daemon, who had been caught one night and beaten for it, but never told anyone the food wasn’t for himself.

Daemon, whose trust he had betrayed, whose love he lost with a single word.

Kartane was still a gangly boy when Daemon was first contracted out to another court. It had hurt to lose the one person in the whole court who truly cared about him as a living, thinking being. But he also knew there was trouble in the court, trouble that swirled around Daemon, around Daemon’s position in the court hierarchy. He knew Daemon served Dorothea and Hepsabah and Dorothea’s coven of Black Widows, although not in the same way the consorts and other men serviced them when summoned. He knew about the Ring of Obedience and how it could control a man even if he were stronger and wore darker Jewels. He puzzled over Daemon’s aversion to being touched by a woman. He puzzled over the fights between Daemon and Dorothea, shouting matches that made stone walls seem paper-thin and grew more and more vicious. More often than not, those arguments ended with Dorothea using the Ring, punishing with agonizing pain until Daemon begged for forgiveness.

Then one day Daemon refused to service one of Dorothea’s coven.

Dorothea summoned the First, Second, and Third Circles of the court. With her husband, Lanzo SaDiablo, by her side—Lanzo, the drunken womanizer whose only value was in providing Dorothea with the SaDiablo name—she began the punishment.

Kartane had hidden behind a curtain, chilled with fear, as he watched Daemon fight the Ring, fight the pain, fight the guards who held him so he couldn’t attack Dorothea. It took an hour of agony to bring him to his knees, sobbing from the pain. It took another half hour to make him crawl to Dorothea and beg forgiveness. When she finally stopped sending pain through the Ring, Dorothea didn’t allow him to go to his room, where Manny would give him a sedative and wash his sweat-chilled body so he could sleep while the pain slowly subsided. Instead, she had him tied hand and foot to one of the pillars, had him gagged so his moans of pain would be muffled, and left him there to humiliate him and warn others by the example while she leisurely conducted the other business of the court.

The lesson was not lost on Kartane. To be Ringed was the severest form of control. If Daemon couldn’t stand the pain, how could he? It became very important not to give Dorothea a reason to Ring him.

That night, after Daemon had been allowed to rest a little, he was ordered to serve the witch he’d earlier refused.

That night was the first time Daemon went cold.

Among the Blood, there were two kinds of anger. Hot anger was the anger of emotion, superficial even in its fury—the anger between friends, lovers, family, the anger of everyday life. Cold anger was the Jewel’s anger—deep, untouchable, icy rage that began at a person’s core. Implacable, almost always unstoppable until the fury was spent, cold anger wasn’t blunted by pain or hunger or weariness. Rising from so deep within, it made the body that housed it insignificant.

That first night, no one recognized the subtle change in the air when Daemon walked by on his way to the witch’s chamber.

It wasn’t until the maid came in the next morning and found the windows and mirrors glazed with ice, discovered the obscenity left in the bed, that Dorothea realized she had broken something in Daemon during that punishment, had stripped away a layer of humanity.

Hekatah, the self-proclaimed High Priestess of Hell, would have recognized the look in Daemon’s eyes if she had seen it, would have understood how true the bloodline ran. It took Dorothea a little longer. When she finally understood that what Daemon had inherited from his father was far darker and far more dangerous than she’d imagined, she gifted him to a pet Queen who ruled a Province in southern Hayll.

Dorothea said nothing about the killing. Among the Blood, there was no law against murder. She said little about Daemon’s reaction to kneeling in service, commending his training as a pleasure slave and only adding that he could be somewhat temperamental if used too often.

Before the week ended, Daemon was gone.

Not long after, Kartane learned what Daemon’s presence had spared him. Dorothea’s appetite for a variety of pretty faces was no less demanding than Lanzo’s, the only difference in their taste being gender, and she kept a stable of young Warlords at the court to do the pretty for her and her coven. Until then, Kartane had been nothing more than Dorothea’s handsome, spoiled son.

One night she summoned Kartane to her chamber. He went to her nervously, mentally ticking off the things he’d done that day and wondering what might have displeased her. But she soothed and stroked and petted. Those caresses, which always made him uneasy, now frightened him. As she leaned toward him, she told him his father had been loyal to her and she expected him to be loyal too. Kartane was too busy trying to figure out how Lanzo’s spearing a different serving girl every night could be considered loyalty to recognize the intent. It wasn’t until he felt Dorothea’s tongue slide into his mouth that he understood. He pushed her away, threw himself off the couch, and crawled backward toward the door, not daring to take his eyes off her.

She was furious with his refusal. It earned him his first beating.

The welts were still sore when she summoned him again. This time he sat quietly as she stroked his arms and thighs and explained in her purring voice that a Ring could help him be more responsive. But she didn’t really think that would be necessary. Did he?

No, he didn’t think it would be necessary. He submitted. He did what he was told.

Lying in his own bed later that night, Kartane thought of Daemon, of how night after night, year after year Daemon had done what Kartane had been forced to do. He began to understand Daemon’s aversion to touching a female unless he was forced to. And he wondered how old Daemon had been the first time Dorothea had taken him into her bed.

It didn’t end with that first time. It didn’t end until years later when Dorothea sent him away to a private school because he was spearing the serving girls so viciously that Lanzo and his companions complained that the girls weren’t usable for days afterward.

The private school he attended, where the boys all came from the best Hayllian families, put the final polish on Kartane’s taste for cruelty. He found Red Moon houses disgusting and could satisfy himself with an experienced woman only if he hurt her. After being barred from a couple of houses, he discovered that it was easy to dominate younger girls, frighten them, make them do whatever he wanted.

He began to appreciate Dorothea’s pleasure in having power over someone else.

But even the youngest whore was still a witch with her Virgin Night behind her, and she was protected by the rules of the house. He didn’t have, as his mother had, absolute power over whomever he mounted.

He began to look elsewhere for his pleasure, and found, quite accidentally, what he craved.

Kartane and his friends went to an inn one night to drink, to gamble, to get the nectar free. They came from the best families, families no mere innkeeper would dare approach. The others had their sport with the young women who served ale and supper, using the small private dining room, like most inns had for important guests. But Kartane had been intrigued by the innkeeper’s young daughter. She had the beginning blush of womanhood, the merest hint of curves. When he dragged her toward the door of the private room, the innkeeper rushed him, bellowing with rage. Kartane raised his hand, sent a surge of power through the Jeweled ring on his finger, and knocked the man senseless. Then he dragged the girl into the room and closed the door.

Her trembling, paralyzing fear felt delicious. She had no musky smell of woman, no psychic scent of a witch come to power. He reveled in her pain, stunned by the intoxication and pleasure it gave him to drive her beyond the web of herself and break her.

When he finally left the room, feeling in control of his life for the first time in oh-so-many years, he threw a couple of gold mark notes on the bar, gathered his friends, and disappeared.

That was the beginning.

Dorothea never disapproved of his chosen game as long as he satisfied her whenever he returned to court and as long as he didn’t spoil any of the witches she wanted for her court. For two hundred years Kartane played his game with non-aristo Blood. Sometimes he kept the same girl for several weeks or months, playing with her, honing her fear, becoming more depraved in his requirements, until he seeded her. Many times even a broken witch was still capable of spontaneous abortion and would choose it rather than bear the seed of a man she hated, even though she would never bear any other child. Sometimes, if the girl hadn’t gone completely numb and was still amusing, he got a Healer corrupted by hunger and hard times to provide the cleansing brew. Most times he simply turned them out, let them return to their families or a Red Moon house or the gutter. It was all the same to him.

Kartane played his game for two hundred years. Then, on one of his required returns to court, he found Daemon waiting for him.

By then Kartane understood why Daemon was Sadi not SaDiablo, why that was as much of a compromise as the family was willing to make. But seeing the anger in Daemon’s eyes, he knew that, unlike Dorothea, Daemon would never approve of what Kartane had done. As he listened to a blistering lecture about honor, Kartane struck out at Daemon’s weak spot. He told Daemon that he, Kartane, the High Priestess’s son, didn’t have to listen to a bastard.

A bastard.

A bastard.

A bastard.

He never forgot the shock and pain in Daemon’s eyes. Never forgot how it felt when the one person he’d loved and who had loved him gathered himself into that aloof court demeanor and apologized for speaking out of turn. Would always know that if he’d run after Daemon right then and apologized, begged to be forgiven, explained about the pain and the fear, asked for help…he would have had it. Daemon would have found a way to help him.

But he didn’t. He let the word stand. He drove it in again and again until the wedge became a chasm and the only thing they had in common was their fury with each other.

In the end, Dorothea sent Daemon away and lost him for one hundred years. By the time he returned, he’d made the Offering to the Darkness. The rumors were that Daemon had come away from the ceremony wearing a Black Jewel, but no one knew for sure because no one had seen it.

It didn’t matter to Kartane what Jewels Daemon wore. He was frightened enough by what Daemon had become. Since then, they’d done their best to avoid each other.

Kartane wiped the tears from his face and straightened his jacket. He would see Dorothea and make his escape as quickly as possible. Escape from her, from the court…and from Daemon.

2 / Terreille

Daemon glided through the corridors of the SaDiablo mansion until he reached his suite of rooms. Presenting himself to Dorothea had been as unpleasant as usual, but at least it had been brief. Seeing her had frayed his temper to the breaking point, and right now his self-control was tenuous at best. He needed a quiet hour before dressing for dinner and spending the evening doing the pretty for Dorothea and her coven.

He walked into his sitting room and choked back the snarl when he noticed the visitor waiting for him.

Hepsabah turned toward him, a smile flickering on her lips, her flitting hands performing an intricate dance with each other. He loathed the hunger in her eyes and the muskiness of her psychic scent, but knowing he was required to play the game, he smiled at her and closed the door.

“Mother,” he said with barely disguised irony. He bent his head to kiss her cheek. As always, she turned her head at the last minute so his lips brushed against hers. Her arms wound around his neck, her tongue greedily thrusting into his mouth as she pressed herself against him. Usually he pushed her away, disgusted that his mother could want such intimacy. Now he stood passively, neither giving nor taking, simply analyzing the lies that had made up his life.

Hepsabah stepped away from him, pouting. “You’re not pleased to see me,” she accused.

Daemon wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “As pleased as I usually am.” There she was, dressed in an expensive silk dress while Tersa, his real mother, wore a tattered coat and slept who knew where. Despite Dorothea’s and Hepsabah’s efforts, Tersa had given him what love she could, in her own shattered way. Somehow he was going to make it up to her, just as he was going to repay them. “What do you want?”

“It would be nice if you could be a little more respectful to your mother.” She smoothed her dress, running her hands over her breasts and belly, looking at him from beneath her eyelashes.

“I have a great deal of respect for my mother,” he replied blandly.

Looking uneasy, she patted the air near his sleeve and said with brittle cheerfulness, “I’ve got your room all ready for you. Nice and comfy. Maybe after dinner we can sit and have a nice little coze, hmm?” She turned toward the door, swinging her hips provocatively.

Daemon’s temper snapped. “You mean I should be more amenable to putting my face between your legs.” He ignored her shocked gasp. “I won’t be more amenable, Mother. Not tonight. Not any night. Not to you or anyone else in this court. If I’m commanded to kneel while I’m here, I promise you that what happened to Cornelia will be nothing compared to what I’ll do here. If you think the Ring can stop me, you’d better think again. I’m not a boy anymore, Hepsabah, and I want you dead.”

Hepsabah backed away from him, her eyes wide with terror. She snatched at the door handle and flung herself into the corridor.

Daemon opened a bottle of brandy, paused only long enough to probe it to be sure there were no sedatives or other nasty surprises added to the liquor, put the bottle to his mouth, and tipped his head back. It burned his throat and caught fire in his stomach, but he continued to swallow until he needed to breathe. The room swam a little but steadied quickly as his metabolism consumed the liquor as it consumed food. That was a drawback to wearing darker Jewels—it took a massive amount of alcohol to get pleasantly drunk. Daemon didn’t want to get pleasantly drunk. He wanted to numb the anger and the memories. He couldn’t afford a full confrontation with Dorothea now. He could break the Ring, and Dorothea with it. Over the past few years he’d become sure of that. What he wasn’t sure of was how much damage she might do to him before he destroyed her, wasn’t sure if he’d be permanently maimed by the time he got the Ring off, wasn’t sure what other damage he might do to himself that might prevent him from ever wearing the Black again. And there was a Lady out there, somewhere, that he wanted to be whole for. Once he found her…

Daemon smiled coldly. The Priest owed him a favor, and two Black Jewels, even if one was Ringed, should be quite sufficient to take care of an arrogant Red-Jeweled High Priestess.

Laughing, Daemon went into his bedroom and dressed for dinner.

3 / Terreille

Chewing his lower lip, Kartane walked up to Daemon, who was studying a closed door. They hadn’t been seated near each other at dinner last night, and Daemon had retired early—to everyone’s relief—so this was the first time since their abrupt meeting yesterday afternoon that they were together without dozens of people to act as a buffer.

Kartane wasn’t a small man, and even with his excesses he remained trim and well toned, but standing next to Daemon made him feel like he was still in a boy’s body. It was more the breadth of Daemon’s shoulders than the couple of inches in height, the face matured by pain rather than age that made Kartane feel slight next to him. It was also the difference between a long-lived youth and a male in his prime.

“Do you know what this is about?” Daemon asked quietly.

Kartane shook his head. “She just said our presence is required for an entertainment.”

Daemon took a deep breath. “Damn.” He opened the door, then stood aside for Kartane to enter.

Kartane took a couple of steps into the room and felt the air behind him chill as the door closed. He glanced at Daemon’s face, at the narrowed eyes suddenly turned hard yellow, and wondered, as he surveyed the room, what had provoked Daemon’s temper.

It was an austere room, furnished with several rows of chairs arranged in a semicircle in front of two posts attached to the floor. Beside the posts was a long table with a white cloth pulled over it. Under and around the posts was a thick pile of white sheets.

Daemon swore viciously under his breath. “At least as the privileged son you can rest easy that you won’t be part of the entertainment. You’ll only have to endure watching it.”

Kartane stared at the posts. “I don’t understand. What is it?”

Pity flashed in Daemon’s eyes before his face became impassive and his voice took on that toneless, bored quality he always used in court. “You’ve never seen this?”

“It seems a bit overdone if she’s going to have someone whipped,” he said, trying to put a sneer into his voice to hide his growing fear.

“Not whipped,” Daemon said bitterly. “Shaved.”

The look in Daemon’s eyes turned Kartane’s guts to water.

Daemon didn’t speak again until they reached the first row of chairs. “Listen, Kartane, and listen well. What happens to the poor fool Dorothea’s going to tie between those posts is going to depend on how much you squirm. If you stay disinterested, she won’t do any less than she’s already planned but at least it will be done quicker, and you’ll have to endure watching for less time. Understand?”

“Shaved?” Kartane said in a strangled voice.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you how they make eunuchs?” Daemon slipped his hands in his pockets and turned away.

“But…” Kartane tensed when Dorothea and her coven walked through the door. “Why this?” he whispered. “Why all these chairs?”

Daemon’s eyes had a worried, faraway look in them. “Because they find it amusing, Lord Kartane. This is the afternoon’s entertainment. And if we’re both lucky, we’ll only be the guests of honor.”

Kartane looked quickly at Daemon and then at the posts. Dorothea wouldn’t. She couldn’t. Was that why Daemon warned him, because he wasn’t sure if…No. Not to Daemon. Not to Daemon.

Kartane kicked a chair before dropping into another with his arms crossed and his legs sprawled forward, looking like a sulky child. “I have better ways to spend my afternoon,” he snarled.

Daemon turned, one eyebrow raised in question. Dorothea walked toward them, her eyes flashing with annoyance at Kartane’s behavior.

“Well, darling,” she purred, “we’ll do our best to amuse you.” She settled into the chair next to Kartane’s, and with a gracious gesture of her hand, indicated to Daemon that he should sit on her left.

Kartane sat up straighter, but kept a sulky look on his face. He flinched as the chairs behind him filled and female voices murmured as if they were in a theater waiting for the play to begin.

Dorothea clapped her hands, and the room became silent. Two massive, raw-looking guards bowed to Dorothea and left the room. They returned a moment later leading a slightly built man.

Daemon flicked a bored glance at the man being led to the posts, leaned away from Dorothea, and propped his chin in his hand.

Dorothea hissed quietly.

Daemon straightened in his chair, crossed his legs, and steepled his fingers. “Not that it matters,” he drawled, “but what did he do?”

Dorothea put her hand on his thigh. “Curious?” she purred.

Daemon shrugged, ignoring the fingers sliding up his thigh.

Dorothea removed her hand, annoyed by the bored expression on Daemon’s face. “He didn’t do anything. I just felt like having him shaved.” She smiled maliciously, nodded to the guards, and watched with great interest as they fastened their victim spread-eagle to the posts. “He’s a Warlord but a valet by profession. Comes from a family who specializes in personal service to darker-Jeweled Blood. But after today, I doubt there’ll be a male in all of Hayll who’ll want him around. What do you think?”

Daemon shrugged and once more propped his chin on his hand.

When the man was securely fastened to the posts, one of the guards pulled the cloth off the table. There were appreciative murmurs from the audience as whips, nutcrushers, and various other instruments of torture were presented for view. The last things the guard picked up were the shaving knives.

Kartane felt ill and yet hopeful. If all of those things were being presented, maybe…

*No,* Daemon said on a spear thread, male to male.*She’ll shave him.*

*You don’t know for sure.*

*You can’t have the entertainment end too quickly.*

Kartane swallowed hard. *You don’t know for sure.*

*You’ll see.*

Dorothea raised one hand. The guard went to the far end of the table and raised the first whip. “What shall it be today, Sisters?” Dorothea called out gaily. “Shall we whip him?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” a number of female voices yelled.

“Or…”

There was applause and laughter as the guard, looking more nervous, raised the nutcrusher for their viewing.

“Or…” Dorothea pointed, and the guard lifted the shaving knives.

Kartane studied the floor, trying not to shake, trying not to bolt for the door. He knew he wouldn’t be allowed to leave, and he wondered with a touch of bitterness how Daemon could sit there looking so bored. Maybe because Sadi didn’t have any use for those organs anyway.

“Shave him, shave him, shave him!” The room thundered with the coven’s voices.

Kartane had been to dogfights, cockfights, any number of spectacles where dumb animals were pitted against each other. He’d heard the roar of male voices urging their favorite to victory. But he’d never heard, in all those places, the glee he heard now as the coven urged their decision.

He jumped when Dorothea’s hand squeezed his knee, her cold smile letting him know she was pleased by his fear.

Dorothea raised her hand for silence. When the room was absolutely still, she said in her most melodious purr, “Shave him.” She paused a long moment, then smiled sweetly. “A full shave.”

Kartane’s head snapped around in disbelief, but before he could say anything, Daemon turned his head just enough to look at him. The look in Daemon’s eyes was more frightening than Dorothea could ever be, so Kartane swallowed the words and slumped a little farther in his chair.

The Healer and the barber entered the room and walked slowly to the table. The barber, a cadaverous man wearing a tightly cuffed black robe, had a receding hairline, pencil-line lips, and dirty yellow eyes. He bowed to Dorothea and then bowed to the coven.

The Healer, a drab woman retained to handle the servants’ ills since she wasn’t well versed enough in her Craft to attend to the Blood aristos, called in a bowl of warm water and soap. She held the bowl while the barber washed his hands.

Then the barber leisurely soaped his victim’s testicles.

*Why?* Kartane sent on a spear thread.

*Makes them slippery,* Daemon replied. *Harder to get a clean cut the first time.*

The barber picked up a small curved knife and held it up for them to see. He positioned himself behind the man.

*So everyone can see,* Daemon explained.

Kartane clenched his fists and stared at the floor.

“Watch, my dear,” Dorothea purred, “or we’ll have to do it again.”

Kartane fixed his eyes on one of the posts just as the barber pulled the knife back. A moment later, a small dark lump lay on the swiftly reddening sheets.

The Warlord tied to the posts let out a howl of agony and then clenched his teeth to stifle the sound.

Kartane’s stomach churned as a disappointed murmur swept through the room. Mother Night! They’d been hoping for a second cut!

The barber set the bloody knife on a tray and washed his hands while the Healer sealed the blood vessels. When she stepped aside, he took a straight knife and positioned himself in front of a post. He pulled the man’s organ to its full length, turned to his audience, shook his head sadly, and said, “There’s so little here, it will hardly make a difference.”

The coven laughed and applauded. Dorothea smiled.

Kartane expected a swift severing. But when the barber laid the knife on the Warlord’s organ and leisurely sawed through the flesh, each stroke of the knife accompanied by a scream, Kartane found himself mesmerized, unable to look away.

They deserved what he did. They were foul things only fit for breeding and a man’s pleasure. It was right to break them young, good to break them young before they became things like the ones sitting here. Break them all. Destroy them all. Blood males should rule, must rule. If only he could kill her. Would Daemon help him rid Hayll of that plague carrier? All of them would have to be killed, of course. Then break all the young ones and train them to serve. It was the only way. The only way.

The silence made him blink.

Dorothea rose from her chair, furiously pointing a finger at the Healer. “I told you to give him something to make sure he wouldn’t faint on us. Look at him!” Her finger swung to the man hanging limply from the posts, his head dropped to his chest.

“I did as you asked, Priestess,” the Healer stammered, wringing her hands. “I swear by the Jewels I did.”

Was it his imagination, or was Daemon pleased about something?

“We’ll have no more sport today because of your incompetence,” Dorothea screamed. She made an impatient gesture. “Take it away.” Then she swept from the room, her coven trailing behind her.

“I really did give him the potion,” the Healer wailed, trailing after the barber as he left the room.

Kartane sat in his chair, too numb to move, until the guards bundled the man into the bloody sheets along with the discarded organs. Then he bolted for the nearest bathroom and was violently ill.

4 / Terreille

Dorothea slowly paced her sitting room. Her flowing gown swished with the sway of her hips, and the low-cut bodice displayed to advantage the small breasts that still rode high. She picked up a feather quill from a table as she passed. Most men’s backbones turned to jelly when she picked up a quill. Daemon, however, just watched her, his cold, bored expression never changing.

She brushed her chin with the quill as she passed his chair. “You’ve been a naughty boy again. Perhaps I should have you whipped.”

“Yes,” Daemon replied amiably, “why don’t you? Cornelia could tell you how effective that is in making me come around.”

Dorothea staggered but continued walking. “Perhaps I should have you shaved.” She waved the feather at him. “Would you enjoy being one of the brotherhood of the quill?”

“No.”

She feigned surprise. “No?”

“No. I prefer being neat when I piss.”

Dorothea’s face twisted with anger. “You’ve gotten crude, Daemon.”

“Must be the company I keep.”

Dorothea paced rapidly, slowing down only when she noticed the cold amusement in Daemon’s eyes. Damn him, she thought as she tapped the quill against her lips. He knew how much he upset her, and he enjoyed it. She didn’t trust him, couldn’t trust being able to control him anymore. Even the Ring didn’t stop him when he went cold. And he just sat there, so sure of himself, so uncaring.

“Perhaps I should have you shaved.” Her usual purr turned into a growl. She twitched the quill in the direction of his groin. “After all, it’s not as if you have any use for it.”

“Hardly good for business, though,” Daemon said calmly. “The Queens won’t pay you for my service if there’s nothing to buy.”

“A worthless piece of meat since you can’t use it anyway!”

“Ah, but they do so enjoy looking at it.”

Dorothea threw the feather down and stamped on it. “Bastard!”

“So you’ve told me time and time again.” Daemon waved one hand in irritation. “Enough theatrics. You won’t shave me, now or ever.”

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t!”

In one fluid move Daemon was out of the chair, pinning her against the table. His hands tightened on her upper arms, hurting her, while his mouth clamped down on hers, bruising her lips with his teeth. He thrust his tongue into her mouth with such controlled savagery that she couldn’t think of anything but the feel of him and the sudden liquid heat between her legs.

It was always like this with him. Always. It was more than just his body. Not quite the Jewels, not quite a link. She could never touch his thoughts or feelings, never reach him. Yet there was such a sense of savage, controlled power, of maleness, that flowed from him, swirled around him. His hands, his tongue…just channels for that flow. Sensory conductors.

When she thought she couldn’t stand any more, when she thought she had to push him away or drown in the sensation, he thrust his hips forward and swayed against her. Moaning, Dorothea pushed herself against him, wanting to feel him harden, needing him to want her.

Just as she raised her arms to wrap them around his neck, Daemon stepped back, smiling, his golden eyes hot with anger, not desire.

“That’s why you won’t shave me, Dorothea.” His silky voice roughened with disgust. “There’s always a chance, isn’t there, that someday I’ll catch fire, that the hunger will become unbearable and I’ll come crawling to you for whatever release you’ll grant me.”

“I’d never let you go hungry,” Dorothea cried, one hand reaching for him. “By the Jewels, I swear—” Shaking with anger, Dorothea forced herself to stand up straight. Once again she’d humiliated herself by begging him.

Daemon smiled that cold, cruel smile he wore whenever he had twisted the love game to hurt the woman he was serving. It’s so easy, his smile said. You’re all so foolish. You can punish the body all you want, all you dare, but you can never touch me.

“Bastard,” Dorothea whispered.

“You could always kill me,” Daemon said softly. “That would solve both our problems, wouldn’t it?” He took a step toward her. She immediately pushed back against the table, frightened. “Why don’t you want me dead, Dorothea? What will happen on the day when I no longer walk among the living?”

“Get out,” she snapped, trying not to sound as weak as she suddenly felt. Why was he saying this? What did he know? She had to get him away from Hayll, away from that place, and quickly. Furious, she threw herself at him, but he glided away, and she fell heavily to the floor. “Get out!” she screamed, beating the floor with her fists.

Daemon left the room, whistling a tuneless little song. As a butterball Warlord puffed his way down the hall toward Dorothea’s room, Daemon turned halfway to face him. “I wouldn’t go in there until she’s a little calmer,” he said cheerfully. Then he winked at the startled man and continued down the hall, laughing.

“Damn your soul to the bowels of Hell, hurry up with that!” Kartane screamed at the manservant assigned to him when he was at court. He threw his shirts into one trunk and fastened the straps.

When the trunks were packed, Kartane’s eyes swept the room for anything he might have missed.

“Lord Kartane,” the manservant panted.

“I’ll take care of this. You’re dismissed. Get out. Get out!”

The manservant scurried out of the room.

Kartane wrapped his arms around the bedpost. He desperately wanted to rest, but every time he closed his eyes, he saw the bloody sheets, heard the screams.

Away from here. And quickly. Before Dorothea summoned him, before he was trapped. Someplace where the witches were already being silenced. A place that stood in Hayll’s shadow, where they would fawn over the Priestess’s son, but not yet completely tainted with the ancient land’s decay. Not quite virgin territory, but still a maid learning Hayll’s desecrations.

“Chaillot,” Kartane whispered, and he smiled. The other side of the Realm. Hayll had an embassy there, so no one would question his appearance. Robert Benedict was an astute protégé. And there was that wonderful place he’d helped them build in Beldon Mor, that “hospital” for young, high-strung girls from aristo Blood families, where men like Lord Benedict could partake of delicacies that no respectable Red Moon house would offer. It could take weeks for Dorothea to track him down, particularly if he impressed on the embassy staff that he was there doing research for the Priestess. They’d be too frightened of what he might say about them to report his presence.

Kartane vanished the trunks and slipped from his room to the landing web. He caught the Red Web and rode hard toward the west, toward Chaillot.

5 / Hell

Hekatah flowed into the parlor, the spidersilk gown swirling around her small body, the diamonds sewn into the high neckline glittering like stars against a bloodred sky. She’d dressed with care for this well-thoughtout “chance” meeting. Despite the plebeian gallantry that made him courteous to any woman, whether she was pretty or not, Saetan did appreciate a woman who displayed herself to advantage, and even past her prime, Hekatah had never wanted for men.

But he, gutter-child bastard that he was, glanced at her over the half-moon glasses he’d begun wearing, marked the page in his book, and vanished the glasses before, finally, giving her his full attention.

“Hekatah,” he said with pleasant wariness.

Biting back her fury, she strolled around the room. “It’s wonderful to see the Hall refurbished,” she said, her girlish voice full of the cooing warmth that had once made him cautiously open to her.

“It was time to have it done.”

“Any special reason?”

“I thought of giving a demon ball,” he replied dryly.

She tipped her chin down and looked up at him through her lashes, not realizing it was a parody of the sulky, sensuous young witch she’d been long centuries ago. “You didn’t redo the south tower.”

“There was no need. It’s been emptied and cleaned. That’s all.”

“But the south tower has always been my apartment,” she protested.

“As I said, there was no need.”

She stared at the sheer ivory curtains beneath the tied-back red velvet drapes. “Well,” she said, as if giving the matter slow consideration, “I suppose I could take a room in your wing.”

“No.”

“But, Saetan—”

“My dear, you’ve forgotten. You’ve never had an apartment in the Hall in this Realm. You haven’t lived in any house I own since I divorced you, and you never will again.”

Hekatah knelt beside his chair, pleased by the way the gown pooled around her, one shimmering wing of her sleeve draped across his legs. “I know we’ve had our differences in the past, but, Saetan, you need a woman here now.” She could have shouted with triumph as his eyebrow rose in question and a definite spark of interest showed in his eyes.

He raised one hand and stroked her still-black hair, flowing long and loose down her back. “Why do I need a woman now, Hekatah?” he asked in a gentle, husky voice.

His lover’s voice. The voice that always enraged her because it sounded so caring and weak. Not a man’s voice. Not her father’s voice. Her father would never have coaxed. He would never have allowed her to refuse him. But he had been a Hayllian Prince, one of the Hundred Families, as proud and arrogant as any Blood male, and not this…

Hekatah lowered her eyes, hoping Saetan hadn’t seen, again, what she thought of him. All that power. They could have ruled all of Terreille, and Kaeleer too, if he’d been the least bit ambitious. Even if he’d been too lazy, she could have done it. Who would have dared challenge her with the Black backing her? He wouldn’t even do that. Wouldn’t even support her in Dhemlan, his own Territory. Kept her leashed to Hayll, where her family had enough influence to make her the High Priestess. All that power wasted in a thing that had to give himself a name because his sire didn’t think the seed fit enough to claim. But Terreille would be hers yet, even if she had to use a weak little puppet like Dorothea to get it.

“Why do I need a woman now?” Saetan’s voice, less gentle now, called her back.

“For the child, of course,” she replied, turning her head to press a kiss into his palm.

“The child?” Saetan lifted his hand and steepled his fingers. “One of our sons has been demon-dead for fifty thousand years, and you, my dear, probably know better than anyone where the other one lies.”

Hekatah drew in her breath with a hiss and exhaled with a smile. “The girl child, High Lord. Your little pet.”

“I have no pets, Priestess.”

Hekatah hid her clenched fists in her lap. “Everyone knows you’re training a girl child to serve you. All I’m trying to point out is she needs a woman’s guidance in order to fulfill your needs.”

“What needs are those?”

Hekatah smacked the arm of the chair. “Don’t play word games with me. If the girl has any talent, she should be trained in the Craft by her Sisters. What you do with her afterward is your concern, but at least let me train her so she won’t be an embarrassment.”

Saetan eased out of the chair, went to the long windows, and pulled the sheer curtains aside for a clear view of Hell’s ever-twilight landscape. “This doesn’t concern you, Hekatah,” he said slowly, his voice whispering thunder. “It’s true I’ve accepted a contract to tutor a young witch. I’m bored. It amuses me. If she’s an embarrassment to someone, it’s no concern of mine.” He turned from the window to look at her. “And no concern of yours. Leave it that way. Because if you persist in making her your concern, a great many things I’ve overlooked in the past are going to become mine.”

Saetan dropped the edge of the curtain, flicked the folds back into place, and left the room.

Using the chair for support, Hekatah got to her feet, drifted to the windows, and studied the sheer curtains. She reached up slowly.

Selfish bastard. There were ways around him. Did he think after all this time she didn’t know his weak spot? It had been such good sport to watch him squirm, the great High Lord chained by his honor, as those two sons she’d helped Dorothea create were battered year after year, century after century. They hate you now, High Lord. What bastard doesn’t hate the sire who won’t claim him?

The half-breed had been a bonus. Who could have anticipated Saetan having so much fire and need left? Fine, strapping boys, and neither one capable of being a man. At least the half-breed could get it up, which was a great deal more than anyone could say for the other.

With her help, Dorothea had gotten the strong, dark SaDiablo bloodline returned to Hayll. Waiting until Daemon’s Birthright Ceremony to break the contract with Saetan had been a risk, but that was the time when paternity was formally acknowledged or denied. Up to that point, a male could claim a child as his, could do everything a father might do for his offspring. But until he was formally acknowledged, he had no rights to the child. Once the acknowledgment was made, however, a male child belonged to his father.

Which had been the problem. They had wanted the bloodline, but not the man. Having watched him raise two sons, Hekatah had known from the beginning that any child who grew up under Saetan’s hand could never be reshaped into a male who would give his strength for her ambitions. She had thought that, since he visited each boy for only a few hours a week, his influence would be diluted, that the mark he would leave on them wouldn’t begin until they were his and he began their training in earnest.

She’d been wrong. Saetan had already planted his code of honor deep in the boys’ minds, and by the time she had realized that, it was too late to lead them down another path. Without knowing why, they had fought against anything that didn’t fit that code of honor until the fighting, and the pain and the punishment, had shaped them, too.

And now there was this girl child.

Five years ago, she’d sensed a strange, dark power on the cildru dyathe’s island. Ever since then, she’d been following whispered snippets of talk, leads that faded to nothing. The tangled webs she’d created had only shown her dark power in a female body, the kind of power that, if it were molded and channeled the right way, could easily control a Realm.

It had taken five years to discover that Saetan was training the child, which infuriated her. That girl should have been hers from the start, should have been an emotionally dependent tool that would have fulfilled all of her dreams and ambitions. With that kind of power at her disposal, nothing—and no one—could have stopped her.

But, again, she was too late.

If Saetan had been willing to share the girl, she might have reconsidered. Since he wasn’t willing, and she wasn’t going to let that child mature to become a threat to her plans, she was going to use the most brutal weapon she had at her disposal: Daemon Sadi.

He would have no love for his father. He could be offered ten years of controlled freedom—still held by the Ring, of course, but not required to serve in a court. Ten years—no, a hundred—not to kneel for any witch. What would eliminating one child be, a stranger fawned over by the very man who had abandoned him, compared with not having to serve? And if the half-breed were thrown in for good measure? Sadi had the strength to defy even the High Lord. He had the cunning and the cruelty to ensnare a child and destroy her. But how to get him close enough for an easy strike? She’d have to think about that. Somewhere to the far west of Hayll. She had tracked the girl as far as that, and then nothing…except that strange, impenetrable mist on that island.

Oh, how Saetan would twist, screaming, on the hook of his honor when Sadi destroyed his little pet.

Hekatah lowered her arms and smiled at the curtains hanging in shreds from the rod. She made a moue as she pulled a bit of fabric from a snag in one of her nails and hurried out of the parlor, eager to get away from the Hall and begin her little plan.

Saetan Black-locked his sitting room door before going to the corner table that held glasses and a decanter of yarbarah. A mocking smile twisted his lips when he noticed how badly his hands shook. Ignoring the yarbarah, he pulled a bottle of brandy out of the cupboard below, filled a glass, and drank deep, gasping at the unfamiliar burn. It had been centuries since he’d drunk straight alcohol. He settled into a chair, the brandy glass cradled in his trembling hands.

Hekatah would be elated if she knew how badly she’d frightened him. If Jaenelle became twisted by Hekatah’s ambition and greedy hunger to crush and rule…No, not Jaenelle. She must be gently, lightly chained to the Blood, must accept the leash of Protocol and Blood Law, the only things that kept them all from being constantly at each others’ throats. Because soon, too soon, she would begin walking roads none of them had ever walked before, and she would become as far removed from the Blood as they were from the landens. And the power. Mother Night! Who could stop her?

Who would stop her?

Saetan refilled his glass and closed his eyes. He couldn’t deny what his heart knew too well. He would serve his fair-haired Lady. No matter what, he would serve.

When he had ruled Dhemlan in Kaeleer and Dhemlan in Terreille, he had never hesitated to curb Hekatah’s ambition. He’d believed then, and still believed, that it was wrong to use force to rule another race. But if Jaenelle wanted to rule…It would cost him his honor, to say nothing of his soul, but he would drive Terreille to its knees for her pleasure.

The only way to protect the Realms was to protect Jaenelle from Hekatah and her human tools.

Whatever the price.

6 / Terreille

Daemon reached his bedroom very late that evening. The wine and brandy he’d drunk throughout the night had numbed him enough for him to hold his temper despite the onslaught of innuendoes and coy chatter he’d listened to at the dinner table, despite the bodies that “accidentally” brushed against him all evening.

But he wasn’t numb enough not to sense the woman’s presence in his room. Her psychic scent struck him the moment he opened his bedroom door. Snarling silently at the intrusion, Daemon lifted his hand. The candle-lights beside the bed immediately produced a dim glow.

The young Hayllian witch lay in the center of his bed, her long black hair draped seductively over the pillows, the sheet tucked demurely beneath her pointed chin. She was new to Dorothea’s court, an apprentice to the Hourglass coven. She had watched him throughout the evening but hadn’t approached.

She smiled at him, then opened her small, pouty mouth and ran the tip of her tongue over her upper lip. Slowly peeling off the sheet, she stretched her naked body and lazily spread her legs.

Daemon smiled.

He smiled as he picked up the clothes she’d strewn across the floor and tossed them out the open door into the hall. He smiled as he teased the sheet and bedcovers off the bed and tossed them after the clothes. He was still smiling when he lifted her off the bed and pitched her out the door with enough force that she hit the opposite wall with a bone-breaking thud. The mattress followed, missing her only because she’d slumped over on her side as she began to scream.

Following the sound of running feet, Dorothea rushed through the corridors while the mansion walls shook with barely restrained violence. She pushed her way through the pack of growling guards until she reached the abigails and other witches of the coven whose concerned twittering was drowned by screams increasing in pitch and volume.

“What in the name of Hell is going on here?” she shouted, her usual melodious purr sounding more like a cat in heat.

Daemon stepped out of his bedroom, calmly tugging his shirt cuffs into place. The hallway walls instantly glazed with ice.

Dorothea studied Daemon’s face. She’d never actually seen him when he was deep in the cold rage, had seen him only when he was coming back from it, but she sensed he was in the eye of the storm and something as insignificant as the wrong inflection on a single word would be enough to set off a violent explosion that would tear the court apart.

She narrowed her eyes and tried not to shiver.

It was more than the cold rage this time. Much more.

His face looked so lifeless it could have been carved from a fine piece of wood, and yet it was so filled with something. He appeared unnaturally calm, but those golden eyes, as glazed as the walls, looked at her with a predator’s intensity.

Something had been pushing him toward the emotional breaking point, and he had finally snapped.

Among the short-lived races, pleasure slaves became emotionally unstable after a few years. It took decades among the long-lived races, but eventually the combination of aphrodisiacs and constant arousal without being allowed any release twisted something inside the males. After that, with careful handling, they still had their uses, but not as pleasure slaves.

Daemon had been a pleasure slave for most of his life. He’d come close to this point several times in the past, but he’d always managed to step back from the edge. This time, there was no stepping back.

Finally Daemon spoke. His voice came out flat, but there was a hint of thunder in it. “When you’ve gotten the stench completely out of my room, I’ll be back. Don’t call me until then.” He glided down the hall and out of sight.

Dorothea waited, counting the seconds. Several minutes passed before the front door was slammed with such force that the mansion shook and windows shattered throughout the building.

Dorothea turned to the witch, a promising, vicious little creature now modestly covered with the sheet and bravely whimpering about her cruel treatment. She wanted to rake her nails over that pretty face.

There was no way to control Sadi, not after tonight. Pain or punishment would only enrage him further. She had to get him away from Hayll, send him somewhere expendable. The Dark Priestess had been full of suggestions when he’d been conceived and when they broke the contract in order to keep the boy for the Hayllian Hourglass. Well, the bitch could come up with a suggestion now when he was cold and possibly sliding into the Twisted Kingdom.

Straightening the collar of her dressing gown, Dorothea gave the young witch a last look. “That bitch is expelled from the Hourglass and dismissed from my court. I want her and everything to do with her out of my house within the hour.”

Taking the arm of the young Warlord who’d been warming her bed before the screams began, she returned to her wing of the mansion, smiling at the wail of despair that filled the hall behind her.

7 / Terreille

Dorothea hurried up the broad path to the Sanctuary, clutching at her cloak as the wind tried to whip it from her body. The old Priestess, bent and somewhat feeble-minded, opened the heavy door for her and then fought with the wind to close it.

Dorothea gave the old woman the barest nod of acknowledgment as she rushed past her, desperate to reach the meeting place.

The inner chamber was empty except for two worn chairs and a low table placed before a blazing fire. Throwing off her cloak with one hand, she carefully placed the bottle she had held tight against her body on the table and sank into one of the chairs with a moan.

Two short days ago, she had felt insolent about asking for help from the Dark Priestess, had chafed at the offerings she had to provide from her court or Hayll’s Hourglass. Now she was ready to beg.

For two days, Sadi had stalked through Draega, restlessly and relentlessly trying to blunt his rage. In that time, he’d killed a young Warlord from one of the Hundred Families—an exuberant youth who was only trying to have his pleasure with a tavern owner’s daughter. The man had dared protest because his daughter was virgin and wore a Jewel. The Warlord had dealt with the father—not fatally—and was dragging the girl to a comfortable room when Sadi appeared, took exception to the girl’s frightened cries, and savaged the young Warlord, shattering his Jewels and turning his brain into gray dust.

The grateful tavern owner gave Sadi a good meal and an ever-full glass. By morning the story was all over Draega, and then there were no tavern owners or innkeepers, Blood or landen, who didn’t have a hot meal, a full glass, or a bed waiting for him if he walked down their street.

She wasn’t sure the Ring would stop him this time, wasn’t sure he wouldn’t turn his fury on her if she tried to control him. And if he outlasted the pain…

Dorothea put her hands over her face and moaned again. She didn’t hear the door open and close.

“You’re troubled, Sister,” said the crooning girlish voice.

Dorothea looked up, trembling with relief. She sank to her knees and bowed her head. “I need your help, Dark Priestess.”

Hekatah smiled and hungrily eyed the contents of the bottle. Keeping her cloak’s hood pulled well forward to hide her face, she sat in the other chair and, with a graceful turn of her hand, drew the bottle toward her. “A gift?” she asked, feigning surprised delight. “How generous of you, Sister, to remember me.” With another turn of her hand, she called in a ravenglass goblet, filled it from the bottle, and drank deeply. She sighed with pleasure. “How sweet the blood. A young, strong witch. But only one voice to give so much.”

Dorothea crawled back into her chair and straightened her gown. Her lips curved in a sly smile. “She insisted on being the only one, Priestess, wanting you to have her best.” It was the least the little bitch could do, having caused the trouble in the first place.

“You sent for me,” Hekatah said impatiently, then dropped her voice back into the soothing croon. “How can I help you, Sister?”

Dorothea jumped out of the chair and began to pace. “Sadi has gone mad. I can’t control him anymore. If he stays in Hayll much longer, he’ll tear us all apart.”

“Can you use the half-breed to curb him?” Hekatah refilled her glass and sipped the warm blood.

Dorothea laughed bitterly. “I don’t think anything will curb him.”

“Hmm. Then you must send him away.”

Dorothea spun around, hands clenched at her sides, lips bared to show her gritted teeth. “Where? No one will have him. Any Queen I send him to will die.”

“The farther away the better,” Hekatah murmured. “Pruul?”

“Zuultah has the half-breed, and you know those two can’t be in the same court. Besides, Zuultah’s actually been able to keep that one on a tight leash, and Prythian doesn’t want to move him.”

“Since when have you been concerned about what that winged sow wants?” Hekatah snapped. “Pruul is west, far west of Hayll, and mostly desert. An ideal place.”

Dorothea shook her head. “Zuultah’s too valuable to our plans.”

“Ah.”

“We’re still cultivating the western Territories and don’t have a strong enough influence yet.”

“But you have some. Surely Hayll must have made overtures someplace where not all the Queens are so valued. Is there nowhere, Sister, where a Queen has been an impediment? Nowhere a gift like Sadi might be useful to you?”

Dorothea settled into her chair, her long forefinger nail tapping against her teeth. “One place,” she said quietly. “That bitch Queen has opposed me at every turn. It’s taken three of their generations to soften their culture enough to create an independent male counsel strong enough to remake the laws. The males we’ve helped rise to power will gut their own society in order to have dominance, and once they do that, the Territory will be ripe for the picking. But she keeps trying to fight them, and she’s always trying to close my embassy and dilute my influence.” Dorothea sat up straight, her eyes glittering. “Sadi would be a perfect gift for her.”

“And if his temper gets out of control…” Hekatah laughed.

Dorothea laughed with her. “But how to get him there.”

“Make a gift of him.”

“She wouldn’t accept it.” She paused. “But her son-in-law is Kartane’s companion and a strong leader in the counsel—through Hayll’s graces. If the gesture was made to him, how could he refuse?”

Hekatah toyed with her glass. “This place. It’s to the west?”

Dorothea smiled. “Yes. Even farther than Pruul. And backward enough to make him chafe.” Dorothea reached for her cloak. “If you’ll excuse me, Priestess. There are things I must attend to. The sooner we’re rid of him, the better.”

“Of course, Sister,” Hekatah replied sweetly. “May the Darkness speed your journey.”

Hekatah stared dreamily at the fire for several minutes. Emptying the bottle, she admired the dark liquid in the smoky black glass, then raised the goblet in a small salute. “The sooner you’re rid of him, the better. The sooner he’s in the west, the better still.”

8 / Hell

“SaDiablo, there’s something you should know.”

Silence. “Have you seen her?”

“No.” A long pause. “Saetan, Dorothea just sent Daemon Sadi to Chaillot.”