1 / Terreille

Winsol approached rapidly. The most important holiday in the Blood calendar, it was held when the winter days were shortest, and it was a celebration of the Darkness, a celebration of Witch.

Daemon wandered through the empty hallways. The servants had been given a half-day off and had deserted the house to shop or begin their holiday preparations. Alexandra, Leland, and Philip were off on their own excursions. Robert, as usual, was not at home. Even Graff had gone out, leaving the girls in Cook’s care. And he…Well, it wasn’t kindness that had made them leave him behind. His temper had been too sharp, his tongue too cutting the last time he’d escorted Alexandra to a party. They’d left hastily after he’d told a simpering young aristo witch that the cut of her dress would make any woman in a Red Moon house envious, even if what she was displaying didn’t.

Daemon climbed the stairs to the nursery wing. The only thing that eased the ache he’d felt since Kartane had told him about Lucivar was being with Jaenelle.

The music room door stood open. “No, Wilhelmina, not like that,” Jaenelle said in that harried, amused tone.

Daemon smiled as he looked into the room. At least he wasn’t the only one who made her sound like that.

The girls stood in the center of the room. Wilhelmina looked a bit grumpy while Jaenelle looked patiently exasperated. She glanced toward the door and her eyes lit up.

Daemon suppressed a sigh. He knew that look, too. He was about to get into trouble.

Jaenelle rushed over to him, grabbed his wrist, and hauled him into the room. “We’re going to attend one of the Winsol balls and I’ve been trying to teach Wilhelmina how to waltz but I’m not explaining it well because I don’t really know how to lead but you’d know how to lead because boys—”

Boys?

“—lead in dancing so you could show Wilhelmina, couldn’t you?”

As though he had a choice. Daemon looked at Wilhelmina. Jaenelle stood to one side, her hands loosely clasped, smiling expectantly.

“Yes, men,” he said dryly, putting a slight emphasis on that word, “do lead when dancing.”

Wilhelmina blushed, instantly understanding his distinction.

Jaenelle looked baffled. She shrugged. “Men. Boys. What’s the difference? They’re all males.”

Daemon gave her a calculating look. In a few more years, he’d be able to show her the difference. He smiled at Wilhelmina and patiently explained the steps. “Some music, Lady?” he said to Jaenelle.

She raised her hand. The crystal music sphere sparkled in the brass holder, and stately music filled the room.

As Daemon waltzed with Wilhelmina, he watched her expression change from concentration to relaxation to pleasure. The exertion brought a glow to her cheeks and a sparkle to her blue eyes. He smiled at her warmly. Dancing was the only activity he enjoyed with a woman, and he regretted that court dancing was no longer in vogue.

If you want to bed a woman, do it in the bedroom. If you want to seduce her, do it in the dance.

It was hard to imagine the Priest saying that to a small boy, but it was like so many other things that had come to him over the years in those moments between sleep and waking, and he no longer questioned whose voice seemed to whisper up from somewhere deep within him, a voice he’d always known wasn’t his own.

When the music faded, Daemon released Wilhelmina and made an elegant, formal bow. He turned to Jaenelle. Her strange expression made his heart jump. The crust of civility he lived behind, all the rules and regulations, cracked beneath her gaze. Her psychic scent distracted him. His mind sharpened, turned inward, and he reveled in the keen awareness of his body, the smooth feline way he moved.

The music began again. Jaenelle raised one hand. He raised the opposite hand. Stepping toward each other, their fingertips touched, and the court dance began.

He didn’t need to think about the steps. They were natural, sensual, seductive. The music caressed him, narrowing his senses to the young body that moved with him. Fingertips touched fingertips, hands touched hands, nothing more. The Black sang in him, wanting more, wanting much, much more, and yet it pleased him to have his senses teased this way, to feel so alive, so male.

When the music faded again, Jaenelle stepped back, breaking the spell. She skipped to the brass holder, changed the music sphere, and began a lively folk dance, hands on her hips, feet flying.

Daemon and Wilhelmina were applauding when Cook came in carrying a tray. “I thought you’d like some sandwiches…” Her words faded as Daemon, with a dazzling smile, took the tray from her, placed it on a table, and led her to the center of the room. He bowed; with a pleased smile, she curtsied. He swept her into his arms and they waltzed to a Chaillot tune he’d heard at a number of balls. As they whirled about the room, he grinned at the girls, who were whirling around with them.

Then Cook stumbled and moaned, her eyes fixed on the doorway.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Graff said nastily as she stepped into the room. She nailed Cook with an icy stare. “You were entrusted to look after the girls for a few short hours, and here I return to find you engaged in questionable entertainment.” Her eyes snapped to Daemon’s arm, which was still around Cook’s waist. She sniffed, maliciously pleased. “Perhaps, when this is reported, Lady Angelline will find someone with culinary talent.”

“Nothing happened, Graff.”

Daemon shivered at the chilling fury in Jaenelle’s too calm voice.

Graff turned. “Well, we’ll just see, missy.”

“Graff.” It was a thunderous, malevolent whisper.

Daemon shook. Every instinct for self-preservation screamed at him to call in the Black and shield himself.

There had been a strange swirling when Graff first appeared that had made him think he was being pulled into a spiral. He’d never felt anything like that before and hadn’t realized that Jaenelle was gliding down into the abyss. Now something rose from far below him, something very angry and so very, very cold.

Graff turned slowly, her eyes staring wide and empty.

“Nothing happened, Graff,” Jaenelle said in that cold whisper that shrieked through Daemon’s nerves. “Wilhelmina and I were in the music room practicing some dance steps. Cook had brought some sandwiches for us and was just leaving when you arrived. You didn’t see the Prince because he was in his room. Do you understand?”

Graff’s eyebrows drew together. “No, I—”

“Look down, Graff. Look down. Do you see it?”

Graff whimpered.

“If you don’t remember what I’ve told you, that’s what you’ll see…forever. Do you understand?”

“Understand,” Graff whispered as spittle dribbled down her chin.

“You’re dismissed, Graff. Go to your room.”

When they heard a door close farther down the corridor, Daemon led Cook to a chair and eased her into it. Jaenelle said nothing more, but there was pain and sadness in her eyes as she looked at them before going to her room. Wilhelmina had wet herself. Daemon cleaned her up, cleaned up the floor, took the tray of sandwiches back to the kitchen, and dosed Cook with a liberal glass of brandy.

“She’s a strange child,” Cook said carefully after her second glass of brandy, “but there’s more good than harm in her.”

Daemon gave her calm, expected responses, allowing her to find her own way to justify what she’d felt in that room. Wilhelmina, too, although embarrassed that he’d witnessed her accident, had altered the confrontation into something she could accept. Only he, as he sat in his room staring at nothing, was unwilling to let go of the fear and the awe. Only he appreciated the terrible beauty of being able to touch without restraint. Only he felt knife-sharp desire.

2 / Terreille

Daemon sat on the edge of his bed, a pained, gentle smile tugging his lips. Even with preservation spells, the picture’s colors were beginning to fade, and it was worn around the edges. Still, nothing could fade the hint of a brash smile and the ready-for-trouble gleam in Lucivar’s eyes. It was the only picture Daemon had of him, taken centuries ago when Lucivar still had an aura of youthful hope, before the years and court after court had turned a handsome, youthful face into one so like the Askavi mountains he loved—beautifully brutal, holding a trace of shadow even in the brightest sunlight.

There was a shy tap on his door before Jaenelle slipped into the room. “Hello,” she said, uncertain of her welcome.

Daemon slipped an arm around her waist when she got close enough. Jaenelle rested both hands on his shoulder and leaned into him. The skin beneath her eyes looked bruised, and she trembled a little.

Daemon frowned. “Are you cold?” When she shook her head, he pulled her closer. There wasn’t any kind of outside heat that could thaw what chilled her, but after he’d been holding her for a while, the trembling stopped.

He wondered if she’d told Saetan about the music room incident. He looked at her again and knew the answer. She hadn’t told the Priest. She hadn’t gone roaming for three days. She’d been locked in her cold misery, alone, wondering if there was any living thing that wouldn’t fear her. He had come to the Black as a young man, but mature and ready, and even then living that far into the Darkness had been unsettling. For a child who had never known anything else, who had been traveling strange, lonely roads since her first conscious thought, who tried so hard to reach toward other people while suppressing what she was…But she couldn’t suppress it. She would always shatter the illusion when challenged, would always reveal what lay beneath.

Daemon intently studied the face that, in turn, studied the picture he still held. He sucked in his breath when he finally understood. He wore the Black; Jaenelle was the Black. But with her, the Black was not only dark, savage power, it was laughter and mischief and compassion and healing…and snowballs.

Daemon kissed her hair and looked at the picture. “You would have gotten along well with him. He was always ready to get into trouble.” He was rewarded with a ghost of a smile.

She studied the picture. “Now he looks more like what he is.” Her eyes narrowed, and then she shot an accusing look at him. “Wait a minute. You said he was your brother.”

“He was.” Is. Would always be.

“But he’s Eyrien.”

“We had different mothers.”

There was a strange light in her eyes. “But the same father.”

He watched her juggling the mental puzzle pieces, saw the moment when they all clicked.

“That explains a lot,” she murmured, fluffing her hair. “He isn’t dead, you know. The Ebon-gray is still in Terreille.”

Daemon blinked. “How—” He sputtered. “How do you know that?”

“I looked. I didn’t go anywhere,” she added hurriedly. “I didn’t break my promise.”

“Then how—” Daemon shook his head. “Forget I said that.”

“It’s not like trying to sort through Opals or Red from a distance to find a particular person.” Jaenelle had that harried, amused look. “Daemon, the only other Ebon-gray is Andulvar, and he doesn’t live in Terreille anymore. Who else can it be?”

Daemon sighed. He didn’t understand, but he was relieved to know.

“May I have a copy of that picture?”

“Why?” Jaenelle gave him a look that made him wince. “All right.”

“And one of you, too?”

“I don’t have one of me.”

“We could get one.”

“Why—never mind. Is there a reason for this?”

“Of course.”

“I don’t suppose you’d tell me what it is?”

Jaenelle raised one eyebrow. It was such a perfect imitation, Daemon choked back a laugh. Serves me right, he thought wryly. “All right,” he said, ruefully shaking his head.

“Soon?”

“Yes, Lady, soon.”

Jaenelle skipped away, turned, gave him a feather-light kiss on the cheek, and was gone.

Raising one eyebrow, Daemon looked at the closed door. He looked at the picture. “You stupid Prick,” he said fondly. “Ah, Lucivar, you would have had such fun with her.”

3 / Hell

Saetan leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “Why?”

“Because I’d like one.”

“You said that before. Why?”

Jaenelle loosely clasped her hands, looked at the ceiling, and said in a prim, authoritative voice, “’Tis not the season for questions.”

Saetan choked. When he could breathe again, he said, “Very well, witch-child. You’ll have a picture.”

“Two?”

Saetan gave her a long, hard look. She gave him her unsure-but-game smile. He sighed. There was one unshakable truth about Jaenelle: Sometimes it was better not to know. “Two.”

She pulled a chair up to the blackwood desk. Resting her elbows on the gleaming surface, her chin propped in her hands, she said solemnly, “I want to buy two frames, but I don’t know where to buy them.”

“What kind do you want?”

Jaenelle perked up. “Nice ones, the kind that open like a book.”

“Swivel frames?”

She shrugged. “Something that will hold two pictures.”

“I’ll get them for you. Anything else?”

She was solemn again. “I want to buy them myself, but I don’t know how much they cost.”

“Witch-child, that’s not a problem—”

Jaenelle reached into her pocket and pulled something out. Resting her loosely closed fist on the desk, she opened her hand. “Do you think if you sold this, it would buy the frames?”

Saetan gulped, but his hand was steady when he picked up the stone and held it up to the light. “Where did you get this, witch-child?” he asked calmly, almost absently.

Jaenelle put her hands in her lap, her eyes focused on the desk. “Well…you see…I was with a friend and we were going through this village and some rocks had fallen by the road and a little girl had her foot caught under one of the rocks.” She scrunched her shoulders. “It was hurt, the foot I mean, because of the rock, and I…healed it, and her father gave me that to say thank you.” She added hurriedly, “But he didn’t say I had to keep it.” She hesitated. “Do you think it would buy two frames?”

Saetan held the stone between thumb and forefinger. “Oh, yes,” he said dryly. “I think it will be more than adequate for what you want.”

Jaenelle smiled at him, puzzled.

Saetan struggled to keep his voice calm. “Tell me, witch-child, have you received other such gifts from grateful parents?”

“Uh-huh. Draca’s keeping them for me because I didn’t know what to do with them.” She brightened. “She’s given me a room at the Keep, just like you gave me one at the Hall.”

“Yes, she told me she was going to.” He smiled at her obvious relief that he wasn’t offended. “I’ll have the pictures and frames for you by the end of the week. Will that be satisfactory?”

Jaenelle bounced around the desk, strangled him, and kissed his cheek. “Thank you, Saetan.”

“You’re welcome, witch-child. Off with you.”

Jaenelle bumped into Mephis on her way out. “Hello, Mephis,” she said as she headed wherever she was headed.

Even Mephis. Saetan smiled at the bemused, tender expression on his staid, ever-so-formal eldest son’s face.

“Come look at this,” Saetan said, “and tell me what you think.”

Mephis held the diamond up to the light and whistled softly. “Where did you get this?”

“It was a gift, to Jaenelle, from a grateful parent.”

Mephis groped for the chair. He stared at the diamond in disbelief. “You’re joking.”

Saetan retrieved the diamond, holding it between thumb and forefinger. “No, Mephis, I’m not joking. Apparently, a little girl got her foot caught under a rock and hurt it. Jaenelle healed it, and the grateful father presented her with this. And, apparently, this is not the first such gift that’s been bestowed upon her for such service.” He studied the large, flawless gem.

“But…how?” Mephis sputtered.

“She’s a natural Healer. It’s instinctive.”

“Yes, but—”

“But the real question is, what really happened?” Saetan’s golden eyes narrowed.

“What do you mean?” Mephis said, puzzled.

“I mean,” Saetan said slowly, “the way Jaenelle told the story, it didn’t sound like much. But how severe an injury by how large a rock, when healed, would make a father grateful enough to give up this?”

4 / Kaeleer

“Witch-child, since a list of your friends would be as long as you are tall, you can’t possibly give each of them a Winsol gift. It’s not expected. You don’t expect gifts from all of them, do you?”

“Of course not,” Jaenelle replied hotly. She slumped in the chair. “But they’re my friends, Saetan.”

And you are the best gift they could have in a hundred lifetimes.

“Winsol is the celebration of Witch, the Blood’s remembrance of what we are. Gifts are condiments for the meat, and that’s all.”

Jaenelle eyed him skeptically—and well she should. How many times over the past few days had he caught himself daydreaming of what it would be like to celebrate Winsol with her? To be with her at sunset when the gifts were opened? To share a tiny cup of hot blooded rum with her? To dance, as the Blood danced at no other time of the year, for the glory of Witch? The daydreams were bittersweet. As he walked through the corridors of the Kaeleer Hall watching the staff decorate the rooms, laughing and whispering secrets; as he and Mephis prepared the benefaction list for the staff and all the villagers whose work directly or indirectly served the Hall; as he did all the things a good Prince did for the people who served him, a thought rubbed at him, rubbed and rubbed: She would be spending that special day with her family in Terreille, away from those who were truly her own.

The one small drop of comfort was that she would also be with Daemon.

“What should I do?”

Jaenelle’s question brought him back to the present. He lightly rubbed his steepled fingers against his lips. “I think you should select one or two of your friends who, for whatever reason, might be left out of the celebrations and festivities and give gifts to them. A small gesture to one who otherwise will have nothing will be worth a great deal more than another gift among many.”

Jaenelle fluffed her hair and then smiled. “Yes,” she said softly, “I know exactly the ones who need it most.”

“It’s settled, then.” A paper-wrapped parcel lifted from the corner of his desk and came to rest in front of Jaenelle. “As you requested.”

Jaenelle’s smile widened as she took the parcel and carefully unwrapped it. The soft glow in her eyes melted century upon century of loneliness. “You look splendid, Saetan.”

He smiled tenderly. “I do my best to serve, Lady.” He shifted in his chair. “By the way, the stone you gave me to sell—”

“Was it enough?” Jaenelle asked anxiously. “If it wasn’t—”

“More than enough, witch-child.” Remembering the expression on the jeweler’s face when he brought it in, it was hard not to laugh at her concern. “There were, in fact, a good number of gold marks left over. I took the liberty of opening an account in your name with the remainder. So anytime you want to purchase something in Kaeleer, you need only sign for it, have the store’s proprietor send the bill to me at the Hall, and I’ll deduct it from your account. Fair enough?”

Jaenelle’s grin made Saetan wish he’d bitten his tongue. The Darkness only knew what she might think to purchase. Ah, well. It was going to be just as much of a headache for the merchants as it was going to be for him—and he found the idea too amusing to really mind.

“I suppose if you did want to get an unusual gift, you could always get a couple of salt licks for the unicorns,” he teased.

He was stunned by the instant, haunted look in her eyes.

“No,” Jaenelle whispered, all the color draining from her face. “No, not salt.”

He sat for a long time after she left him, staring at nothing, wondering what it was about salt that could distress her so much.

5 / Kaeleer

Draca stepped aside to let Saetan enter. “What do you think?”

Saetan whistled softly. Like all the rooms in the Keep, the huge bedroom was cut out of the living mountain. But unlike the other rooms, including the suite Cassandra had once had, the walls of this room had been worked and smoothed to shine like ravenglass. A wood floor peeked out from beneath immense, thick, red-and-cream patterned rugs that could only have come from Dharo, the Kaeleer Territory renowned for its cloth and weaving. The four-poster blackwood bed could comfortably sleep four people. The rest of the furniture—tables, nightstands, bookcases, storage cupboard—was also blackwood. There was a dressing room with wardrobes and storage cupboards of cedar, and a private bath with a sunken marble tub—black veined with red—a large shower stall, double sinks, and a commode enclosed in its own little room. On the other side of the bedroom was a door leading into a sitting room.

“It’s magnificent, Draca,” Saetan said as his eyes drank in the odds and ends scattered on the tables—a young girl’s treasures. Fingering the lid of a box that had an intricate design created from a number of rare woods, he opened it and shook his head, partly amused and partly stunned. One finger idly stirred the contents of the box, stirred the little seashells that had obviously come from widely distant beaches, stirred the diamonds, rubies, emeralds, and sapphires that were no more than pretty stones to a child. He closed the box and turned, one eyebrow rising in amusement.

Draca lifted her shoulders in the merest hint of a shrug. “Would you have it otherwisse?”

“No.” He looked around. “This room will please her. It’s truly a dark sanctuary, something she’ll need more and more as the years pass.”

“Not all ssanctuariess are dark, High Lord. The room you gave her pleasess her, too.” For the first time in all the years he’d known her, Draca smiled. “Sshall I desscribe it to you? I have heard about it often enough.”

Saetan looked away, not wanting her to see how pleased he was.

“I wanted to sshow you the Winssol gift I have for her.” Draca retreated into the dressing room and returned holding a wisp of black. She spread it out on the bed’s satin coverlet. “What do you think?”

Saetan stared at the full-length dress. There was a lump in his throat he couldn’t swallow around, and the room was suddenly misty. He fingered the black spidersilk. “Her first Widow’s weeds,” he said huskily. “This is what she should wear for Winsol.” He let the silk slip through his fingers as he turned away. “She should be with us.”

“Yess, sshe sshould be with her family.”

“She will be with her family,” Saetan said bitterly. He laughed, but that was bitter, too. “She’ll be with her grandmother and mother…and her father.”

“No,” Draca said gently. “Not with her father. Now, finally, doess sshe have a father.”

Saetan took a deep breath. “I used to be the coldest bastard to ever have walked the Realms. What happened?”

“You fell in love…with the daughter of your ssoul.” Draca made a little sound that might have been a laugh. “And you were never sso cold, Ssaetan, never sso cold ass you pretended to be.”

“You might spare my pride by allowing me my illusions.”

“For what purposse? Doess sshe allow you to be cold?”

“At least she allows me my illusions,” Saetan said, warming to the gentle argument. “However,” he added wryly, “she doesn’t let me get away with much else.” He sighed, his expression one of pained amusement. “I must go. I have to talk to some distressed merchants.”

Draca escorted him out. “It hass been a long time ssince you celebrated Winssol. Thiss year, when the black candless are lit, you will drink the blooded rum and dance for the glory of Witch.”

“Yes,” he said softly, thinking of the spidersilk dress, “this year I will dance.”

6 / Hell

Saetan settled his cape around his shoulders. On the floor of his private study were six boxes filled with the many brightly wrapped gifts he had purchased for the cildru dyathe. Since the children were so skittish of adults, it was impossible to know how many were on the island. The best he could do was fill a box for each age group and leave it to Char to distribute the gifts. There were books and toys, games and puzzles, from as many Kaeleer Territories as he had access to. If he had been overly indulgent this year, it was to fill the hole in his heart, to make up for the gifts he wanted to give Jaenelle and couldn’t. There could be no trace of him in Beldon Mor, no gift that might provoke questions. Knowledge was the only thing he could give her that she could take back to Terreille.

He vanished the boxes one by one, left his study, and caught the Black Wind to the cildru dyathe’s island.

Even for Hell, it was a bleak place made of rocks, sand, and barren fields. A place where even Hell’s native flora and fauna couldn’t thrive. He’d always wondered why Char had chosen that place instead of one of the many others that wouldn’t have been so stark. And then Jaenelle had unthinkingly given him the answer: The island, in its starkness, in its unyielding bleakness, held no deceptions, no illusions. Poisons weren’t sugarcoated, brutality wasn’t masked by silk and lace. There was nowhere for cruelty to hide.

He took his time reaching that rocky place that was as close to a shelter as the children would condone. As he reached the final bend in the twisting path and mentally prepared himself to watch them flee from him, he heard laughter—innocent, delighted laughter. He wrapped his cape tightly around him, hoping to blend into the rocks and remain unnoticed for a moment. To hear them laugh that way…

Saetan eased around the last rock and gasped.

In the center of their open “council” area stood a magnificent evergreen, its color undimmed by Hell’s forever-twilight. Throughout the branches, little points of color winked in and out like a rainbow of fireflies performing a merry dance. Char and the other children were hanging icicles—real icicles—from the branches. Little silver and gold bells tinkled as they brushed against the branches. There was laughter and purpose, an animation and sparkle in their young faces that he’d never seen before.

Then they saw him and froze, small animals caught in the light. In another moment, they would have run, but Char turned at that instant, his eyes bright. He stepped toward Saetan, holding out his hands in an ancient gesture of welcome.

“High Lord.” Char’s voice rang with pride. “Come see our tree.”

Saetan came forward slowly and placed his hands over Char’s. He studied the tree. A single tear slipped down his cheek, and his lips trembled. “Ah, children,” he said huskily, “it’s truly a magnificent tree. And your decorations are wonderful.”

They smiled at him, shyly, tentatively.

Without thinking, Saetan put his arm around Char’s shoulders and hugged him close. The boy jerked back, caught himself, and then hesitantly put his arms around Saetan and hugged him in return.

“You know who gave us the tree, don’t you?” Char whispered.

“Yes, I know.”

“I’ve never…most of us have never…”

“I know, Char.” Saetan squeezed Char’s shoulder once more. He cleared his throat. “They seem a bit…dull…compared with this, but there are gifts for you to put beneath the tree.”

Char rubbed his hand across his face. “She said it would only last the thirteen days of Winsol, but that’s all they ever last, isn’t it?”

“Yes, that’s all they ever last.”

“High Lord.” Char hesitated. “How?”

Saetan smiled tenderly at the boy. “I don’t know. She’s magic. I’m only a Warlord Prince. You can’t expect me to explain magic.”

Char smiled in return, a smile from one man to another.

Saetan called in the six boxes. “I’ll leave these in your keeping.” One finger gently stroked Char’s burned, blackened cheek. “Happy Winsol, Warlord.” He turned and glided quickly toward the path. As he passed the first bend, a sound came from a smattering of voices. When it was repeated, it was a full chorus.

“Happy Winsol, High Lord.”

Saetan choked back a sob and hurried back to the Hall.

7 / Hell

“You did tell me to give a Winsol gift to someone who might not get one, so…well…” Jaenelle nervously brushed her fingers along the edge of Saetan’s blackwood desk.

“Come here, witch-child.” Saetan gently hugged her. Putting his lips close to her ear, he whispered, “That was the finest piece of magic I’ve ever seen. I’m so very proud of you.”

“Truly?” Jaenelle whispered back.

“Truly.” He held her at arm’s length so he could see her face. “Would you share the secret?” he asked, keeping his voice lightly teasing. “Would you tell an old Warlord Prince how you did it?”

Jaenelle’s eyes focused on his Red Birthright Jewel hanging from its gold chain. “I promised the Prince, you see.”

“See what?” he asked calmly as his stomach flip-flopped.

“I promised that if I was going to do any dream weaving I’d learn from the best who could teach me.”

And you didn’t come to me? “So who taught you, witch-child?”

She licked her lips. “The Arachnians,” she said in a small voice.

The room blurred and spun. When it stopped revolving, Saetan gratefully realized he was still sitting in his chair. “Arachna is a closed Territory,” he said through clenched teeth.

Jaenelle frowned. “I know. But so are a lot of places where I have friends. They don’t mind, Saetan. Truly.”

Saetan released her and locked his hands together. Arachna. She’d gone to Arachna. Beware the golden spider that spins a tangled web. There wasn’t a Black Widow in all the history of the Blood who could spin dream webs like the Arachnians. The whole shore of their island was littered with tangled webs that could pull in unsuspecting—and even well-trained—minds, leaving the flesh shell to be devoured. For her to blithely walk through their defenses…

“The Arachnian Queen,” Saetan said, fighting the urge to yell at her. “Whom did she assign to teach you?”

Jaenelle gave him a worried little smile. “She taught me. We started with the straight, simple webs, everyday weaving. After that…” Jaenelle shrugged.

Saetan cleared his throat. “Just out of curiosity, how large is the Arachnian Queen?”

“Um…her body’s about like that.” Jaenelle pointed at his fist.

The room tilted. Very little was known about Arachna—with good reason, since very few who had ever ventured there had returned intact—but one thing was known: the larger the spider, the more powerful and deadly were the webs.

“Did the Prince suggest you go to Arachna?” Saetan asked, desperately trying to keep the snarl out of his voice.

Jaenelle blinked and had the grace to blush. “No. I don’t think he’d be too happy if I told him.”

Saetan closed his eyes. What was done was done. “You will remember courtesy and Protocol when you visit them, won’t you?”

“Yes, High Lord,” Jaenelle said, her voice suspiciously submissive.

Saetan opened his eyes to a narrow slit. Jaenelle’s sapphire eyes sparkled back at him. He snarled, defeated. Hell’s fire, if he was so outmaneuvered by a twelve-year-old girl, what in the name of Darkness was he going to do when she was full grown?

“Saetan?”

“Jaenelle.”

She held out a brightly though clumsily wrapped package with a slightly mangled bow. “Happy Winsol, Saetan.”

His hand shook a little as he took the package and laid it gently on the desk. “Witch-child, I—”

Jaenelle threw her arms around his neck and squeezed. “Draca said it was all right to open your gift before Winsol because I should only wear it at the Keep. Oh, thank you, Saetan. Thank you. It’s the most wonderful dress. And it’s black.” She studied his face. “Wasn’t I supposed to tell you I already opened it?”

Saetan hugged her fiercely. You, too, Draca. You, too, are not as cold as you pretend to be. “I’m glad it pleases you, witch-child. Now.” He turned to her package.

“No,” Jaenelle said nervously. “You should wait for Winsol.”

“You didn’t,” he gently teased. “Besides, you won’t be here for Winsol, so…”

“No, Saetan. Please?”

It piqued his curiosity that she would give him something and not want to be there when he opened it. However, tomorrow was Winsol, and he didn’t want her leaving him feeling heartsore. Adeptly turning the conversation to the mounds of food being prepared at the Kaeleer Hall and broadly hinting that Helene and Mrs. Beale just might be willing to parcel some out before the next day, he sent her on her way and leaned back in his chair with a sigh.

The package beckoned.

Saetan Black-locked the study door before carefully unwrapping the package. His heart did a queer little jig as he stared at the back of one of the swivel frames he had purchased for her. Taking a deep breath, he opened the frame.

In the left side was a copy of an old picture of a young man with a hint of a brash smile and a ready-for-trouble gleam in his eyes. The face would have changed by now, hardened, matured. Even so.

“Lucivar,” he whispered, blinking away tears and shaking his head. “You had that look in your eyes when you were five years old. It would seem there are some things the years can’t change. Where are you now, my Eyrien Prince.”

He turned to the picture on the right, immediately set the frame on the desk, leaned back in his chair and covered his eyes. “No wonder,” he whispered. “By all the Jewels and the Darkness, no wonder.” If Lucivar was a summer afternoon, Daemon was winter’s coldest night. Sliding his hands from his face, Saetan forced himself to study the picture of his namesake, his true heir.

It was a formal picture taken in front of a red-velvet background. On the surface, this son of his was not a mirror—he far exceeded his father’s chiseled, handsome features—but beneath the surface was the recognizable, chilling darkness, and a ruthlessness Saetan instinctively knew had been honed by years of cruelty.

“Dorothea, you have re-created me at my worst.”

And yet…

Saetan leaned forward and studied the golden eyes so like his own, eyes that seemed to look straight at him. He smiled in thanks and relief. Nothing would ever undo what Dorothea had done to Daemon, what she had turned him into, but in those golden eyes was a swirling expression of resignation, amusement, irritation, and delight—a cacophony of emotions he was all too familiar with. It could only mean one thing: Jaenelle had maneuvered Daemon into this and had gone with him to make sure it was done to her satisfaction.

“Well, namesake,” Saetan said quietly as he positioned the frame on the corner of his desk, “if you’ve accepted the leash she’s holding, there’s hope for you yet.”

8 / Terreille

For Daemon, Winsol was the bitterest day of the year, a cruel reminder of what it had been like to grow up in Dorothea’s court, of what had been required of him after the dancing had fired Dorothea’s and Hepsabah’s blood.

His stomach tightened. The stone he sharpened his already honed temper on was the knowledge that the one witch he wanted to dance with, the only one he would gladly surrender to and indulge, was too young for him—for any man.

He celebrated Winsol because it was expected of him. Each year he sent a basket of delicacies to Surreal. Each year he sent gifts to Manny and Jo—and to Tersa whenever he could find her. Each year there were the expected, expensive gifts for the witches he served. Each year he got nothing in return, not even the words “thank you.”

But this year was different. This year he’d been caught up in a whirlwind called Jaenelle Angelline—as impossible to deflect as she was to stop—and he had become an accomplice in all sorts of schemes that, even in their innocence, had been thrilling. When he had dug in his heels and balked at one of her adventures, he’d been dragged along like a toy so well loved it didn’t have much of its stuffing left. With his defenses breached, with his temper dulled and battered by love and his coldness trampled by mischief, he had briefly thought to appeal to the Priest for help until, with amused dismay, he realized the High Lord of Hell was probably faring no better than he.

Now, however, as he thought of the kinds of adventures Alexandra and Leland and their friends would require of him, the cold once more whispered through his veins and his temper cut with every breath.

After a light meal that would hold off hunger until the night’s huge feast, they gathered in the drawing room to unwrap the Winsol gifts. Flushed from her dizzying work in the kitchen, Cook carried in the tray with the silver bowl filled with the traditional hot blooded rum. The small silver cups were filled to be shared.

Robert shared his cup with Leland, who tried not to look at Philip. Philip shared his with Wilhelmina. Graff sneeringly shared hers with Cook. And he, because he had no choice, shared his with Alexandra.

Jaenelle stood alone, with no one to share her cup.

Daemon’s heart twisted. He remembered too many Winsols when he had been the one standing alone, the outcast, the unwanted. He would have damned the tradition that said only one cup was shared, but he saw that strange, unnerving light flicker in her eyes for just a moment before she lifted her cup in a salute and drank.

There was a moment of nervous silence before Wilhelmina jumped in with a brittle smile and asked, “Can we open the gifts now?”

As the cups were put back on the tray, Daemon maneuvered to Jaenelle’s side. “Lady—”

“It’s fitting, don’t you think, that I should drink alone?” she said in a midnight whisper. Her eyes were full of awful pain. “After all, I am kindred but not kind.”

You’re my Queen, he thought fiercely. His body ached. She was his Queen. But with her family surrounding them, watching, there was nothing he could say or do to help her.

During the next hour, Jaenelle played her expected role of the slightly befuddled child, fawning over gifts so at odds with what she was that it made Daemon want to paint the walls in blood. No one else noticed she was fighting harder and harder to draw breath with each gift she unwrapped until it seemed the bright paper and bows were fists pounding her small body. When he opened her gift of handkerchiefs, she flinched and went deathly pale. With a gasp, she leaped to her feet and ran from the room while Alexandra and Leland sternly called for her to come back.

Not caring what they thought, Daemon left the room, cold fury rolling off him, and went to the library. Jaenelle was there, gasping for breath, feebly trying to open a window. Daemon locked the door, strode across the room, viciously twisted the lock on the sash, and snapped the window open with wall-shaking force.

Jaenelle leaned over the narrow window seat, gulping in the winter air. “It hurts so much to live here, Daemon,” she whimpered as he cradled her in his arms. “Sometimes it hurts so much.”

“Shh.” He stroked her hair. “Shh.”

As soon as her breathing slowed to normal, Daemon closed and locked the window. He leaned against the wall, one leg stretched out along the window seat, and drew her forward until she was pressed against him. Then he hooked his other foot under his leg, effectively capturing her in a tight triangle.

It was insane to have her pushed up against him that way. Insane to take such pleasure in her hands resting on his thighs. Insane not to stop the slow uncurling of those psychic tendrils of seduction.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t share the cup with you.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Jaenelle whispered.

“It does to me,” he replied sharply, his deep, silky voice having more of a husky edge than usual.

Jaenelle’s eyes were getting confused and smoky. He pulled the tendrils back a little.

“Daemon,” Jaenelle said hesitantly. “Your gift…”

There was a rumbling in Daemon’s throat—his bedroom laugh, except there was fire in it instead of ice, and his eyes were molten gold. “That was no more your choice than the paint set was truly mine.” He raised one eyebrow. “I had considered getting you a saddle that would fit both you and Dark Dancer—”

Jaenelle’s eyes widened and she laughed.

“—but that wouldn’t have been practical.” One long-nailed finger idly stroked her arm. He knew he should walk away from this—now—when he had amused her, but her pain had twisted something inside him, and he wasn’t going to let her believe she was alone here. It made him wonder about something else. “Jaenelle,” he said cautiously as he watched his finger, “did the Priest…” If Saetan hadn’t given her a Winsol gift, would his asking hurt her more?

“Oh, Daemon, it’s so wonderful. I can’t wear it here, of course.”

He started to untwist. “Wear what?”

“My dress.” She squirmed in his tight triangle and almost sent him through the wall. “It’s floor-length and it’s made of spidersilk and it’s black, Daemon, black.”

Daemon concentrated on breathing. When he was sure his heart remembered its proper rhythm, he reached into his inner jacket pocket and took out a small square box. “Then this, I think, would be a proper accessory.”

“What is it?” Jaenelle asked, hesitantly taking the box.

“Your Winsol gift. Your real Winsol gift.”

Smiling shyly, Jaenelle unwrapped the box, opened it, and gasped.

Daemon’s throat tightened. It was an inappropriate gift for a man like him to give a young girl, but he didn’t care about that, didn’t care about anything except whether or not it pleased her.

“Oh, Daemon,” Jaenelle whispered. She took the hammered silver cuff bracelet from the box and placed it on her left wrist. “It will be perfect with my dress.” She reached up to hug him and froze.

He watched her emotions swirl in her eyes, too fast for him to identify. Instead of hugging him, she lowered her hands to his shoulders, leaned forward, and kissed him lightly on the mouth, a girl child testing the waters of womanhood. His hands closed on her arms with just enough pressure to keep her close to him. When she pulled back, he saw in her eyes a whisper of the woman she would become.

Seeing that, he couldn’t let it finish there.

Gently cupping her face in his hands, Daemon leaned forward and returned her kiss. His kiss was as light and close-lipped as hers had been, but it wasn’t innocent and it wasn’t chaste. When he finally raised his head, he knew he was playing a dangerous game.

Jaenelle swayed, bracing her hands on his thighs for support. She licked her lips and looked at him with slightly glazed eyes. “Do…do all boys kiss like that?”

“Boys don’t kiss like that at all, Lady,” he said quietly, seriously. “Neither do most men. But I’m not like most men.” He slowly pulled in his seduction tendrils. He had done more than he should have already tonight; anything else would harm her. Tomorrow he would be the companion he’d been yesterday, and the day before that. But she would remember that kiss and compare every kiss from every weak-willed Chaillot boy against it.

He didn’t care how many boys kissed her. They were, after all, boys. But the bed…When the time came, the bed would be his.

He removed the bracelet from her wrist and put it back in its box. “Vanish that,” he said quietly while he disposed of the ribbon and paper. When the box was gone, he unwound his legs and led her back to the drawing room, where Graff immediately hurried the girls off to bed.

Philip glared at him. Robert smirked. Leland was fluttery and pale. It was Alexandra’s jealous, accusing look that unsheathed his temper. She rose to confront him, but at that moment the guests began arriving for the night-long festivities.

That night Daemon didn’t wait for Alexandra to “ask” him to accommodate a female guest. He seduced every woman in the house—beginning with Leland—teasing them into climaxes while he danced with them, watching them shudder while they bit their lips until they bled, trying not to cry out with so many people crowded around them. Or slipping away with one of the women to a little alcove, and after the first ice-fire kiss, standing primly against the wall, his hands in his trouser pockets, while his phantom touch played mercilessly with her body until she was sprawled on the floor, pleading for the caress of a real hand—and then his merest touch, the tickling slide of his nails along her inner thigh, the briefest touch to the undergarments in the right place, and she would be glutted—and starved.

Still, Daemon wasn’t done.

He had deliberately avoided Alexandra, taunting her with his open seduction of all the other women, frustrating her beyond endurance. Before the door shut on the last guest, he swept her into his arms, climbed the stairs, and locked them into her bedroom. He made up for everything. He showed her the kind of pleasure he could give a woman when inspired. He showed her why he was called the Sadist.

When he stumbled into his own room long after dawn, the first thing he noticed was that his bed had been fussed with. One swift, angry probe located the package beneath his pillow. Cautiously pulling back the covers and tossing the pillow aside, Daemon looked at the clumsily wrapped package and the folded note tucked under the ribbon. He smiled tenderly, sinking gratefully onto the bed.

She must have put it there as soon as he’d left the room.

The note said: “I couldn’t give you the gift I wanted to because the others wouldn’t understand. Happy Winsol, Daemon. Love, Jaenelle.”

Daemon unwrapped the package and opened the swivel frame. The left side was empty, waiting for Lucivar’s picture. On the right…

“It’s funny,” Daemon said quietly to the picture. “I’d always thought you’d look more formal, more…distant. But for all your splendor, all your Craft and power, you really wouldn’t mind putting your feet up and downing a tankard of ale, would you? I’d never guessed how much of you is in Lucivar. Or how much of you is in me. Ah, Priest.” Daemon gently closed the frame. “Happy Winsol, Father.”