Twilight's Dawn

This story takes place after the events in Tangled Webs.

ONE

Daemon Sadi, the Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince of Dhemlan, crossed the bridge that marked the boundary between private property and public land. On one side of the bridge was the drive leading to SaDiablo Hall, his family’s seat; on the other side was the public road leading to the village of Halaway.

Fluffy snow dusted the bottoms of his trousers as he walked toward the village in blissful solitude. Of course, he’d had to sneak out of his own home in order to have that solitude, and he recognized that there was something not quite right about the most powerful male in the Realm of Kaeleer sneaking out in order to avoid three snoozing Sceltie puppies. But whether he was allowing little bundles of fur to dictate his actions instead of using his rank and power to do as he pleased wasn’t the point. At this moment, here and now, he was alone on a crisp winter morning, and that was the point. No one was whining about having cold paws. No one was complaining that he walked too fast. No one was grumbling because he wouldn’t stop every few feet so interesting smells could be properly sniffed.

And no one was going to sulk because he refused to carry someone with wet fur under his coat and up against his white silk shirt.

Solitude. Bliss. And, if his mother had created the gift he’d asked her to make, fun.

Winsol was almost here. Those thirteen days were a celebration of the Darkness—and they were a celebration of Witch, the living myth, dreams made flesh.

It would be his first Winsol as the ruler of the Dhemlan Territory, his third celebration since he’d come to live in Kaeleer. The first year, he’d still been mentally fragile from the years when he’d wandered the roads in the Twisted Kingdom, lost in the insanity of guilt and grief. And in that first year, he’d also been lost in the wonder of finding Jaenelle Angelline again, alive and well—and still able to love him.

The second year, she had been the one who had been so terrifyingly fragile. She had unleashed her full power to prevent a war between Kaeleer and Terreille that would have destroyed both Realms—and had torn her body apart in the process. She shouldn’t have survived—wouldn’t have if the kindred and the Weaver of Dreams hadn’t done the impossible and remade the living myth, the Queen who was Witch.

But this year he and Jaenelle were together, they were married, and the worst thing looming over their heads was how many invitations to parties and public gatherings they needed to accept in order for him to fulfill his duties as Dhemlan’s ruler.

He made his way through Halaway’s quiet streets, noticing lights in the windows of most of the houses. The snow wasn’t marred yet by many footprints or cart wheels, but soon the merchants would open their shops, people and carriages would fill the sidewalks and streets, and the small village would bustle through another day of holiday preparations.

As he approached the cottage where his mother, Tersa, lived, he studied the walkways up to her cottage and the neighboring one that was occupied by Manny, an older woman he considered a friend rather than a former servant. Then he smiled and, using Craft, dealt with the snow as he glided up the walkway and knocked on the cottage door.

He waited a minute, then knocked again.

The third time, he put a bit of temper and Craft into the act of applying knuckles to wood, which guaranteed the sound would roll through the cottage like thunder.

A few seconds later, the door swung open as the young woman on the other side growled, “If someone doesn’t answer the door, you could take the hint that it’s too early for com—”

She blinked at him. He smiled at the journeymaid Black Widow who lived with Tersa as part of her training.

“Lady Allista,” he said politely.

“Prince Sadi.” Her tone was much less polite. Since he was who and what he was, she couldn’t shut the door in his face.

But she wanted to.

Obviously, Allista was one of those women who did not wake up cheerful. That was all right. A few months of marriage to Jaenelle had taught him the value of having a few tricks when it came to dealing with a witch who woke up grumpy—and he had become an expert at all of them.

“Tersa asked me to come early,” he said, slipping past Allista. “Since my timing is a bit off, why don’t I make breakfast for the two of you?”

He shrugged out of his overcoat and vanished it as he continued down the hall to the kitchen, not giving Allista time to answer.

All right. Tersa hadn’t told him to come this early, but she would be awake—and he wanted to slip out with his requested gift before too many people were up and about.

“Good morning, darling,” he said as he walked into the kitchen.

Tersa turned away from the counter and studied him for a moment. Then she smiled. “It’s the boy. It’s my boy.”

Her boy. His mother was a broken Black Widow lost in the madness the Blood called the Twisted Kingdom. Lost in the dreams and visions—and the shattered pieces of her mind. She remembered him as the child he had been before he’d been taken from her. She remembered him as the youth who had met her again but didn’t know who she was. And sometimes she remembered him as the man he was now. But however she saw him on any given day, he was always the boy. Her boy.

“I’ve come to cook you breakfast,” Daemon said. He gave her his best-boy grin. “And to talk about gifts.”

She narrowed her gold eyes as if she was about to argue. Then she shrugged and turned back to the counter. “There are bacon and eggs and bread for toast.”

“That sounds like breakfast,” Daemon said. “How would you like me to make the eggs?”

She hesitated—and he wondered if she would be able to answer or if her mind had turned down another path too far removed from such mundane things as bacon and eggs.

“I like them scrambled,” she finally said.

He put an arm around her, brushed his lips against her temple, and felt all his love for her well up and squeeze his heart. “Me too.”

Lucivar Yaslana backwinged and landed lightly on the walkway in front of Tersa’s cottage. He looked at the cottage directly in front of him, then at its neighbor.

Manny had spent most of her life as a servant, was used to working with her hands, and didn’t shun physical labor. Even now she’d taken on the duties of housekeeper for Tersa and Allista, an arrangement that satisfied all three women. But Manny wasn’t a young woman by any stretch of truth, and it seemed a bit early for her to have been out sweeping the walkways.

Not swept, he realized as he studied the sharp, perfect edge that divided the snowy lawn from the cleared walkway. Not even a hearth witch could get that kind of edge. Not with a shovel or broom, anyway. So someone had used Craft to remove the snow.

He crouched, held out a hand, and felt warm air.

And then someone had put a warming spell on the flagstones to keep them clear of snow.

The cottage door opened and the someone walked out.

Lucivar rose and looked pointedly at the walkways, then at Daemon. “You know, Bastard, using Craft is all well and good, but it wouldn’t hurt you to sweat once in a while.”

“If I’m going to work up a sweat for a woman, I’m going to be doing something besides sweeping the walk,” Daemon replied.

Lucivar grinned.

They were brothers. Half brothers, but they had never made that distinction. They both had the coloring of the three long-lived races—the black hair, light brown skin, and gold eyes. They had inherited much of their looks from their Hayllian father, who was the High Lord of Hell. Daemon’s face was a more refined, beautiful version of Saetan’s, while his own face was more rugged than their father’s. But the real distinction between him and Daemon came from the other side of his dual heritage. He had the dark, membranous wings that set the Eyrien race apart from the Hayllian and Dhemlan Blood.

They studied each other for a moment before Lucivar’s mouth curved in a lazy, arrogant smile.

“You’re up early,” Lucivar said, taking the few steps that separated them.

“You’re up even earlier, since you had to come in from Ebon Rih,” Daemon replied. “You must have left at dawn.”

Lucivar shook his head. “I’m farther east; sun rises earlier. But I was up at dawn.”

“Was that by choice?”

“Hell’s fire, no, but the little beast is up with the sun, and I feel less guilty about Marian holding the leash most of the day if she gets a little extra sleep.”

“How is my darling nephew? Counting the days until Winsol?”

“One of us is,” Lucivar muttered. He smiled grimly in response to Daemon’s laugh. “Last year,Winsol was something that just appeared and dazzled him. This year he’s figured out that Winsol is coming.”

“Ah.”

“Ooooh, yeah. So every morning, he climbs into bed with us, pries my eyes open, and says, ‘Papa! Is it Winzel yet?’ ”

Daemon’s lips were curved in a smile, but his golden eyes were full of sharp understanding. “Can you put a shield around the bed?”

“Tried that. Unfortunately, one that will keep him out also keeps Marian out. She didn’t appreciate smacking into a shield when she wanted to get back into bed after getting up to pee.”

“Lucivar.”

He heard Daemon’s concern wrapped around that single word.

“I’ve got a light shield around Daemonar’s room that will wake me if he starts wandering,” he said. That shield was a necessary precaution now to keep his son safe—from him. A Warlord Prince was a born predator, a natural killer. A Warlord Prince startled awake didn’t think; he attacked. The first morning Daemonar pounced on him, the boy’s physical scent and psychic scent had penetrated his sleep-fogged brain fast enough that he managed to pull back what might have been a killing blow.

Marian’s presence didn’t bother him. He was so steeped in the feel of her, she could touch him, mount him, do just about anything to him before he was fully awake without provoking that lethal rise to the killing edge. But Daemonar was male, he was a Warlord Prince, and he’d matured just enough over the past few weeks that Lucivar’s aggressive instincts now recognized caste before son.

So even though he let the boy have the fun of prying his eyes open, Lucivar was always awake and aware before Daemonar entered the room.

He looked into his brother’s eyes and knew he didn’t need to say anything more.

Then Daemon looked pointedly at Tersa’s cottage and raised an eyebrow as if asking a question—or demanding an explanation.

“None of your business, Bastard,” Lucivar said.

It wasn’t, and they both knew it. They also knew that Daemon was protective of Tersa and, in the past, had been brutally efficient when it came to dealing with men who had taken the wrong kind of interest in her.

And they also both knew that, in Terreille, Lucivar Yaslana had earned his reputation for being unpredictable, uncontrollable, and explosively violent toward women, so Daemon’s concern about his brother spending time with his mother was not without reason.

“Well,” Daemon said after an awkward moment. “I’d better get back to the Hall before the rest of the household is up.”

Lucivar nodded. “We’ll be coming in at the end of the week to help you and Jaenelle get the Hall ready for Winsol.”

“Get what ready?”

Lucivar blinked, decided Daemon wasn’t being a smart-ass, and gave his brother a pitying look. “Since I’ve been married longer than you, here’s a piece of advice: Never ask questions like that. They’ll only get you into trouble.”

Daemon huffed out a breath. “There are servants at the Hall. Lots of them. They’re the ones who are getting things ready.”

The pitying look changed to a wicked grin. “You do have a lot to learn.”

“No, really. They haven’t put up any of the fresh greenery because that’s done on the first day of Winsol, but yesterday Helene hauled out a century’s worth of decorations from the Hall’s attics. Hell’s fire, one of the young maids even put bells on the Sceltie puppies.”

“Did the puppies jingle into your study to complain?” Lucivar asked.

“Of course they did. Until the wolf pups decided the bells sounded fun. So now I have Sceltie puppies prancing up and down the great hall wearing bells while the wolf pups howl.”

“Your guests are going to be greeted by a jingle howl?” Correctly interpreting Daemon’s look, Lucivar added, “If you try to whack me upside the head, you’ll end up on the ground.”

Daemon squeezed his eyes shut and muttered, “Maybe I can run away from home.”

“We’re not allowed to do that. Trust me. We’re allowed to hide for an hour or two at a time, but we’re not allowed to run away from the festivities.”

“Says who?”

“The women we married.”

Daemon sighed. “Was life simpler when we were slaves in Terreille?”

“Simpler in some ways, yes. But not as much fun. See you in a few days.”

Lucivar stepped aside to let Daemon pass. Choosing to be cautious, because the Sadist had earned his reputation too, he watched until Daemon was out of sight, that gliding walk and feline grace covering a lot of ground. Then he approached the cottage and knocked on the door.

Allista, looking like a cat who had been dunked in a tub of water and then stroked the wrong way, hesitated before letting him into the cottage.

“The witchling is still sleepy,” Tersa said when he walked into the kitchen. “But boys start the day early in order to do all their boy things.”

On another day, it would have been interesting to find out what Tersa considered “boy things,” but one of them needed to stay focused, and it had to be him.

Her mind had shattered centuries ago, but Tersa was still brilliant in her own way, still powerful in her own way. She had given up sanity in order to regain the Hourglass’s Craft and could draw power out of madness in ways that even Saetan didn’t understand.

Lucivar loved her. It was that simple. He had begun these twice-monthly visits for the same reason he had visited his own mother, Luthvian—as a family duty. But unlike Luthvian, who had hated her son because of the heritage she had given him, Tersa had accepted the wings and the fact that he was an Eyrien warrior down to the very marrow of his bones. She didn’t criticize him for what he was—or for what he wasn’t. She didn’t lash out at him physically or verbally. He could sit in her kitchen and enjoy her company, and she seemed to enjoy his.

He should have told Daemon about the visits. Maybe not when Daemon had first arrived in Kaeleer, since Sadi had had enough things to deal with, but he should have said something soon after, instead of having that nugget of information come out a few weeks ago while they were dealing with that damned spooky house that had been built to trap, and kill, some of their family. He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t said anything. Maybe because he’d been afraid he would be asked to step aside? After all, Tersa was Daemon’s mother, not his, and when the real son was present, a surrogate wasn’t needed. Or maybe, like his father, he had gotten into the habit of not mentioning any relationship that would have given Luthvian an excuse to feel neglected or cast aside. Even now, when his mother was a whisper in the Darkness and truly gone, he had continued to keep his visits to Tersa private. Either way, by the time Daemon came to Kaeleer, the visits were a long-established habit that he didn’t discuss with anyone.

“Do you want food?” Tersa asked. “There are some scrambled eggs and toast left. The boy made them.”

In that case, he wasn’t going to refuse. No one made scrambled eggs better than Daemon—including his own darling hearth witch wife. Which was something he would never ever admit to anyone. Especially Marian.

Since Allista hadn’t joined them, he figured she had already eaten or would fend for herself, so he got a fork out of the drawer, hefted the bowl, leaned a hip against the counter, and began to eat.

“You should sit at the table,” Tersa said.

“I can eat just fine where I am.” She looked like she was about to scold, so he added casually, “Did you eat?”

“I ate.”

He caught the hesitation before she answered. She would have eaten something. Daemon wouldn’t have left if she hadn’t. But she still had the skinniness of someone who had been half-starved for too many years, and even now, when there was plenty of food, she sometimes became too distracted by something only she could see and forgot to eat.

So he never wasted an opportunity to feed her.

Scooping up another forkful of scrambled eggs, he held it in front of her. “Open up.”

Her mouth remained stubbornly shut.

He sighed—but his eyes never left her face and his hand remained steady. “Am I going to have to embarrass myself by making funny noises like I do with Daemonar?”

Her mouth fell open in surprise, and he slipped the fork in before she realized what he was doing.

She scowled at him. He grinned at her. And prudently ate a couple of forkfuls of egg himself before offering her another.

Tersa waved him off and got her own fork.

They polished off the eggs—and he made her work to claim the last bite—then he finished off the toast while enjoying a mug of coffee.

“Were you able to do it?” he asked as he rinsed off the dishes and set them in the sink.

Tersa frowned at him. “I was able to do it, but . . .”

Grinning, he wiped his hands on a towel. “Let’s see.”

Using Craft, she called in a small wooden frame and set it at one end of the kitchen table. The carefully constructed web attached to the frame held the illusion spell. She triggered the illusion spell, and they watched as a small black beetle appeared and headed for the other end of the table. It grew and grew with every step. When it got as big as his palm, it burst open with enough gore and green goo to delight a small Eyrien boy.

“You have the box?” Tersa asked.

He called in the long wood-and-glass box he’d had made to hold the illusion web and keep the entire illusion contained. He valued his skin—and his marriage—enough to make sure the bug remained in the box.

After she placed the illusion web into its part of the box, they watched the beetle once more. Lucivar grinned at the way the gore and goo splattered all over the inside of the glass before it all faded away. “Darling, this is perfect.”

Tersa looked uneasy. “Maybe I should ask your father.”

Not quite a statement, not quite a question. More a tentative testing of an idea.

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, not quite sure if he was troubled or intrigued by the words. “Why?”

“I made little surprises for my boys before, and it caused trouble. Almost hurt them. I don’t want to cause trouble for my boys. Your father will know what to do.” She nodded, as if she’d made a decision. “Yes. Your father will know.”

Lucivar vanished the box and decided this would be a good time to give her something else to think about—before she contacted his father.

Boys. My boys.

The ground shifted under his feet. His breath caught. He felt like he was riding a current that could be a very sweet wind or have a cutting edge.

“What boys, darling?” he asked.

“My boys.” She glanced at him, suddenly shy and hesitant.

Painfully sweet words, and a possibility he hadn’t considered about why Tersa had welcomed him from the first time he’d knocked on her cottage door.

“Am I one of your boys, Tersa?” he asked.

She was Daemon’s mother. She would have been around during the childhood years he couldn’t remember. She had known him as a child—and he must have known her. That hadn’t occurred to him before.

“The girl,” Tersa said hesitantly. “Luthvian. So angry because she wanted what couldn’t be. So angry because she wanted to deny what was.”

She reached out, not quite touching him, her eyes caressing the very thing his own mother had always pretended not to see.

“Sails to the moon,” she said softly. “Banners unfurled in the sun. She was always so angry about something as natural as an arm or a leg. Such a foolish reason to hate a child.”

“Tersa?”

Her eyes had that unfocused look. She was no longer seeing the room she stood in, wouldn’t know where she was physically if he asked. She was looking at a memory seventeen hundred years in the past. Seeing Luthvian. Seeing him when he was Daemonar’s age. Maybe even younger.

“She wanted the boy, but did not want the boy to be the boy,” Tersa said. “But what else could he be? Cuddles and hugs. Their father’s love is strong, and they need him, but they want softer love too. Cuddles and hugs. And little surprises.” She smiled. “They pick flowers in the meadow. The boy brings his flowers to me. I tell him the names of the ones I remember as we arrange them in a vase. His father tells him the rest. Tells both boys. But the girl doesn’t want flowers from the meadow. That is too simple, too Eyrien. She will not take the flowers, so the winged boy brings them to me. There is so much fire in his heart, so much laughter. And trouble. That gleam in his eyes. Oh, yes, he is trouble. But there is no meanness. He is a boy. He will be a strong man. She will not look, will not see. So he comes to me for cuddles and hugs and little surprises.”

Tears stung Lucivar’s eyes. He blinked them away. Swallowed them with his heart.

He took a step closer, touched her shoulder with his fingertips. “Tersa? Am I one of your boys?”

She looked at him, her eyes full of uncertainty. But she nodded. “My winged boy.”

He took her in his arms and held her gently as he finally understood why spending time with her mattered so much to him. He hadn’t remembered those early years of his childhood; he hadn’t remembered her. But his heart had recognized her and knew what she had been for him.

“Thank you,” he whispered into her tangled hair. “Thank you.” He added silently, Mother.

Jaenelle leaned back from the breakfast table and stared at the object in front of her. “It’s a mousie in a glass dome.”

“Yes.” Daemon smiled at the illusion he’d talked Tersa into making for him.

“It’s a mousie wearing the formal dress of a court official.”

“Yes.”

“And you intend to give this to Lucivar? The Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih? The man who has said that the only reason for paperwork is to have something to wipe your ass with after taking a crap?”

“Oh, yes.”

As they watched, the mousie began squeaking emphatically while gesturing with one paw and waving a scroll held in the other. Of course, the squeaking could barely be heard through the glass dome, but the tone was still clear. Especially when the mousie began jumping up and down in a tantrum.

“He’s capable of leaving this out on the desk without a sight shield so that court officials see it,” Jaenelle said. “You know he’s capable of doing that.”

“I know. But I figure having this just might keep him from strangling some pompous ass from a Queen’s court.”

Jaenelle pursed her lips and studied the mousie. Then she sighed. “You have a point. There have been a few times when he’s come too close to strangling a pompous ass.”

“All the more reason to give him something to laugh about.” Daemon kissed the top of her head and reached for the glass dome. “I’m heading up to the Keep to show this to Father, so I’ll—”

“You can’t go today.”

He stopped, his hand frozen over the dome. “I can’t?”

“Daemon. You have to help me get ready. This will be our first Winsol when we’re officially hosting the family. You can’t just shrug off the details.”

Sure, he could.

“Marian is coming later in the week to help out,” Jaenelle continued. “And Winsol begins next week. We have to go over the lists.”

“Lists?”

His wife stiffened. Then she turned in her chair and looked at him.

The bones in his legs turned to jelly—and not in a good she’s-looking-for-hot-sex kind of way.

“I’ll be in my study,” he said meekly.

“Good,” Jaenelle replied sweetly. “I’ll join you there after I finish breakfast. I hope you didn’t have anything scheduled for this morning.”

Hell’s fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful.

“Only my Lady’s pleasure,” he said.

Jaenelle reached up and tugged on his jacket. Obeying the unspoken command, he leaned over and touched his lips to hers.

“Your tone lacks sincerity, Prince,” Jaenelle said. “But since this is your first Winsol as a husband, you’re forgiven.”

Then she kissed him—and he hoped she would have reason to forgive him for a lot of things over the next few days.

TWO

Prince Sadi,

Your presence is requested at your mother’s cottage. Please join me

there after dinner.

SaDiablo

Daemon banged once on the cottage’s front door. It couldn’t be too serious, since he hadn’t been asked to respond immediately. But a command like this from his father was unusual—and “your presence is requested” was a phrase in Protocol that amounted to a command.

And just because it wasn’t “too serious” didn’t mean it wasn’t serious.

Hell’s fire! What could have happened since his visit yesterday morning that required the High Lord to come to Halaway? And why hadn’t he been told about it before Saetan had arrived?

He banged on the door again, then opened it himself, almost clobbering Allista, who had been hurrying to reach it.

“Where?” he snapped, too worried about why he’d been summoned to be polite.

“The parlor,” she replied.

He opened the parlor door—and froze.

His father sat in one of the chairs by the fire, his legs crossed at the knees, his fingers steepled, and the black-tinted nails of his forefingers resting against his chin. His mother stood in front of the other chair, twisting her fingers and looking anxious.

The room looked wrong. He kept his eyes on his father, but he knew the room looked wrong. Then he realized why. He didn’t have an actual memory of the situation, but he was certain that the last time he’d seen his parents positioned like this, he had been much, much younger and much, much shorter.

“Come in, Prince. Sit down,” Saetan said. He looked at Tersa. “Darling, could you bring in some coffee?”

Tersa nodded. “And nutcakes. Boys need something sweet after a scolding.” She gave Daemon a distracted smile as she scurried past him.

Scolding? he thought as his heart settled back to a regular beat and his mind adjusted to the fact that his mother wasn’t hurt or ill. Oh, no. There is not going to be a scolding.

He looked his father in the eyes and said, “I’m an adult.”

Saetan met his look with steely calm. “When you walk out that door, you’re an adult. Right here, right now, you’re a son. Sit.”

He sat. It was humiliating that his body had obeyed that voice before his brain made a decision.

Saetan took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Your mother is concerned about her boys.”

“We didn’t do anything.”

Where in the name of Hell had those words come from? And why had there been a flash of amused panic in Saetan’s eyes before the High Lord regained that steely calm?

“When you and Lucivar were little boys and one of you said that to me, I knew we had something to talk about,” Saetan said. “And we would sit for as long as it took to discuss it.”

Meaning for as long as it took the boy to start squirming beneath the weight of that stare and blurt out whatever it was he had done.

And damn it, that stare still worked.

“It’s nothing,” Daemon said.

“Tersa didn’t summon me here for ‘nothing.’ ”

Daemon considered the alternatives. There were none. Reminding himself that he’d intended to show the gift to Saetan anyway, he called in the globe and set it on the table next to the chair. As the mousie went through its routine, he watched the fingers that had been resting on Saetan’s chin creep up until they were pressed hard between the High Lord’s eyes.

When the spell finished with the mousie squaring its little shoulders, ready to begin again, Saetan lowered his hands and said in a strangled voice, “You’re going to give this to your brother?”

“Yes.”

“I see.” Saetan shook his head and sighed.

Daemon heard the chuckle under the sigh and felt woozy relief wash through him.

“Put that away,” Saetan said, pointing at the globe.

He did, with alacrity.

“You came because of this?” Daemon glanced at the still-closed parlor door. Was Tersa waiting for some kind of signal before coming back into the room?

“Because of what happened in the spooky house, your mother was concerned about making surprises for her boys and wanted my opinion.”

“Boys?” Daemon asked as the significance of the word sank in.

A flood of . . . Not memories. Not exactly. More like he was riding a wave of remembered feelings.

“We were hers when we were young, weren’t we?” Daemon said slowly. “Both of us.”

“Luthvian birthed Lucivar, but Tersa was the one who loved him.” Saetan looked at the fire burning in the hearth. “That was fitting in a way. If Tersa hadn’t insisted that I see Luthvian through her Virgin Night, Lucivar wouldn’t exist. She had as much to do with that conception as the two people who were in the bed that night. So in a very real sense, he is her winged boy.”

Daemon stared at the carpet, trying to sort through feelings that were more elusive than memories. Trying to sort through the tangle of his bond with Lucivar. They had loved each other, hated each other, fought with each other, and fought for each other. There were things he might have done—and things he wouldn’t have done—if Lucivar hadn’t existed, but none of those things would have been worth the price of not having a brother. Especially this brother.

An aftertaste of bitterness filled him. He looked up to find his father watching him.

“Since Tersa was willing to take the cast-off boy, I’m surprised Luthvian . . .” He trailed off.

“The way your mother is now is about how she was then,” Saetan said softly. “Walking the roads of dreams and visions, yes, but not walking so deeply in the Twisted Kingdom that she couldn’t find the borders of sanity. If Tersa could have been persuaded to trade, Luthvian would have taken you in a heartbeat, because even then you were everything she wanted—and everything your brother wasn’t.”

Daemon stiffened, and the air chilled in response to his temper.

Saetan smiled. “Same response, all these centuries later.”

“She didn’t try to talk Tersa into trading?” The word choked him, sounding too much like the years of slavery that would never be forgotten.

“Luthvian didn’t like your brother, so you didn’t like her. Hell’s fire, Daemon. Sometimes you took my breath away when Luthvian tried to coax you into doing something with her. Just you and her. You were barely old enough to string words together in a complete sentence, and you were still so coldly and cuttingly polite there was no doubt how you felt about her.”

Good.

Saetan studied him. “Being Warlord Princes, the two of you are bound to feel territorial about anyone who matters to you, and subtle challenges and bristling are not unexpected when those territories overlap, especially when the individuals are still getting used to sharing. But for Tersa’s sake, I need to know if it’s more than that. So I want an answer to a question: Do you have a problem with Lucivar spending time with your mother?”

“Our mother.” The moment Daemon said the words, something in him settled. Things that were the most precious, the most important, were shared cautiously, if at all. Their years of slavery had taught him and Lucivar that hard lesson. Sooner or later, Lucivar would have told him about visiting Tersa. Of that he was certain. “Tersa is our mother.”

“Fine, then. We’ll all have coffee and nutcakes, and I’ll reassure Tersa that making these little Winsol surprises won’t get her boys into too much trouble.”

“Wait.” Daemon held up a hand. “What did Lucivar ask her to make? Aren’t you going to tell me?”

His father just looked at him—and laughed.

THREE

After giving the door to the butler’s pantry a perfunctory knock, Daemon walked into the room and wasn’t sure who was more flustered—himself or Beale.

Good manners dictated that he walk out of the room as if he’d seen nothing. Curiosity had him closing the door and asking, “Are the acoustics good in this room?”

Beale lowered the flute and said, “It’s a private place to practice.”

There was enough emphasis and bite to the word “private” to tell Daemon that if he’d been a boy instead of a grown man—regardless of being the High Lord’s son—he would have been booted out the door, and that boot would have had the strength of Beale’s leg behind it.

“Beale . . .” Daemon looked around the pantry. Two rolltop desks, side by side, shelves of the best silver, the bottles of wine that were anticipated to be needed for the next few days.

Hell’s fire, the Hall had at least one music room. Why was the man hiding out here to practice?

“I suppose this is a practical place to practice whenever you have a few minutes between your duties,” Daemon said, feeling a sudden need to choose his words with care. In no way did he want to imply that Beale might be shirking his duties. “But surely you have some free time in the evenings, even with all the preparations needed because the Lady and I will have a more demanding social calendar than usual.”

Beale gave him a measuring look. Daemon wasn’t sure against what standard he was being measured—and he was even less sure that he measured up to that standard.

At last Beale said, “We do have free time, even with the increased activity at the Hall. The High Lord always insisted that everyone working here have some time for their own lives. Since there are so many who work at the Hall, and so many who reside here as well, we are our own community and have our own entertainments. Several people play musical instruments, so we have a musical evening each week and give a performance once a season. Those who enjoy reading have literary discussions. There are also weekly card games. Since the Hall allows several beginning positions to be used as a training ground for Blood who have chosen to work in domestic service, such activities provide the younger staff with opportunities to enjoy society without needing to go to the village. And because the rules at the Hall are so strict—and strictly kept—the penalties for mistakes while playing cards are not so great.”

“Like a youngster gambling away all his wages,” Daemon said.

“Exactly.”

Feeling awkward, Daemon looked away. “I’ve owned the Hall for a year now. Should I have known about this?”

Beale laid the flute in its case. “Taking care of the interests of the SaDiablo family is not a small task, Prince. Neither is taking care of Dhemlan. And you’ve also had the equally demanding—and more important—task of helping the Lady regain her health. I don’t think last Winsol you were able to think much beyond those things.”

Astute assessment, Daemon thought, nodding.

“This year the Lady is well and you’ve settled into the routine of ruling Dhemlan, so your own view of the world can now widen.”

He started to agree. Then he noticed a look in Beale’s eyes and rocked back on his heels to reassess all the information he’d been given during this little chat.

“So what duties am I ready to assume?” he asked warily.

Beale smiled. “The servants’ Winsol party is held on the first evening of Winsol. There is dancing later, but the evening begins with a short musical program. The High Lord and the Lady would join us for that part of the evening before going on to their own engagement. And they would sing one of the traditional Dhemlan songs for Winsol, a lovely one about the warmth of family on the darkest night. Last year, the High Lord came down and sang it for us.”

“Is the Lady coming down this year to sing it for you?” Daemon asked.

“Yes, she’s already said she would.”

He nodded. His singing voice wouldn’t hold up to professional standards, but he could carry a tune and read music, so he did well enough for at-home entertainment. “Do you have the music?”

“I do.” Beale opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a small stack of sheet music. “The top one is the Dhemlan song. The next one is a song the Lady and the High Lord used to sing for guests. It is in the Old Tongue.”

Daemon groaned. The Old Tongue was a liquid kind of language, beautiful to hear and damned difficult to learn.

“Perhaps if you learned the music, you could accompany one of them?” Beale suggested.

“That would be better.” Much better. “Thanks for the music.” Daemon opened the door, ready to retreat.

“You’re quite welcome, Prince.”

Having a suspicious feeling that his list of things to do before Winsol had lengthened more than he thought, Daemon hurried toward his study—and stopped short when he saw Lord Marcus, his man of business, handing a coat and hat to Holt, the footman on duty in the great hall.

“Did we have an appointment?” Daemon asked.

“Not exactly,” Marcus said. “I came in the hopes you could spare an hour or two for me to review some things.”

An hour or two. Mother Night.

“Of course,” Daemon said. “Holt? Please ask Mrs. Beale for a tray of coffee.”

“There’s some fresh baking,” Holt said. “I’ll ask if she’ll add a bit to the tray.”

“Thank you.” He’d been lured to that part of the Hall because he’d passed a stairway and caught some delicious scents rising up from the kitchen. But when he got to the doorway and heard Mrs. Beale snarl about “them who try to snitch the treats before the pans were cool,” he decided he liked his balls better than nutcakes. Realizing he needed some excuse if his presence near the kitchen was discovered, he had ended up in the butler’s pantry—and now had his musical assignment for the festivities.

Which made him wonder if the scents coming up from the kitchen had been a Craft-enhanced lure. And damn it, he’d swallowed the bait without getting a taste of anything else.

“Have you come to add to my list of things to do?” Daemon asked as he led Marcus into his study and settled into one of the chairs on the informal side of the room.

“Afraid so.” Marcus set a bulging leather case near his feet. “I was informed, discreetly, by both Beale and Helton that the bonuses traditionally given at Winsol are usually distributed on the first evening so that the servants who are spending a few days with their families at the beginning of the holiday have some extra spending money.”

“I see.” He’d presented the envelopes on Winsol Day last year, and no one had said anything to him. Apparently this was another part of his duties he was ready to assume in the correct way. “All right. Do you have the lists of people working at each SaDiablo residence or estate?”

“I have them.” Marcus hesitated. “May I make a suggestion?”

“This seems to be the day for them,” Daemon said dryly. “Go ahead.”

“You should hire a secretary.”

“Feeling overworked, Marcus?”

“A bit, but that’s not the point. I take care of your investments and check on the property you personally own here in Kaeleer, and you have the firm that worked with your father looking after the rest of the investments for the SaDiablo family, but I think you need someone who can help you take care of day-to-day business. Someone with sufficient rank and polish to be your representative at the SaDiablo estates or at a Queen’s court. The High Lord, I believe, had your elder brother, Mephis, working in that capacity. You should consider hiring someone for the position.”

Daemon almost dismissed the idea out of hand. Then he realized he already had someone working for him who would fit the criteria—if Prince Rainier was willing to take on that kind of work.

“I’ll think about it.”

Marcus looked surprised and pleased—until they heard the jingling and howling outside the study door. Then he looked like he’d swallowed something sour.

“Is there something else I should be aware of?” Daemon asked.

Marcus shook his head and wouldn’t meet his eyes.

Concerned now, he pushed. “Your wife and daughter? They’re well?”

“Yes.” Marcus glanced at the study door and winced.

Daemon weighed what he knew about Marcus’s girl against what was outside the study door and asked innocently, “Have you finished your shopping for Winsol? Gotten all your gifts?”

Marcus shifted uncomfortably. “My daughter wants a puppy, but we haven’t decided on the breed—or if we’re going to get one at all,” he added hurriedly.

Fortunately, Holt brought in the tray of coffee and baked goods. Daemon focused his attention on the tray and hoped his expression would be mistaken for eagerness to indulge in the treats.

“You’ll be coming by again before Winsol Night, won’t you?” he asked, working to keep his voice neutral. “Why don’t you bring your daughter with you the next time?”

Apparently he hadn’t kept his voice neutral enough, because Marcus’s hand froze over the plate and he looked up, alarmed.

“No,” Marcus said. “She’s been hinting that she’d like to have a kindred Sceltie live with us, but I don’t need a bundle of fur that could end up being the highest-ranking member of the household.”

Considering the Sceltie pups who were still in residence, that was a distinct possibility.

“Think of the advantages of having a playmate who could also be a good protector,” Daemon soothed. “And I would consider it a personal favor if you brought her with you to look at the pups. Consider it a gift from you to me. Besides, just because your daughter sees the puppies doesn’t mean she’ll take to any of them.” Or that any of them will take to her.

Marcus said words that were not in keeping with the spirit of the season. Then he ate two fruit tarts and a nutcake, wiped his hands on a napkin, and opened his leather case, a clear indication that they were changing the subject.

They worked steadily through the lists of people employed by the SaDiablo family, with Daemon mostly confirming the amount Marcus suggested for each bonus. Neither said a word when Daemon doubled the amount of Marcus’s bonus. After all, at this time of year, it would be rude to call a bribe a bribe.

Marcus sighed as he put all the papers back in his leather case. “I’ll send on the packets to the other houses, and bring the packet for the Hall myself.”

“And you’ll bring your daughter?”

“I’ll bring her.” Marcus sighed again. “You drive a hard bargain, Prince.”

Daemon smiled. “It could have been worse, Marcus.”

“How?”

“She could have asked for a cat.”

FOUR

“Come in,” Daemon said, glancing up from the paperwork on his desk as the study door opened. Leaning back, he crossed his legs at the knees and steepled his fingers, resting two of his long black-tinted nails against his chin as he watched Rainier limp to the visitor’s chair and sit down with exaggerated care.

That autumn Rainier and Surreal SaDiablo, along with seven landen children, had been caught in a trap meant to kill members of the SaDiablo family.

The spooky house. Daemon still wasn’t sure whether it was arrogance or a kind of madness that had led a writer who had discovered his Blood heritage to try a pissing contest with the darkest-Jeweled Blood in the Realm. Realizing how close they’d all come to being caught in that trap had been a sobering lesson. If Lucivar hadn’t been an Eyrien warrior backed by the strength of his Ebon-gray Jewels, Surreal and Rainier wouldn’t have gotten out of that damn house. As it was, three of the children were killed, not to mention all the other people who had been killed so that they would be the predators in the game. Surreal had been wounded, and the poison still hadn’t worked its way out of her body completely. And Rainier . . .

He was a dancer, Daemon thought sadly. Then he added, Everything has a price.

“How’s the leg?” Daemon asked, even though anyone could see the healing wasn’t going the way it should. Hell’s fire, Rainier had been walking better a few weeks ago when he’d joined them for a viewing of Jaenelle and Marian’s spooky house, an entertainment for children that had been one of the reasons Jarvis Jenkell had created a deadly version of the place.

Rainier shrugged, but his face was pale and strained despite his effort to smile, and there was a fear in his green eyes that he couldn’t quite hide. “Some days it’s better than others. I wanted your opinion of something.”

Trying to change the subject, boyo? All right, I’ll let you lead this dance. For the moment.

Using Craft, Rainier called in a rectangular box and floated it over to the desk, placing it directly in front of Daemon.

Jewelry box, Daemon decided, leaning forward to study the flowers and leaves carved into the top. The box itself was excellent in craftsmanship and sufficient as a Winsol gift, so when he opened the lid, he whistled softly.

A gold metalwork gauntlet. Delicate-looking, if you ignored the talons on the ends of the articulated fingers. A weapon disguised as a pretty.

“It’s a Winsol gift for Surreal,” Rainier said. “Do you think she’ll like it?”

“It’s beautiful and deadly,” Daemon replied. “She’ll love it.” He closed the box and returned it to Rainier before offering the man a brandy.

Something was wrong here. Very wrong.

Rainier had been a dance instructor for years. Hell’s fire, he’d been Jaenelle’s dance instructor—a young Warlord Prince who had been able to hold his own with Jaenelle and the coven of young Queens who had been her closest friends.

Now Rainier worked for him, and he paid the man a generous salary. But he recognized Banard’s work. The jeweler made some pieces that wouldn’t beggar an ordinary man’s pocket for a year, but that custom-made gauntlet wasn’t one of them.

What was Rainier trying to prove?

“What are your plans for Winsol?” Daemon asked.

“I’m going to Dharo to spend some time with my family,” Rainier replied, his smile looking sicker than before.

Why? Daemon wondered. They usually prefer that you keep your distance. Hadn’t Rainier made a family visit a few weeks ago? Right around the time when something began to go wrong with the healing of his leg?

“Unless there’s something you need from me,” Rainier added.

“No, I don’t—” A thought occurred to him, and he didn’t think he’d get an honest answer without inflicting some pain. So he would inflict the pain.

“It’s come to my attention that there is a traditional Winsol dance. It would be prudent for me to learn it.”

“Don’t look to me to teach you,” Rainier said. “I’m crippled.”

At least he didn’t have to dig for the bitterness festering inside the other Warlord Prince.

“And who do you blame for that, Rainier?” Daemon asked too softly, leaning back and steepling his fingers again.

“I don’t blame anyone,” Rainier snapped. “It happened.”

“Yes, it happened, because you did what you were supposed to do—defend and protect.”

“Not well enough. Three children died and Surreal got poisoned. I didn’t protect them well enough, and I lost . . .” He swallowed, obviously fighting not to say more. “I was a dancer. It’s all I’ve ever been. All I wanted to be. I’ll never be that again.”

“Are you sure?” Daemon asked.

“Yes, I’m sure!”

Daemon hesitated, but it had to be said. “Everything has a price, Prince Rainier. An escort’s life is always on the line.”

“I know that.”

“Do you? You were wounded in battle. It doesn’t matter what the battleground looked like; that’s the truth of it. You’re not the first man who’s had to rebuild his life because of battle scars. You won’t be the last.” Knowing that he wasn’t getting through to the man, Daemon unleashed some of his own frustration. “You could have lost your leg instead of losing some mobility. Hell’s fire, Rainier, you could have died in that place.”

“Maybe it would have been better if I had,” Rainier said softly.

Daemon felt his temper rise from the depth of his Black Jewel—sweet, cold, and deadly. Rainier wasn’t stupid. He knew who would be waiting for him if he got maudlin enough to commit suicide. The boy thought he had troubles now? Wait until Saetan got done explaining things to the fool—especially a fool who had helped himself become demon-dead sooner than he should have.

But it might explain Rainier buying a gift he really couldn’t afford. And Lucivar needed to be aware of that possibility.

“What’s the state of your finances?” Daemon asked.

Rainier blinked. Then color stained his cheeks. “Frankly, Prince Sadi, that’s none of your business.”

“I just made it my business. Do you want to find out how fast I can acquire every scrap of private information about you, or are you going to answer the question?”

Rainier squirmed. “I’m doing all right. I have some savings.”

“Your salary will continue, paid quarterly as usual,” Daemon said.

“For what?” Rainier let out a pained laugh. “There’s not much I can do.”

“I have some thoughts about that, but right now you can make some effort to heal.” Daemon put enough ice in his voice to have Rainier’s eyes fill with wariness. “I’ll take care of the rent on your apartment in Amdarh, as well as any other necessary expenses like food.”

“I don’t need your charity, and I don’t want your pity,” Rainier snapped.

“You’re not getting either, so shut up.” But it was becoming clear that someone was giving Rainier heavy doses of both, and those things could become more crippling than a damaged leg.

Daemon huffed out a sigh. “You’re going to have to come to terms with what you can do physically and what you can’t. I can’t help you with that, but I can make things easier for a while so that you can concentrate on healing. You’re a good Warlord Prince, Rainier, and a good escort. Too good to lose because you’re having trouble finding your balance.”

Another pained laugh. “That’s a good way of putting it.”

“After Winsol, you’ll be spending a few weeks in Ebon Rih with Lucivar.” And may the Darkness have mercy on you. “So I suggest you visit your family in Dharo and enjoy the festivities.”

“Am I dismissed?” Rainier asked, his voice a shade too polite.

“Yes, you’re dismissed. Happy Winsol, Rainier.”

Rainier pushed himself to his feet, then leaned on the cane. “Happy Winsol, Prince.”

Daemon suspected that he and Rainier were both wishing each other a lot of things at that moment, and “happy” wasn’t one of them.

He waited until he was sure he’d given Rainier enough time to leave the Hall. Then he left his study—and didn’t have to go far, since Beale was waiting for him.

“Lady Karla requests your presence,” Beale said.

He’d known when the Queen of Glacia had arrived. It was hard to miss that particular psychic scent—and hard to miss the presence of a Gray-Jeweled witch in his home.

“She’s waiting for you in her suite,” Beale added.

“And Lady Angelline?”

“The Lady has gone to the Keep. She intends to be back in time for dinner, but said if she was late, you should start without her.”

Not likely, but he didn’t need to say it, since it was already understood by the household staff.

Daemon made his way through the Hall’s corridors to the section that held the family’s suites of rooms. When Jaenelle was fifteen, the coven came to spend a summer, reuniting with the special friend they thought had been lost. The coven—and the boyos who also came for that afternoon tea and never quite went home again—had been given suites. Even now, when those Ladies were the Queens of their own Territories, those suites were still theirs, a second home and a place where they still gathered as friends and Sisters.

Karla’s suite looked out over Jaenelle’s courtyard. He knocked on Karla’s door and didn’t get an answer. His hand hovered over the door’s handle, but he tried another approach before reacting as if something was wrong.

*Karla?* he called on a psychic thread.

*Come on through,* she replied. *I’m down in the courtyard.*

He entered her sitting room and hurried to the glass doors that led out to the balcony. He paused then, reassured when he saw her standing near the drained fountain, her face raised to the sun. Moving more leisurely, he went down the nearest set of stairs and joined her.

“Kiss kiss,” Karla said, giving him a wicked smile.

Raising the hand she offered, he kissed her knuckles.

“Darling, isn’t it a bit cold out here?” he asked.

“Your blood must be thin if you think this is cold. Which you wouldn’t notice as much if you put on a coat.”

At least he had put a shield on his shoes to keep his feet dry and protect the leather.

She linked her arm in his and sighed. “Glacia’s winter has too much bite for me a lot of days, so I wanted to take advantage of spending a little time outside in softer weather.”

“Meaning a little snow on the ground and air that doesn’t freeze your lungs?” Daemon asked dryly.

“Exactly.”

He felt her shiver and led her to the stairs. “Enough.”

“Bossy.”

“Protective.”

“Bossy.”

He bared his teeth and said, “Kiss kiss,” which made her laugh.

He didn’t know if it was proof of Beale’s uncanny timing or if Karla had made the request earlier, but they entered the sitting room moments before Holt brought a tray of coffee and pastries.

“You look good,” Daemon told her as he poured coffee for both of them.

And she did, despite her face having thinned and aged a decade more than her years. Whether that aging was due to the task of ruling Glacia or a result of the poisoning she’d survived two years ago, he couldn’t tell.

“Flattery will not get you the last nutcake,” Karla said, taking the cup he offered. “I do feel good most of the time. Oh, my legs feel the weather, so there are uncomfortable days, but unlike people whose brains are attached to their penises, I’ve actually done what I was told to do in order to get better and keep my legs as healthy as they can be.”

Shit. “So this isn’t a social call?”

“Jaenelle asked me to come and look at Rainier. Provide a second opinion as a Healer.”

Daemon stiffened. “Jaenelle asked for a second opinion?”

“Tells you something is wrong, doesn’t it?” Karla sipped her coffee. “Doesn’t matter what Jewels she wears; Jaenelle is the most brilliant Healer in the entire Realm. If she can’t heal something, it can’t be healed. I’m testimony to what she can do. I shouldn’t have survived that brew of poisons I was given when my uncle Hobart tried to regain control of Glacia. And having survived, I shouldn’t be as healthy as I am.”

“Do you . . .” Daemon swallowed some coffee to wet a suddenly dry throat. “Do you sometimes wish she’d let you die? You wouldn’t be walking with a cane, wouldn’t have weak legs, if you’d made the transition to demon-dead.”

“That’s your cock talking,” Karla said.

“It is n—” He stopped. Thought. “Rainier.”

“Yes. Rainier.”

He set his cup down on the table in front of the sofa. “He won’t come all the way back, will he?”

“No, his leg will never be what it was. It will never support him the way it did before that Eyrien war blade cut through all that muscle and half the bone. If he’d gone down and stayed down, any of us—Gabrielle, me, Jaenelle—could have healed him and brought him almost all the way back. Maybe so close to all the way back he could do whatever he wanted to on that leg as long as he gave it some care. But he slapped shields around his leg and kept fighting.”

“He did what he had to do.”

“I know. But that leg will never be the same because of it, and he knows that.”

“Does he?”

“Yes, he does. He’s fighting it, Daemon. I don’t know what he’s doing or why, but I can see the results. Jaenelle has had to rebuild that bone and muscle so many times, there is almost nothing left to work with. Something is riding him, and riding him hard, but if he doesn’t stop damaging that leg, he really will be crippled.”

“He’s not a fool,” Daemon said.

“No,” Karla said quietly. “He’s scared. That’s worse.”

“Anything I can do?”

She shook her head. “No, there’s nothing you can do. And there is nothing I can do that Jaenelle hasn’t done.”

“Maybe having a leg so damaged there is no possible way to dance is easier for him than a leg that is almost whole but not whole enough.”

“Maybe, but I wouldn’t have thought Rainier was that much of an ass.” Karla selected a pastry. “Is he still going for this extra training with Lucivar?”

“He’s going. And he’s already been told if he doesn’t show up on his own, Lucivar will hunt him down and drag him all the way to Ebon Rih.”

“Well, then. I’m sure things will get sorted out—one way or another.”

Since he could imagine how things would get sorted out if Rainier started a pissing contest with Lucivar, he changed the subject. “How is Della? Is she excited about Winsol?”

Karla laughed. “She’s more excited that I’ve agreed to let her start learning basic healing.”

Daemon took a nutcake. “Training doesn’t usually start so early, does it? She’s still a girl.” A girl who had lost her mother when her entire village had been slaughtered by Eyriens working for Dorothea and Hekatah SaDiablo. A girl who had been rescued by Arcerian cats and spent months with them, living wild, before being adopted by Karla.

“She’s not a natural Healer—wasn’t born to that caste—but she has good instincts and a keen interest. She wants to specialize in healing kindred.”

He tried to keep a straight face—and couldn’t. “Does she practice her bedside manner on KaeAskavi?”

“Every chance she gets. Which is another reason I’m here today. If you want to know about kindred, you ask Jaenelle. Of course, Della and KaeAskavi are only together these days when we’re at the country house. The house in Sidra is too frustrating for him.”

“City streets would be hard for a cat that size.”

“Oh, it isn’t the confined space,” Karla said, a wicked twinkle in her glacier blue eyes. “It’s the frustration of having all that prey wandering around and not being allowed to catch and eat any of it.”

“We’re talking about horses, right?”

“You know better than that.”

Mother Night.

“So,” Karla said, “we have a plate of goodies and a pot of coffee, and I have another hour to visit before I have to be heading back home. Why don’t you tell me all the things you don’t want the coven to know?”

Since he’d rather chew off his own hand than get backed into that particular corner, he took the easy way out—he put the nutcake back on the plate and gave her all of the goodies.

“Coward,” Karla said.

“Damn right.”

She laughed. “Even if you are a cock, you’re all right, Sadi.” She held out the plate. “Here. We’ll share. No gossip required.”

“Why do you need to go back so soon? Glacia is on the other side of the Realm, and that’s a long way to come to spend so little time here. You and Jaenelle haven’t had an evening together in quite a while.” Putting a touch of persuasion and a hint of seduction in his voice, he purred, “Stay. You can head back early in the morning. I’ll arrange for a driver and Coach so you can work or nap on the way home. Stay.”

She blinked at him. Then blinked again. “Hell’s fire, you’re good. I could feel my bones starting to melt.”

He smiled at her and let the spells fade.

“I had said I might stay over,” Karla said. “But I didn’t want to make it a certainty.”

“Are you worried about Della being home alone?” Would any of the Blood who had supported Karla’s uncle and survived the fighting two years ago try to hurt the girl?

“Yes, but not for the reasons you may be thinking. You’ve got that look in your eyes, Sadi. The ‘I’m ready to bristle and attack—where’s the enemy?’ look.”

“So what is the concern?” he asked too softly. Because she was right—he wouldn’t think twice about going to Glacia and eliminating any problems that might be plaguing Karla or a young girl.

“Prince Hagen, my Master of the Guard, likes children but has none of his own. So Della has found a surrogate father and he has found a daughter.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“Rules have a way of getting . . . lost . . . when I’m gone for more than a day. It’s the most amazing thing. No one can remember why vegetables are supposed to be part of a meal. No one can tell time to figure out when a girl Della’s age should go to bed. On the other hand, the man can be so strict about other things, I’d swear he took lessons from Uncle Saetan.”

“So while Auntie Karla is away . . .”

“They’ll have a good time.” She sighed with too much drama. “Fine. I’ll stay.”

“And I’ll be more than happy to entertain you with gossip.” Just not about me. He took the nutcake. “Why did Jaenelle go to the Keep?”

Karla hesitated before answering. “I think she wanted a second opinion.”

“Witch-child.” Saetan leaned against the blackwood table in the Keep’s private library and crossed his arms. He hadn’t known what would cause it, but he’d known this day would come. And because he’d known, he tightened the leash on his temper a little more. It was almost Winsol. He didn’t want a fight to smear the celebrations.

But there was going to be a fight. He could read that truth in the way she moved and the look in her eyes.

“Should I start sorting books?” he asked.

She looked at the empty table and smiled as she shook her head.

It had been a useful ploy, pretending to sort old books while some member of his extended family eased into talking about whatever the trouble was. Useful until he’d discovered the coven knew it was a ploy and were pretending right along with him.

None of the boyos, including his own sons, had figured out the deception, which embarrassed him a little on behalf of his gender. On the other hand, with them it was still a useful tool.

“No, there’s no need to sort books,” Jaenelle said. She hesitated. “Papa, there’s something I want to ask you.”

“Subject?”

“Rainier.”

Not what he’d expected. He relaxed a little.

“He’s not healing the way he should.”

She grabbed her golden hair and pulled hard enough to make him wince.

“Maybe it’s because I can’t . . . because I’m not . . .”

“No,” he said softly, a clear enough warning to anyone who knew him. And Jaenelle, his daughter and Queen, knew him.

She lowered her hands and looked him in the eyes. “Maybe if I took back the power—”

“No.” Saetan straightened, then lowered his arms so that his fingers rested lightly along the edge of the table. “That part of your life is done.”

“I didn’t lose the Ebony like everyone thought. Maybe I can—”

“Damn you to the bowels of Hell, you will not do this.”

He saw the change in her and recognized the instant when it was Witch staring at him through Jaenelle’s sapphire eyes.

“You don’t know why things are different, High Lord,” Witch said in her midnight voice.

“Yes, I do, Lady. I went to Arachna. I met the Weaver of Dreams. I saw the tangled web that made dreams into flesh. And I saw that one slender strand of spider silk that changed the dream when she came back to us. There was another dreamer. You.”

She stepped back, wary now. “How long have you known?”

“A while now. Before you and Daemon married.” He paused, then added dryly, “Well, between the secret wedding and the public one, anyway. The point—and I hope you believe I will do what I say—is that my daughter has the life she wanted for herself, and taking back the Ebony would ruin that life.” And there was no certainty—none at all—that Jaenelle could still be a vessel for that much power, that taking back the Ebony wouldn’t kill her. “So you need to understand that I will fight my Queen into the ground in order to protect my daughter’s life. Witch-child, you never wanted that kind of power, so the only way you will take it back is by going through me. You’ll have to destroy me completely, because I will fight you with everything I am.”

Her face turned alarmingly pale. “You mean that.”

“Yes, I mean that. Everything has a price, Lady. That will be the price if you try to reclaim the Ebony.”

A heartbeat. Another. Then he was no longer facing Witch. It was Jaenelle studying him with haunted eyes.

“But . . . Rainier,” she said.

“I’ll remind you of a few things you’ve obviously forgotten.” His voice slipped into that tightly controlled scolding tone that could intimidate any child. Even this one. “When you were seventeen, you put Lucivar back together. Considering the condition he was in when Prothvar brought him to your cottage in Ebon Rih, he shouldn’t have survived at all. But you not only healed the broken bones and internal damage; you rebuilt his wings out of the few healthy scraps that were left.”

“I wore the Black then and had a reservoir of thirteen Jewels to tap,” Jaenelle said, her voice full of frustration. “And Lucivar was all-or-nothing. Systemic healing. He came out of it whole or he died.”

“The Black isn’t Ebony,” Saetan said. “You’ve never used Ebony for healing because it was too dark, too powerful. You used the Black.”

“Well, Twilight’s Dawn isn’t the Black,” she snapped.

“No, but there is a Black thread in your Jewel. Compared to a true Black, you’ve got a thimbleful of power at that level, but it’s there. You also have two Black-Jeweled Warlord Princes and an Ebon-gray Warlord Prince who would have given you whatever power you needed for a healing web. And if you’d needed that kind of strength to add to a healing brew, Daemon or Lucivar would have given you the blood. The power was available, witch-child. This has nothing to do with the Jewels you no longer wear.”

“Then why isn’t Rainier healing?” Jaenelle paced, circled—and began snarling in a way that made Saetan wish he could put a shield between them without insulting her. “He was healing. He was.”

“Could he dance again?”

“Yes!” She paused. Thought. “Not everything. Not the demanding dances he and I used to do sometimes as a special performance. His leg muscles will never be able to support that kind of demand. But all the social dances, yes. All the kinds of dances he taught.” She looked cold and bitter. “But he’s done enough damage to those muscles now that he won’t be able to do that.”

“Then whatever is wrong with Rainier has nothing, or little, to do with the healing itself,” Saetan said quietly. “I don’t think it’s his leg that needs to heal so much as his heart.”

He opened his arms. She stepped into the embrace and held on.

“Would you like some advice?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Let Lucivar deal with Rainier.”

She raised her head and narrowed her eyes. “Why?”

“Because I think Lucivar will be able to figure out the right motivation to help Rainier heal.”

“Lucivar will scare the shit out of him.”

“Precisely.”

She laughed and rested her head on his shoulder.

He savored the embrace. Since the day he’d met her—a seven-year-old girl who had walked through Hell without fear—he’d had to share her with so many others. Quiet moments when it was just the two of them had been rare, and he cherished every one.

“Papa?”

“Witch-child?”

“I won’t destroy the life your daughter dreamed of having.”

His breath caught. “Is that a promise?”

“Would you see a promise like that as a gift?”

“Yes, I would.”

She looked at him and smiled. “Then it’s a promise.”

FIVE

Surreal looked at the fat, fluffy, lazy flakes of snow, then at the fire in the sitting room’s hearth, and decided the fire had more appeal. Especially after she coughed and felt the burn in her lungs.

All right, she should have mentioned the burning sensation and continued shortness of breath weeks ago when Jaenelle was first healing the poisoned wound in her side. But she’d thought she’d shaken off the effects of the backlash spell that had trapped her and Rainier in that damn spooky house and that the shortness of breath was because of the poison.

You can take care of this now or you can flirt with pneumonia all winter, Jaenelle had told her.

She didn’t want to flirt with anything at the moment, and since the “cure” was drinking a healing brew three times a day, limiting her time outdoors when the air was bitter cold, and stopping physical activity before she became fatigued, she wasn’t about to argue.

Especially since she planned to have Jaenelle put those instructions in writing so she could wave them in front of Lucivar when she went to Ebon Rih after Winsol. She couldn’t get out of everything he had planned for her, but even Yaslana wouldn’t challenge Jaenelle as Healer.

Maybe she could take up knitting or something.

She tried to picture herself sitting on the sidelines making a badly knit blanket while everyone else was doing something interesting.

Maybe not.

A quick knock on the sitting room door announced Helton, the butler at the SaDiablo town house. Entering with a full tray, he said, “I’ve brought the hot water for your healing brew, and a piece of berry pie still warm from the oven.”

There was also a sandwich and a small plate of cheese and grapes. After all, it had been at least two hours since she’d eaten the broth he’d insisted she have to “warm her up” when she returned from shopping that morning.

Everything has a price, Surreal thought. And the price for not being completely well was having her butler fussing over her more than his duties would normally allow.

She settled on the sofa and called in a small hourglass timer and the glass jar that held the healing mixture. After filling a tea ball with the mixture, she put the ball in the pot of hot water and turned the timer.

Helton started to leave, then stopped, his head turned in a way that indicated he was talking to someone on a psychic thread.

“Prince Rainier is here,” he said.

“Send him in.” She glanced at the tray.

Helton studied the tray too. “I should bring in another serving.”

“Just another piece of berry pie.” Surreal bared her teeth in a smile that had Helton shifting a little closer to the door. “I’ll share the rest, but not the pie.”

A twitch of his lips. A twinkle in his eyes. “Very well, Lady.”

“Are you all right?” Rainier asked sharply as soon as Helton ushered him into the sitting room and closed the door.

Better than you are, boyo, Surreal thought as she watched Rainier limp to the chair nearest the sofa. “I’m all right.”

“The footman said he had to check and see if you were feeling up to seeing visitors today.” Rainier winced as he got himself settled.

“Should I ask Helton to bring in some coffee for you?” Surreal asked. “Or there’s brandy if you prefer.”

“What are you drinking?”

“Healing brew.” She watched the timer. Almost done.

“Then you’re not all right,” Rainier snapped.

She removed the tea ball and put it in the little bowl on the tray. She poured a cup of the brew and sat back—and wondered how much of the anger suddenly filling the room was on her behalf.

“Turns out my lungs are more vulnerable to cold weather because of that backlash spell. Or the backlash spell made them more vulnerable to the poison, which has made them more vulnerable to cold weather.” She shrugged. “So after Jaenelle got done snarling at me for not mentioning that my lungs still burned, she made up this brew, which I’m drinking three times a day for a few more days. Then it’s once a day for the rest of this winter.”

“You also fatigue easily, don’t you?” Rainier said. “That’s why there was a question about whether you wanted visitors.”

It was tempting to make light of all of this. After all, she was healing. But he had been in that house with her, and he deserved better than a light answer.

“Yes, I still fatigue easily. And it’s humiliating to admit, but I’ll need to take a nap this afternoon because I was out most of the morning shopping.”

“Does Lucivar know about this?” Rainier asked.

She grinned. “Not yet. But I’m going to make sure he does. In fact, I’m going to make sure everyone in the family knows I fatigue easily.”

“Why . . . ?” He thought for a moment, then huffed out a laugh. “Well, I guess he’ll back down a little bit if he knows he’ll get his ass chewed by Jaenelle every time you start wheezing.”

“I hope that will be enough incentive, but you can’t count on it with Lucivar.” She wasn’t looking forward to spending the winter months in Ebon Rih. For a lot of reasons.

She drank her brew, and they sat in companionable silence for a few minutes.

When she caught Rainier eyeing the piece of berry pie, she snarled, “Mine.”

“Greedy,” he muttered.

“I’ll share the sandwich, grapes, and cheese.”

His expression told her plain enough he didn’t consider that a fair exchange, but he perked up when Helton returned with another tray that was a duplicate of her own “tray of nibbles.”

Draining her cup and setting it aside, Surreal studied the tray—and sighed. “I guess I’ll eat myself into a stupor and let Helton roll me up to my room.”

“When you’re drinking healing brews, your body burns even more fuel,” Rainier said. “You actually do need that food.”

She looked at him, her unspoken question filling the room.

He held her eyes for a moment, trying to bluff. Then he looked away, snatched his plate off the tray, and began to eat.

“Leave it alone, Surreal,” he said after the silence became strained. “As a favor to a friend, leave it alone.”

For now. But she was going to have a chat with Jaenelle and find out how bad things really were with Rainier.

“So were you just out wandering today?” Surreal asked.

“Actually I stopped by to bring you this.” Rainier called in a wrapped package and handed it to her.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “You finished your shopping?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ve got all the damn presents wrapped? Hell’s fire. If I don’t have more luck finding things to buy—and how do you buy things for a family like mine?—I may be wrapping the presents moments before I hand them out.”

His smile was brittle. “I’m usually run off my feet just before Winsol and don’t have time to shop. There’s a traditional court dance that’s only performed during Winsol. There’s always a group of people who want to brush up on the steps—and there are the young men each year who figure out that males who know that dance get a lot more attention at the parties, and they want lessons.”

“You’ll teach them again next year.”

The brittle smile turned bitter, and he said nothing.

“So you’re delivering packages early because . . . ?”

“I’m going to spend Winsol with my family.”

“Why?”

A pained laugh. “Because they felt obliged to ask me, and this year I didn’t have the excuse of being too busy to come until the last days of Winsol.”

“You can still be too busy. I’ll get some paper. We’ll make a list.”

“Surreal.”

I don’t know how to fix this, Surreal thought, hurting for him. Does anyone know how to fix this pain that’s killing the heart of who and what he is?

“Well,” Rainier said, getting to his feet. “I’d best be on my way. I have some things to do before I head to Dharo.”

She met him at the sitting room door and hugged him.

“Happy Winsol, Surreal,” he said, his voice husky.

“Happy Winsol, Rainier,” she replied, wishing she could say something more.

SIX

The day before Winsol began, Daemon walked into a sitting room in the family wing of the Hall and stopped abruptly.

“Mother Night,” he said. “Where did you find such a magnificent—and perfect—evergreen tree?”

Jaenelle grinned at him. “It did turn out well, didn’t it?”

It dazzled his eyes and tugged at his heart. Little balls of color shone among the branches, which looked like they had been given a light dusting of gold on the tips of the evergreen needles. Crystal icicles hung from the branches. And the smell . . .

Daemon frowned and walked toward the tree, baffled. The evergreen scent should be filling the room.

He touched a branch. His fingers went right through it.

“If it fooled you, it will fool anyone,” Jaenelle said.

“It’s an illusion?” He tried to touch another branch, unwilling to believe.

“Yes. I made it. Marian and I decided to limit the number of trees that the family would cut down for Winsol.”

Lucivar and I didn’t get a say in this?

He caught the tip of his tongue between his teeth. He hadn’t participated in a typical Winsol celebration here at the Hall, so maybe he wasn’t supposed to make many—or any—decisions.

“We took a couple of trees whose elimination would benefit the surrounding trees,” Jaenelle said. “We’ll use the branches to create wreaths or other decorations. That will add the scent to the room.” She edged toward the door, then stopped as if listening to something beyond the room. “Oh, good. Marian is here.”

Which meant Lucivar was also here. *Prick?* he called on a psychic spear thread.

*Let me stash the little beast and I’ll meet you,* Lucivar replied.

“All right,” Daemon said to Jaenelle. “Since Marian is here, I’ll—”

“Stay here,” Jaenelle said, heading for the door. “I need to pee, and someone needs to guard the gifts until they’re all properly shielded.”

Daemon looked at the gifts stacked around the tree. “Huh?”

“I’ll be back in a few minutes. Don’t leave the room. When I get back, Marian and I will sort the gifts and put on the appropriate shields.”

“What are you figuring is going to happen to them?”

She just looked at him.

“Fine,” he said, trying not to grumble. “I’ll guard the gifts.”

She was almost out the door when she stopped and looked at him over her shoulder. “Papa arrived a little while ago, but I haven’t seen him yet.”

Then she was gone, and he felt as if he’d been shuffled to a back room and given a senseless task just to keep him out of the way. Hell’s fire, his father and brother were in the Hall. He should be spending time with them instead of guarding boxes. Or he should be in his study, working. He still had some work to do. Not much, but some. And even if he didn’t have work and just stretched out on the couch and read a book, he wouldn’t feel like a stray puppy that someone had forgotten. Not if he was in his study.

A quick knock on the door. Before he could say anything, a maid and two footmen entered the room, their arms full of boxes.

“Excuse us, Prince,” the maid said. “We were told to bring these gifts here.”

Daemon smiled at them and stepped aside.

“Are you going home for Winsol?” he asked.

“We’re drawing lots tonight to see who’s working which days,” the younger footman said.

They stacked the packages in front of the tree. Moments after they walked out the door, Lucivar walked in.

“Hiding already?” Lucivar asked. “Winsol hasn’t officially started.”

“I’m guarding the gifts,” Daemon replied.

“From what? You didn’t put any food under there, did you? You never put food gifts under the tree. I did that one year, and the younger kindred found the boxes of fudge and the boxes of rawhide strips. What a mess.”

“If there’s food under the tree, I didn’t put it there.”

“Good. There’s something I want to show you. I had it made for Daemonar and—”

A quick knock on the door, and another maid entered the room.

“I was told to put these packages under the tree,” she said.

“They’re going to be in and out of here for the rest of the day,” Lucivar muttered as soon as the maid left. “Let’s find another room. We need a couple of minutes in private.”

“I’m supposed to guard the gifts,” Daemon said.

“Tch. The little beast is in the playroom, enthralled by jingling puppies, so the room will be fine. We won’t go far. Besides, he doesn’t know which room has the presents.”

Since Daemon thought guarding the gifts was a pointless exercise anyway, it didn’t take much persuasion. He and Lucivar hurried along the corridor, sneaked around the corner, and slipped into another sitting room.

“Do we ever use this room?” Daemon asked, looking around.

“Male sanctuary,” Lucivar replied. “Used to use it when the coven lived here most of the time. Gave the boyos breathing room to talk among themselves while still being close by if they were needed.” He waved a hand, dismissing further interest in the room. “Look at this.” He called in a rectangular wood-and-glass box.

Daemon obediently leaned over to look into the box.

“It’s a bug-in-a-box,” Lucivar said, grinning.

From one end of the box, a little black beetle emerged. As it made its way to the other end, it grew and grew and grew until . . .

Pop!

There were sounds. Daemon wasn’t sure a beetle actually made sounds that were a cross between insect noise and cranky grumbling, but it added to the appeal. Or the disgust. He had a strong suspicion the emotion of the person viewing this little toy would depend on whether that person had a penis or breasts.

“You have that box shielded, don’t you?” he asked.

Lucivar made a huffy sound of disbelief. “I’ve got it triple shielded. There is no way Daemonar is getting that bug out of the box.”

“If he does . . .” Daemon looked at his brother.

Lucivar sighed. “The only question will be whether Marian tries to kill me before she divorces me or after.”

“As long as you know the risks.” He grinned. Couldn’t help it. “Daemonar will love it.”

“Yeah, he will.”

Picturing Daemonar’s face when the boy opened that gift reminded him of where he was supposed to be. “I’d better get back to guarding the gifts.”

Lucivar vanished the box. “I’ll go with you. If I look like I’ve got something to do, maybe I won’t get cornered into doing something.”

They hurried back to the other room, opened the door—and froze just inside the doorway.

Hell’s fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful.

“He wasn’t anywhere near this room when we left,” Lucivar said. “I swear by all I hold dear, he wasn’t anywhere near this room.”

Well, the little beast was in the middle of it now, sitting on the floor surrounded by various-sized boxes and drifts of torn wrapping paper.

“Papa!” Daemonar cried. “Unka Daemon! Lizzen!”

Bang bang bang. The sound of box on floor.

And the sound of something delicate—and no doubt expensive—breaking inside the box.

Daemon felt his face muscles shift into a tight smile—or maybe it was a grimace. Must have been the appropriate response, because Daemonar grinned at him and went back to banging the box on the floor.

“Whatever is inside is already broken,” Lucivar said. “No point taking it away from him now. He’ll just grab for something else.”

“We’ll have to figure out who brought it and get it replaced.” Sweet Darkness, please don’t let it be something that was commissioned and was one of a kind.

Lucivar stared at the boy and the mess, looking more and more baffled. “Marian wants another one of those.”

“Another one of what?”

Lucivar lifted his chin. “Those.”

Daemon looked at the little winged boy who was the reason Jaenelle was going to rip him into chunks and feed him to somebody, then back at his brother. “Why?”

Lucivar sighed. “I don’t know.” Then he narrowed his eyes. “But I’m pretty sure it’s your fault.”

He completely lost the ability to speak. He just stood there with his mouth hanging open, staring at Lucivar.

Lucivar nodded. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure it’s your fault.”

“Bt. Dt. Zt.” The sputtering sounds fired up his shocked brain. “Since I am not the one sleeping with your wife, it is not my fault.”

Lucivar was looking grimly pleased. “Yeah, it is. Marian’s been mentioning lately how much I value having a brother the same age.”

Daemon usually valued having a brother too, but that was beside the point.

“You can’t do this,” Daemon said.

“It’s not that hard,” Lucivar replied. “Just don’t drink the contraceptive brew during a woman’s fertile time, and it isn’t hard at all.” His voice changed when he added, “Besides, it might not be another little beast. It could be a cuddly little witchling. A miniature of her mother.”

There was a dopey look on Lucivar’s face.

“Ah, no,” Daemon groaned. “No, no, no. You’re being seduced by the possibility of a daughter.”

“Maybe.”

“Then let me remind you that our father had four children, and all of them had cocks.” Five, actually, if they counted the boy who had been murdered shortly after birth.

Lucivar slanted a look at him. “So you’re saying I shouldn’t count on getting a cuddly little witch?”

“I’m saying the odds aren’t in your favor, so before you pour your contraceptive brew down the sink, consider what it will be like having two of those in the house.”

Lucivar winced and muttered, “One of them would probably end up living with you half the time.”

It was a distinct possibility—and it was exactly what he was afraid of. Not that he didn’t love Daemonar. He did. But most days he loved him much better knowing he could send the boy home.

Suddenly, Lucivar tensed. “How long are you supposed to guard this room?”

Daemon felt all the blood drain out of his head. “Mother Night. Jaenelle is going to be back any minute now.”

They sprang forward at the same moment Daemonar gave the box one last bang on the floor before throwing it and reaching for another.

“You get the boy away from here, and I’ll do what I can to clear up—or hide—this mess,” Daemon said.

Lucivar grabbed Daemonar and swung him around as they twirled toward the door, distracting the boy from the fact he was being taken away from the presents.

Once brother and boy were safely out of the way, Daemon dropped to his knees and began gathering up boxes and wrappings.

He could vanish everything and sort it out later—if he could figure out an excuse Jaenelle would accept for why the packages had disappeared.

Of course, these boxes had arrived after she’d left the room, so maybe she didn’t know about them. That would be good. That would be wonderful. That would—

The door opened—and he froze. When there was no outraged shriek, he dared a look over his shoulder.

Saetan stood in the doorway, clearly amused. The bastard.

Daemon said, “If you love me at all, don’t ask how this happened. Just help me fix it.”

Saetan walked toward Daemon, the door closing silently behind him. “I know how it happened. As a reward, and to give you a break from the festive chaos going on in the rest of the Hall, your wife asked you to guard the gifts. And you, not having brains enough to get comfortable with a brandy and a book, decided guarding the gifts was foolish. So you left ‘for just a few minutes,’ and when you returned, you learned how much of a mess can be made in a short amount of time.”

Daemon closed his eyes and hunched his shoulders. Right now he would gladly give up the privileges of being an adult if he could shove the responsibilities of being an adult under the sofa—along with all the torn wrapping paper.

“How did you know?” Daemon asked.

“I used to have one,” Saetan replied.

Puzzled, he looked up at his father. “One what?”

“Small Eyrien boy. I learned this lesson the hard way, and now, my darling, so have you.”

“You could have warned me.”

“You wouldn’t have believed me.”

So what? You still could have warned me.

Since that wouldn’t get him any help, he swallowed the comment and tried to look woeful. It wasn’t hard to do. “Help?”

Using Craft, Saetan moved a straight-backed chair from one side of the room, placed it close to Daemon, and sat down. “I’ll show you a trick. As long as you don’t use it too often, you can get away with it. Especially during this season, when males are forgiven their foibles. Mostly.”

“The first problem is figuring out who these gifts were intended for,” Daemon said.

“That part is easy. I brought these, so I know which box belongs to which person.”

“Bt. Dt. Zt.” On the second try, he formed actual words. “You brought these? Then why in the name of Hell didn’t you put shields around them?”

A raised eyebrow was his only answer—and an unspoken reminder that Saetan could leave the room without incurring a woman’s wrath.

Sufficiently chastised, Daemon muttered, “Sorry.”

Figuring it was best to confess the worst, he nudged the box Daemonar had pounded on the floor—and winced at the merry tinkle of broken glass.

No response. Just the feel of his father’s formidable presence.

“Lesson one,” Saetan said, sounding too damned amused. “If you shield all the gifts, you also need to shield and Craft-lock the room sufficiently to keep small boys out. Otherwise, that boy will transform from a happy, excited child into a cranky, frustrated child. And trust me, a frustrated Eyrien boy during Winsol is twice as bad as what you’re imagining right now—especially when his little brain is dazzled by boxes and shiny ribbons.”

“Then Lucivar and I can just . . .” What? Put Ebon-gray and Black shields and locks around the room? That would keep Daemonar out, but it would also keep everyone else out of the room—including wives who wouldn’t appreciate being locked out.

“All right,” Daemon said, trying not to sigh. “Guard the room when it’s my turn. Don’t shield all the gifts.” He nudged the broken gift. “If you tell me where you got this, I’ll get it replaced in time.” I hope.

“That? You can dispose of it. It’s just a box of chipped teacups and broken figurines. Helene and Mrs. Beale keep a box of that stuff for just this kind of present.”

A red haze appeared in front of Daemon’s eyes. “What kind of present?”

“The kind that rattles enough to sound interesting. Especially once things inside the box start breaking.”

“You did this deliberately?”

“Yes.”

He was trying very hard to remember why he had looked forward to Winsol this year—and why he’d been happy to see his father a few minutes ago.

“Lesson two,” Saetan said. “Fragile or delicate gifts go in the back where they’re less likely to be noticed by inquisitive children. Even so, they are shielded individually and then are grouped together before a shield ‘netting’ is put over all of them, and that netting is then connected to the floor with Craft. However, there should be one breakable, disposable gift positioned in the front of the tree to catch a boy’s eye. That way, you have a chance of stopping him while he’s distracted by the fake present, and you’re not trying to explain the loss of an expensive gift.”

Daemon looked at the mounds of gifts. All this work to keep out one boy? What would happen if . . .

“Marian wants another baby,” he said.

A stiff moment of silence. Then Saetan said, “In that case, my darling, you’d better learn some of these spells and work on them until you can pull them together in a heartbeat.”

Or they could just all celebrate Winsol at the eyrie, and then it would be Lucivar’s responsibility to guard the gifts.

He considered the probability of getting out of guard duty no matter where the family gathered for Winsol—and sighed.

“Lesson three.” Saetan called in a small hourglass, turned it over, and set it on air. “Stay focused on the task. When I saw Lucivar racing away with Daemonar, I asked Jaenelle and Marian to have a leisurely cup of coffee before returning to this room.”

“Aren’t they going to suspect there’s a problem and that you were stalling them until it’s fixed?” Daemon asked.

“Of course they know there’s a problem. But this request is as time-honored as Protocol—and as strictly observed. All things considered, since those two do understand the males involved, I estimate you have ten minutes left to put everything back the way it was.”

Maybe he could tie a ribbon around his neck and curl up with the other fragile, delicate gifts.

“Gather up the pieces of wrapping paper that have the ribbons and name cards,” Saetan said.

He crawled around until he was fairly sure he’d gotten them all. Then he picked up the first box.

“That one is yours,” Saetan said.

“Mine?”

Warm pleasure flowed through him. A present. From his father.

As he started to coax the top part of the box off, Saetan reached over and clamped one hand on the box, holding it shut. When Saetan released the box . . .

Daemon wiggled the lid, then looked up in disbelief. “You locked the box. You Craft-locked my present.”

“On Winsol, when the gifts are being opened, this is your present,” Saetan said. “Until then, it’s still my box. And it stays locked.”

Fine. Ha! Saetan wore the Black. So did he. He wasn’t going to let . . .

There was some Red power twisted into the Black, changing a simple lock into a deviously elegant puzzle that would have to be untangled in order to open the box.

“You locked my present,” Daemon said, feeling sulky. “I’m an adult, and you locked my present.”

“You’re a son who was about to open a present before it was time to open the present,” Saetan replied mildly. Then he looked pointedly at the hourglass. “Do you really want to argue about this right now?”

He had to think about that for a minute.

“Find the name tag,” Saetan said, taking the box from him.

After handing that over too, he sat back on his heels.

Saetan set the piece of wrapping paper on the box and smoothed out the wrinkles. “You and Lucivar should be the ones handing out the gifts. Each person won’t notice one gift wrapped like this, but anyone handling several . . .”

As he watched, the wrapping paper grew out of the scrap and formed around the box.

“It’s best to work out your own illusion spell for this,” Saetan said. “That way, you’ll be able to do it quickly, since it usually needs to be done quickly.”

The illusion spell was good. If he hadn’t seen the paper forming around the box, he doubted he would have noticed the difference in texture. He wasn’t sure how someone “unwrapped” an illusion, but he’d find out on the day.

All the wrappings had been restored, he’d gathered up the rest of the scraps of paper and vanished the disposable gift, and he still had a few grains of sand left in the hourglass when he stood up and brushed himself off.

Saetan vanished the hourglass and returned the chair to its usual spot in the room.

They were both standing there, guarding the mound of perfectly wrapped presents, when Marian and Jaenelle walked into the room.

Jaenelle studied the two of them. Marian walked over to the tree, pursed her lips, then reached between two gifts and picked something up.

“The Prince and I have something to discuss, so we’ll leave you Ladies to finish sorting out the gifts,” Saetan said.

*We have something to discuss?* Daemon asked on a spear thread.

*Yes, we do.*

Judging by Saetan’s tone, he wasn’t expecting a pleasant discussion, but anything was better than staying in that room.

He reached the door when Marian said, “Daemon?”

Saetan left the room. Having no other safe choice, Daemon turned and waited for the Eyrien hearth witch.

There was something purely female about her expression as she walked up to him, adding to the impression that she was laughing at him.

He broke out in a cold sweat.

“You missed a piece,” she whispered as she held up a scrap of wrapping paper.

He took the paper, vanished it—and fled.

Catching up with Saetan, the two men retreated to the study, where Lucivar met them.

“I promised Kaelas and Jaal I’d get them a steer for Winsol dinner if they don’t let Daemonar out of the room where I stashed him,” Lucivar said.

“You promised them the equivalent amount of meat or a live animal?” Saetan asked.

“Apparently it doesn’t taste as good if it’s already cut up,” Lucivar muttered. “Or maybe it wasn’t as much fun to eat. They were a little vague about that.”

“I see.” Saetan delicately cleared his throat. “So you will get them to promise that they won’t eat their dinner within sight of the dining room windows, won’t you?”

Lucivar’s mouth opened and closed, but no sounds came out.

“Mother Night,” Daemon said. If people lost their appetites because a six-hundred-pound tiger and an eight-hundred-pound Arcerian cat were gorging on a fresh kill, Mrs. Beale would . . .

He wasn’t going to consider what Mrs. Beale would do to him and Lucivar.

“I’m almost sorry I’m going to miss this,” Saetan said with a smile. “Almost.”

In a heartbeat, Lucivar went from stumbling man to warrior. He shifted—one easy side step that effectively blocked any escape through the door.

Daemon moved in the other direction, drawing the eye, keeping the prey focused on what was in front of him instead of the danger behind him.

He and Lucivar had played out this game dozens of times. Hundreds of times. Once they had their prey caught between them . . . Concentrate on one of them, and the other one would be the attacker.

Saetan watched him. Being an intelligent man, he would know exactly what his sons were doing—and what role remained in their little three-person drama.

“I won’t be joining you for Winsol,” Saetan said quietly. “I stopped by today to drop off the gifts—and to tell you I’ll be staying at the Keep.”

“No,” Lucivar said.

“I don’t want to discuss this,” Saetan said, still watching Daemon. “I don’t want to argue about this. I’m asking you to accept this.”

“Why?” Daemon asked softly.

“I love you both. I do. But this . . . frenzy . . . is for young men.”

“Well, Hell’s fire,” Lucivar growled. “We’re not going to drag you to parties and things you don’t want to attend.” He looked at Daemon. “Right?”

“It’s not just that,” Saetan said. Then he raked one hand through his hair and sighed. “I did this. For decades, for centuries, I did this. The large parties. The social functions that I attended because it was expected of me as the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan. Houseguests and noise. You both have those responsibilities now, and that’s as it should be. But this year, I want peace during the longest night of the year. I want to walk in solitude through one of the gardens at the Keep. I want this. And I think I’ve earned this.”

Before Lucivar could snarl about it, Daemon said on a spear thread, *Don’t argue about it. Let it go.*

A slashing look was Lucivar’s only answer.

“That’s really what you want?” Daemon asked Saetan.

“It really is.” Saetan’s smile held a hint of sorrow—not for the decision, but for the argument he anticipated was still to come. “I don’t expect you to understand, but I’m asking you—both of you—to accept. As a gift to me.”

Daemon waited a beat, as if he were discussing it privately with Lucivar. Then he said, “All right. We’ll accept your decision—as our gift.”

“Thank you.” Saetan turned and raised an eyebrow at Lucivar, who reluctantly stepped aside.

The moment the study door closed behind their father, Lucivar turned on Daemon. “Are we really letting him do this? We’re going to let our father be alone for Winsol?”

“Yes, we are,” Daemon replied, moving closer. “He’s feeling his age, Prick. Andulvar, Mephis, and Prothvar are gone. Being here without them is hard. You know that was a large part of his decision to retire to the Keep.”

“They were gone last year too,” Lucivar argued.

“He was taking care of us last year. Me more than you. Jaenelle was so fragile, and I . . .” Wasn’t sure she would survive the winter. Wasn’t sure he would want to survive if she didn’t.

“I know.” Lucivar drew in a deep breath and blew it out slowly. “I don’t like it. He shouldn’t be alone on Winsol. None of them should, when it comes down to it. Geoffrey, Draca. Even Lorn. They shouldn’t be alone. Not for this celebration.”

“They won’t be.”

Lucivar frowned. “But you gave him your word.”

Daemon nodded. “He asked for a solitary Winsol, and we’ll give him that. Or something close to it. But we’ll find a way to give him family too. All of them.”

“When you figure out how to do that, you’ve got me for whatever you need.”

He smiled. “I love you, Prick.”

That lazy, arrogant smile. “Will you still say that if I decide to pour the contraceptive brew down the sink?”

“Yes. But not as often.”

Daemon eyed the plate of fudge that had ended up between Marian and Jaenelle and decided trying to take a piece wasn’t worth losing a hand. So he chose grapes and cheese to go with his after-dinner coffee.

It had been a fairly quiet dinner since Daemonar had fallen asleep halfway through the meal. Now that he wasn’t moving, he looked sweet and cuddly. At some point during the day, he had acquired a string of bells that he was wearing around his neck as his “Jewel.”

Daemon smiled at the sleeping boy. Daemonar had been delighted with the jingling sound. He and Lucivar had been even more delighted when they realized how easy it was to locate the little beast. Neither man had much hope of convincing Marian to make the bells a permanent accessory for the boy, but they were sure going to try to talk her into it.

“So,” Jaenelle said as she selected a piece of fudge. “I think we’re ready for Winsol.”

“I think we are,” Marian agreed.

“And I think the two of you are handling the High Lord’s decision very well,” Daemon said, raising his coffee cup in a salute.

“Decision?” Jaenelle asked. “Oh! That reminds me. Papa did say there was something the two of you needed to talk to us about.”

Daemon felt the meal he’d just eaten solidify into solid rock and sink his stomach to the floor.

*He didn’t,* Lucivar said on a spear thread.

*Oh, I think he did,* Daemon replied. He looked at Jaenelle and Marian—and wondered if he could run fast enough to get out of the room before one or both exploded. “He didn’t say anything to either of you?”

“About what?” Jaenelle asked.

“About not joining us for Winsol?”

Their answer was a thunderous silence.

Wearing nothing but a long winter robe, Daemon slipped into the bedroom and joined Jaenelle, who was standing at the glass door that overlooked her private courtyard. Wrapping his arms around her, he drew her back against him to keep her warm and rubbed his cheek against her short golden hair.

“Are you upset about Father’s decision?” he asked.

“A little,” she replied. “But not surprised once I had time to think about it.”

Something more. He could see it in her face, reflected in the glass.

“Before I reached the age of majority, there were parties,” Jaenelle said. “Lots of them. The coven was still living here most of the time. The boyos too. Saetan attended an exhausting number of formal celebrations as the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan and stood as my escort for almost as many others. Then the coven and the boyos would go home to celebrate Winsol with their families.

“A dazzling whirl of people for six days. But on the eve of Winsol, just before midnight, Saetan would bring two cups of blooded rum to my sitting room. A toast to the living myth. I always found it embarrassing, being toasted like that. And then we would dance. A court dance. Very formal. Very traditional. A pattern that was only performed during this time of year.

“The next evening, the longest night of the year, was for family. No visitors. No outsiders. Just Mephis, Prothvar, Uncle Andulvar, Papa, and me. A simple dinner. Afterward, we would open the gifts from each other.”

“I don’t remember you and the High Lord having a private celebration,” he said.

“We didn’t these past two years. He stepped aside. For you.”

“I see,” Daemon said quietly. And he did. The Steward yielding to the Consort. The father yielding to the lover. The fact that he was the lover must have weighed heavily in Saetan’s decision.

He looked at their reflection in the glass. It was like watching Jaenelle delicately unwrap layers of her heart.

“What else?” he asked.

“Those years were a dazzle of people during Winsol,” she said. “A kaleidoscope of colors and faces. Even more so after I became the Queen of Ebon Askavi and had my own list of social events to attend as part of my duties as Queen. But the moment I remember clearly, the moment that stands out from each of those years, is that dance with Saetan.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I don’t understand what you’re trying to tell me.”

He saw her lips press together in a tight line, could feel her breath shudder in and out. He held her and waited, watching their reflection.

“One day I’m going to wake up and realize I’ve gotten old.” She lifted her left hand. “You knew when you gave me this ring what the difference in our races would mean.”

“Some people spend a few years together and then part for one reason or another. Others have a few decades. And other people have a lifetime. I know what the difference in our races means, Lady. I’ll take every day that you’re willing to give me.”

She nodded. “That’s the point. You have social duties. We have social duties. But I don’t want these days to be a blur of events and faces. I want memories, Daemon. Of you. Of us. I want those clear moments that the heart holds on to. With you.”

“And with him.”

“Yes. With him too. You waited seventeen hundred years for the Queen you wanted to serve. Saetan waited fifty thousand.”

“A few days out of this celebration for just the two of us? That’s really what you want?”

“Yes, that’s really what I want.”

Something inside him relaxed. He kissed her temple. “Then that’s what we’ll do. And we can start with this.” He called in a rectangular box and held it out.

Jaenelle shook her head and turned as she took a step away from him. “We open the gifts on Winsol.”

Daemon smiled a very special smile—and watched her blush in response to it. “You need to open this one now so you can plan ahead for when you’ll use it.”

She hesitated, then took the box and opened it.

Watching her, he swallowed the urge to laugh and wondered how long she would stare at that little bit of nothing.

Finally she lifted the triangle of richly embroidered gold fabric out of the box. “What . . . ?”

“The ribbons circle your hips,” he said helpfully.

“Oh.” She vanished the box and held the triangle in position. “Oh.”

Seeing that bit of nothing in place, even held over a bulky winter robe, was enough to make his blood simmer.

“I thought we could have a private dinner sometime during Winsol,” Daemon said. “You could wear that under the dress you had made for our dance in the spooky house. Nothing but that.”

Even the thought of seeing her in that wisp of a dress made his cock hard.

Blushing and still looking baffled, she said, “This is my present?”

He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close, leaving her in no doubt about the kind of memories he wanted to make tonight.

“No, lover,” he purred. “This is my present.”

SEVEN

On the third day of Winsol, Daemon walked into Lucivar’s eyrie and caught the boy who half leaped, half flew at him.

“Unka Daemon!”

He gave Daemonar a smacking kiss on the cheek. “Hello, boyo. Are you being good?”

He and the boy both ignored the snarl that came from the kitchen in response to that question.

“You read me a story?” Daemonar asked.

“I guess we could read a story after—”

“You read me a story now?”

“Let me ask your papa.”

“We gotta tree. I show you!”

The boy was damn hard to hold on to once he started wiggling. Daemon put him down and watched him run to the other end of the room where another Craft-made tree sparkled.

“Look, Unka Daemon!”

Before Daemon could growl “No,” Daemonar kicked at the wrapped presents.

Nothing happened.

Then the front door opened, Marian and Jaenelle walked in, and Daemonar raced to meet them. Since it didn’t look like he was going to go around his uncle, Daemon prudently got out of the way.

“Auntie J.! Auntie J.! We gotta tree!”

“I see that,” Jaenelle said, crouching to receive her hugs and kisses. “Do you like the tree I made for the eyrie?”

“Yes! I read you a story! I read you a story now!”

“Could we read a story after we eat?” Jaenelle asked. “I’m very hungry.”

“Okay!”

Marian smiled and held out a hand. Knowing better than to suggest that he could hang up his own coat, Daemon shucked off his overcoat and handed it to her before going into the kitchen.

“You put illusion spells of gifts around your tree?” Daemon asked Lucivar.

“The real gifts are at the Hall,” Lucivar said as he pulled a large casserole out of the oven and set it on the table.

“Why couldn’t we have the illusion-spell gifts?” Daemon grumbled.

“You can keep the real gifts until we open them on Winsol Night or you can keep the boy.”

“I’ll keep the gifts,” Daemon said too quickly.

“Smart choice.” Lucivar tipped his neck from side to side to ease the muscles. “Hell’s fire, he’s a handful this year.”

“I guess Marian won’t let you build a cage.”

“Not a chance. And whenever I growl about the boy, his grandfather laughs at me.”

“Seems petty of Father to do that.”

Lucivar used Craft to slice a loaf of bread and put it and the butter on the table. “You know what’s really scary? The times when Father looks at me and says, ‘You were worse.’ Makes me wonder if I’m getting off easy or if I should start preparing.” He finished setting the table. “Marian and I usually have ale with this meal since it goes well with the casserole, but I can open a bottle of wine for you.”

“Ale is fine.”

As Lucivar filled glasses, he said, “How is Yuli? That’s where you were this morning, wasn’t it? At that school?”

Yuli was an orphan boy he and Jaenelle met while rescuing Surreal and Rainier from Jarvis Jenkell’s spooky house.

“He’s doing well. Still too afraid of making a mistake and being severely punished for it to relax most of the time—at least, according to the teachers—but Socks isn’t afraid of voicing an opinion about anything, so the Sceltie pup balances out the boy.” Daemon looked around. “Speaking of pups, where are the wolves?”

“Off doing wolf things, thank the Darkness.” Lucivar raised his voice. “Food’s on the table.”

Jaenelle and Marian sat on one side of the table, the boy between them. Daemon and Lucivar sat on the other. As the adults talked about small things, Daemon became more and more aware that the boy was too excited by the company and all the festivities, and his misbehavior was going to clash with Lucivar’s temper soon.

Then Jaenelle spoke one quiet sentence in Eyrien, and Daemon saw the proof that Daemonar had made the transition from toddler to boy in the past few weeks. Because Daemonar’s reaction to that voice wasn’t a nephew responding to an aunt; it was a Warlord Prince responding to his Queen.

Daemonar quieted and began eating properly, glancing often at his father for approval and confirmation that he was behaving as he should.

The boy was no longer just a small male. He’d been born a Warlord Prince. From now on, the adult males would start treating him like one—and training him like one.

When the meal ended, Jaenelle and Daemonar went into the family room to read a book and Marian disappeared.

Lucivar smiled as he cleared the table. “Some days going to the bathroom by yourself is a luxury.”

Daemon stripped off his black jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves. “I’ll wash.”

“Deal. Have you thought about what we’re going to do about Winsol?”

“I have,” Daemon said as he filled one side of the sink with water. “And I have an idea how we can accomplish it.”

“The little beast usually naps for a couple of hours after the midday meal, so he’ll probably be sound asleep by the time Jaenelle gets to the last page. We can talk after that.”

Marian made coffee, Lucivar put Daemonar to bed for his nap, and when the adults gathered in the family parlor, Daemon told them his idea.

“Yes,” Jaenelle said, smiling.

“It’s wonderful,” Marian said.

Lucivar said nothing. He didn’t have to because the look in his eyes said it all.

EIGHT

It was late afternoon on the eve of Winsol, and the streets and sidewalks of Amdarh were still crowded. But not with shoppers. These were the merchants who had closed their shops and were now heading home to friends and family.

An hour from now, the streets would still be crowded, Surreal thought as she opened the carriage door and accepted the assistance of a Warlord who was passing by at that moment, in order to step from carriage to sidewalk. Just one of those things she’d learned to accept about living in Kaeleer: It took less time to accept help you didn’t want or need than it took to explain to the helpful male why you didn’t want or need his help.

The Warlord escorted her to the door of the building where Rainier lived, wished her a happy Winsol, and continued on his way.

She didn’t dare look at her driver. Helton had told her to take a footman to serve her, but it seemed silly to drag a second man out in order to run a simple errand.

Idiot, she thought as she crossed the lobby to the reception desk, where packages or messages could be left for the residents. Next time listen to Helton.

She smiled at the Warlord at the desk, recognizing him from the times when she’d met Rainier there before an outing because it was on the way instead of him taking the extra time to come to the town house.

“Lady Surreal,” the Warlord said.

“Happy Winsol,” she replied. “I’d like to leave a package for Prince Rainier. Could you make sure he gets it when he gets home?”

A hesitation. “Prince Rainier returned home an hour ago.”

“But . . .” He’s supposed to be with his family in Dharo.

Another hesitation. A deliberate pause of a man deciding whether he should meddle. “Perhaps you would like to deliver the package yourself ?”

Surreal studied the man. “He asked you to tell people he wasn’t in, didn’t he?”

“He said he didn’t want to be disturbed.”

I’ll bet he did. She leaned against the desk. “Have I been sufficiently scary during this conversation?”

“Oh, no, Lady, you’ve—” He paused. Considered. Smiled as he opened a wall cabinet behind him, removed a key, and handed it to her. “You were quite forceful in your insistence that I give you the spare key so that you could put the Prince’s gift in his apartment rather than leaving it here at the desk.”

“Since he’s been on the receiving end of my insistence often enough, he’ll believe the part about my being forceful,” she said with a wink.

She climbed the stairs slowly and steadily, but she still heard the rasp in her lungs by the time she reached Rainier’s floor. How was he managing the stairs on that leg? Did he have sense enough to float down the stairways?

Probably not.

When she reached his door, she took a moment to catch her breath. No point starting a fight if she couldn’t yell at him.

She vanished the present, unlocked the door, and walked into his parlor, only to find Rainier standing there waiting for the intruder, looking pale and furious.

“Surreal . . .”

“You wear Opal; I wear Gray. I outrank you. Shut up.”

She could feel his temper taking a sharper edge, but he wasn’t a fool. His being a Warlord Prince couldn’t make up for the difference in their power.

“You were supposed to be visiting your family,” Surreal said.

“I did visit. Now I’m back.”

And sounding more bitter than when he’d left.

“Well, that’s good, actually, because the family is gathering at the Keep for Winsol. You and I will have a quiet dinner at the town house tonight, and tomorrow afternoon we’ll go up to the Keep.”

“Surreal, it’s a family gathering. I’m not family.”

“Oh, that’s not a problem.” She walked up to him, smiled, and slugged him in the shoulder hard enough to almost knock him off his feet. “Now you’re an honorary cousin. If you get pissy about this, I’m going to tell Daemon and Lucivar that you didn’t want to be family for Winsol because you didn’t want to be related to them. Won’t that be fun when they show up wanting an explanation?”

“Bitch.”

“Boyo, you have no idea.” She gave him a minute to appreciate just how cornered he really was. “So, are you still packed or do you need help?”

“I can take care of it tomorrow if you want to go back to the town house now,” Rainier said.

She bared her teeth in a smile. “You and your luggage are coming with me to the town house. Where you’ll be staying tonight.”

“I’m not going to run away.”

“Damn right, you’re not. I’m not going to face all of them by myself.”

He studied her. Then he sighed. “Fine. I’ll swap out some clothes. Give me a few minutes.”

“Don’t take long. The driver is waiting, and Helton will worry if I’m late.”

Rainier huffed out a laugh and limped to his bedroom.

Surreal closed her eyes. He didn’t need tears or pity or whatever else was being dished out. And he wouldn’t get those things. Not at the Keep.

But he would get the warmth of friends who cared about him. And he wouldn’t be alone for Winsol.

NINE

“Are you sure she’s home?” Lucivar asked as Daemon opened the cottage door. “There aren’t any lights on in the sitting room.”

“Doesn’t mean anything,” Daemon replied, touching the hallway candle-light so they could see as they headed for the kitchen. “Allista left this morning to spend a few days with her family, and Manny is celebrating with friends in the village. Tersa told both of them she was staying home tonight.”

As they walked into the kitchen, they saw her silhouetted against the open back door, oblivious to the cold air streaming into the cottage.

“Tersa,” Daemon called softly.

“It’s the boy,” she said, sounding puzzled as she looked from him to Lucivar. “Both my boys.”

“Yes,” Daemon said.

“Why are you here?”

Lucivar nudged her into the kitchen and closed the door. “We’ve decided to establish some family traditions. Winsol Eve is going to be a time for fathers and daughters to spend together.”

“And mothers and sons,” Daemon added.

“So we’re here to spend the evening with our mother,” Lucivar said.

“But . . .” She looked around, as if finally noticing where she was. “There is no food. I should prepare food?”

“We did that,” Daemon said, calling in several dishes and settling them gently on the kitchen table. “A couple of things need to be heated, and a few other things need the finishing touches.” He took off his overcoat and wrapped it around her, adding a warming spell.

Did she even realize she was shivering?

Lucivar pulled out a chair. “You sit down, and we’ll take care of things.”

“That does not seem fair,” Tersa said. “You are doing all the work.”

“Fine,” Lucivar said. “You can do the dishes after.”

“That is not fair!”

Lucivar grinned at her and winked at Daemon.

They talked, they laughed, and they ate. And as Tersa’s mind flowed between past and present, they learned more of who they had been when they had been her boys.

“We’d like to ask a favor,” Daemon said when he set out the plate of baked goods he’d wheedled out of Mrs. Beale. “A special gift we’d like you to give both of us if you can.”

She looked at them—not with the lucidity of madness, but with clear-sighted eyes. “Ask.”

So he asked. And after thinking about it for a minute, she said yes.

TEN

Saetan walked through one of the enclosed gardens at the Keep. Stark at this time of year, but not barren. Life slept beneath the snow, beneath the earth, waiting for the light to return.

The Blood came from the Darkness of the abyss—a power inherited from another race whose time as the guardians of the Realms had ended. So they honored the Darkness that separated them from the landens, that shaped their preferences and needs and desires.

Especially their desires.

“I understand now.”

Jaenelle’s voice came out of the darkness around him.

No, not Jaenelle’s voice, he thought as he turned. Too much midnight in that voice, too much of the abyss.

For a moment, when she took the first step toward him, he saw the Self that lived beneath her skin. Saw the living myth, dreams made flesh.

Not all the dreamers had been human—and neither was Witch.

Then the moment was gone, and Jaenelle, lovely and human, kept walking toward him.

“You should be home with your husband,” Saetan said.

“No, I shouldn’t. Not tonight,” Jaenelle replied. “I understand now.”

“Understand what, witch-child?”

“The private dance on Winsol Eve.”

She took both his hands. Hers were cold, so he put a warming spell on his own to make hers more comfortable.

“We didn’t dance these last two years. But you did. Alone. Just as you did for most of your fifty thousand years. You danced for a dream, for a promise. And every year when you performed the steps of that dance, you renewed your own promise to that dream.”

He closed his eyes, unwilling to look at her because she would see the truth of her words. She was the sweetest, most painful dance of his life. She was the reason for this unnaturally long life.

“Each year, when we performed that dance, you renewed that promise. But it was no longer to a dream. It was to flesh and blood, to a real Queen.”

He had no words for what he felt, so he did something he had done no more than a handful of times during his entire life—he opened all his inner barriers, revealing his heart, his mind, his Self to her without any defenses or shields. As he opened his eyes and stared into her sapphire ones, he realized he wasn’t showing her anything she didn’t already know about him.

“It’s almost midnight,” Jaenelle said. “Dance with me, Saetan. Tonight, let’s both acknowledge a promise made and kept.”

He followed her to one of the sitting rooms. A small bowl of hot blooded rum was on a table, along with two glasses and a crystal music sphere in a brass holder.

He helped her out of her coat, then removed his cape and vanished both.

She wore a black dress made of layers of spidersilk. Widow’s weeds. A dress made for a Black Widow Queen—especially one who had once worn Black Jewels.

Jaenelle raised her hand. Music for the traditional Winsol dance filled the room.

He raised his hand and took the first step of the dance. Fingertips touched fingertips. Hands touched hands.

She was no longer a girl indulging her adopted father. She was no longer a Queen accepting her Steward’s request for a traditional dance. The woman who moved with him tonight understood the weight of his choices—and the importance of this night that marked each year.

So they danced in honor of a dream—and to renew a promise.

ELEVEN

A warm hand rubbing his bare back coaxed Saetan out of a deep sleep. A loving touch, but not a lover’s touch. Sensual without being sexual. Who . . . ?

Then he knew. There was only one person whose psychic scent was so close to his own that it took a moment to pick up the distinctions between them.

“Prince,” he said. It was the best he could do. The way Daemon was rubbing his back made him feel boneless—and brainless. A bit odd for a son to be doing.

That thought roused his paternal suspicions, and that woke up his brain.

“Good evening,” Daemon said. “Did you sleep well?”

Hell’s fire. Every time a son had asked him that, the boy was about to dump a basket of trouble in his lap.

“It’s Winsol,” Saetan said, turning onto his side and propping himself up on one elbow. “Why aren’t you home with your wife?”

“Because my wife is still here,” Daemon replied, resting a hand on his father’s hip.

A sultry voice. Almost a sexual purr. Daemon excelled at using sensuality to intimidate, and right now the boy was doing an excellent job.

Except he wasn’t sure intimidation was the response Daemon intended to evoke.

“Did you enjoy your gift?” Daemon asked.

“My gift?”

“You asked for solitude. We stepped back so you could celebrate Winsol Eve in your own way.”

With Jaenelle. With Witch.

“Lucivar and I talked it over, and we decided that you had a point—and a lesson we wanted to embrace now instead of later.”

“That’s good.” Maybe. He might sound more enthusiastic if he were more awake—and if Daemon’s hand resting on his hip didn’t feel more and more like a cat’s paw pressing on a mouse’s tail.

“We decided to give the first six days of Winsol to our public obligations as rulers of Dhemlan and Ebon Rih. Winsol Day will be for family. And the last six days will be private. Quiet. Jaenelle and I are going to Scelt for a couple of days, and then tuck in at the Hall.”

“That’s good,” Saetan said. And it was.

“Today, being Winsol, is for family,” Daemon said. “All of us, together. Here at the Keep.”

“All ... ?”

Sounds just outside the bedroom door. Then Daemonar shouted, “Wake up, Granpapa! Wake up!”

He heard Lucivar’s rumble, followed by giggles and squeals that moved away from the door.

“All of us,” Daemon said. “Even Tersa.”

Honoring the day with his children without the intrusion of the world and its demands. He felt foolishly sentimental—and very happy.

“Just family,” he said, his voice husky as he remembered the family members who were no longer with him.

“And Rainier. It seems he was going to be alone tonight, so Surreal declared him an honorary cousin for the occasion.”

Too much sentiment, too much feeling. And it wasn’t just him. The sensuality was a game, but having the family gathered like this meant a great deal to Daemon too.

Figuring they both needed a moment to step back from deep feelings, he said, “You got through this much of the day without opening any gifts?” If they’d managed that with a boy Daemonar’s age in their midst, they had steel balls and no nerves.

Daemon twitched his shoulders. “We let him open his, and the adults each opened one of theirs.”

Saetan studied his son—the flushed skin, the sudden avoidance of looking him in the eyes. “So. How long did it take Daemonar to get the bug out of the box?”

Daemon’s expression went absolutely blank. Then he muttered, “We found it before Marian did.”

He could picture Lucivar and Daemon scrambling around to find the exploding beetle before Marian—or Surreal—found it. Since he didn’t think either man was going to find anything amusing about that little adventure—at least for another decade or two—he’d wait until he was safely in the shower before he laughed at them.

“Then it sounds like Daemonar likes his gift. What about you?” He twisted around to plump up the pillows. “Since you were so eager to open it a few days ago, I assume you opened the gift I gave you.”

When there was no response, he stopped plumping pillows and looked at Daemon’s sulky expression. “Didn’t you like your gift?”

“I don’t know,” Daemon growled. “I haven’t been able to unravel the Craft lock you put on the damn box.”

Saetan blinked. He’d used that same lock on his sons’ gifts when they were young. It used to take Daemon less than five minutes to unravel the thing.

Winsol gifts weren’t just found in the boxes. They were the moments, and memories, treasured by the heart. Like this one.

He tried to swallow the butterflies tickling his throat. Seeing the look on Daemon’s face, he tried hard.

Then he gave up, plopped back on the pillows—and laughed.