Twilight's Dawn

A story that spans decades ...

ONE

In the dream, Daemon opened his eyes and knew three things: He was lying on a beach, he was naked, and he was dead.

There was pain in his chest. Huge, terrible pain. It had dulled to an ache now, but the memory of that pain was reason enough to keep his eyes focused on the gray metal sky above him and not allow his fingers to explore the flesh around the ache.

Shifting position, he climbed stiffly to his feet, careful to keep his eyes focused beyond his body. He wasn’t ready to see the damage, wasn’t ready to face the truth.

Promise me.

He spotted the tent, the loosely woven fabric billowing in the early-morning breeze. He’d seen that tent before, more than seventy years ago. It had held a treasure then, a promise, a dream. Now it held . . .

When he reached the tent, he slipped inside. Nothing there except a washstand in one corner. A small towel and a full jug of water sat next to the basin. He poured water in the basin and washed his face. As he raised his head, he saw the edge of the framed mirror now floating above the washstand.

Daemon closed his eyes and straightened up. Then he opened his eyes and looked in the mirror. Looked at the hole in his chest where his heart had been.

How was a man supposed to survive a wound like that? How was he supposed to pretend it wasn’t there?

Promise me.

He tried to speak, but his throat closed, preventing him from saying the words. Protecting him for a little while longer. Because once he said the words ...

Daemon opened his eyes. Early morning from the look of the sky. Groaning, he sat up, scrubbed his fingers through his hair, and looked around.

Brandy bottles were lined up on the wooden seat nearby, except for the last one, which lay on the damp ground next to him, almost empty. That explained why his shirtsleeve was wet and smelled. Just as the number of empty bottles on the wooden seat explained how he’d ended up sleeping outside—again.

Outside, he thought as he climbed to his feet, but still within the Hall. The sunken garden, that place of peace and power that his father had made for private meditations, was protected by the imposing structure Saetan had built as the SaDiablo family seat.

He found no peace in this garden—at least, not while he was sober—but he ended up here on the nights when his sleep was haunted by dreams, or on the nights when he couldn’t sleep at all.

Raised flower beds bordered all four sides except where the stone steps led down into the garden. A raised stone slab and the wooden seat were positioned between the two statues that dominated the space.

As he brushed at his clothes, Daemon kept his eyes fixed on the grass. He couldn’t look at the female statue, couldn’t look at that face. Not today. So he turned to the other statue, as he’d often done over the past year. The crouched male that was a blend of human and animal. A feline head supported by massive shoulders. Teeth bared in a snarl. One paw/ hand braced on the ground near the body of a small, sleeping woman while the other was raised above her, its claws unsheathed. Glittering, green stone eyes stared at him.

Honor, cherish, and protect. It was the male’s duty, and his privilege, to honor, cherish, and protect. To serve.

He had one last duty to perform for the woman who had been his Queen—and his wife.

Vanishing the brandy bottles, Daemon left the sunken garden and returned to his suite. The conspicuous absence of servants in the corridors meant Beale had known where he was and had made sure no one would see him before he chose to be seen.

When he reached his suite, he turned the physical lock on the door. That simple request for privacy wouldn’t alarm anyone, even today.

A fresh set of clothes was laid out for him—his typical black jacket and trousers and a white silk shirt.

He stripped out of his clothes and left them on the clothes stand for Jazen to deal with. Naked, he stepped in front of the dresser and looked in the mirror. No torn flesh. No gaping hole in his chest. He saw the visual evidence of his pain only when dreaming.

Promise me.

Tears filled his eyes as he looked at his gold wedding ring. His right hand trembled. His left hand closed into a fist so tight his nails broke the skin in his palm. Protective. Resisting the need to obey that last command just a little while longer.

A year to grieve, because your heart won’t ever let go if I ask for less. So take your year to grieve, and when that year is over, promise me you’ll take up your life again. Promise me, Daemon.

They’d had seventy years together. Seventy rich and wonderful years. Jaenelle had been healthy and vibrant right up to the afternoon when she had kissed him and gone to her room for her usual nap, leaving him in his study with a mound of paperwork.

She lay down to take a nap—and never woke up.

Dreams made flesh did not become demon-dead. She had slipped away from him without warning, without a chance to say a final good-bye—or hold on to her for a while longer. But a few months earlier, during a quiet evening of the last Winsol they’d shared, Jaenelle had asked for a promise that amounted to her last command.

One year. She had been dead one year, and it was time to keep his promise.

He called in a small, beautifully carved jewelry box and used Craft to open the lid. Inside was her wedding ring.

Forcing his left hand open, he removed his wedding ring, placed it next to hers, closed the lid, and vanished the box.

Then he went into the bathroom to shower away the grief—and hide the last tears.

Comfortably settled in a small, sunny breakfast room, Surreal ate a solitary meal and waited. Sadi would be down soon, dressed as elegantly as usual—a contrast to the gold eyes that had been dulled by grief for the past year.

She almost hoped those eyes, and Daemon’s highly intelligent brain, would remain dulled by grief for one more day. She would prefer having this particular fight after the fact.

The door opened. Daemon walked into the room, followed by Beale, who set a fresh pot of coffee on the table and retreated.

Daemon took a seat and poured a cup of coffee for himself. “Surreal.”

“Sadi.” She topped off her own coffee, debated for a moment about the wisdom of scratching his temper, then leaned back in her seat and stared at him.

Grief had dimmed the beauty of his face, but that wasn’t a permanent change. Seventy years was nothing to someone from the long-lived races, and since he was only eighteen hundred years old, he still looked like a well-toned Warlord Prince in his prime—seductive, sensual, washing the room with sexual heat just by passing through. She had spent the past few years discouraging idiot women who looked at Jaenelle and figured Sadi had to be looking for sex outside of the marriage bed because how could a man who looked like that want to bed an old, white-haired woman in her nineties?

Jaenelle had gotten old in years, but she was never old, and whether those idiot women wanted to believe it or not, Jaenelle Angelline had been more than able to handle Daemon Sadi in bed and out.

Surreal just hoped she had done her job as second-in-command sufficiently well that Sadi hadn’t been aware of those women. He wouldn’t have done anything while Jaenelle lived because that would have called attention to why those women were sniffing around him. And he hadn’t been interested in doing anything for the past year. But now? Had any of them come to his attention enough that he would hone his temper and go hunting?

“Something wrong?” Daemon asked, sounding edgy and brittle.

“You look like shit.”

“You do know how to flatter me.”

The silence that followed was uneasy on her part and chilly turning toward predatory on his. That was why she wanted to jump up and hug Beale when he entered the room and set a covered dish in front of Daemon.

Beale lifted the cover. Daemon looked at the simple breakfast and swallowed hard.

None of them knew if Daemon’s refusal to eat anything before the midday meal was a personal gesture of mourning or an inability to keep down food during the first few hours after waking up alone, but they had all known he would be at the breakfast table today whether he could keep the food down or not.

Daemon said, “Thank you, Beale,” picked up his fork, and began to eat his first breakfast in a year.

Surreal finished her own breakfast, glad of the delay, however fleeting, before she told him about the day’s task.

“What are you doing here?” Daemon asked. “I thought you would be in Amdarh for . . . something Holt had mentioned.”

“It’s a celebration for Lady Zhara, and it’s next week.” She swallowed some coffee, then added, “You’ll also be attending.”

He put down his fork. “No, I will not.”

“Zhara is the Queen of Amdarh, the capital city of Dhemlan, and you are the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan. So, yes, you will be attending.”

The room chilled, and Daemon said too softly, “No, I will not.”

She waited. He’d regained enough of himself that his face and eyes didn’t betray the vicious internal struggle she knew had to be going on—just as she knew the decision had been made for him and who had made it.

“So you’ll be there as my companion?” Daemon asked coldly.

The moment he appeared at a social event, everyone would know he’d ended his year of mourning, and there would be women drooling over the chance to ride his cock—and make use of anything else they could squeeze from the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan. There were also women who believed they were in love with him and wanted to gain his attention.

And there was a woman who had loved him for a lot of years and would continue to do her best to hide it because that was still the only way to help him.

“Actually, sugar, I’ll be there as your guard, but I have a thigh sheath for my stiletto, so I’ll still be wearing a dress.”

Daemon blinked. The chill faded from the room. “You’ll have a knife?”

“I’ll have several. I usually do. But at least one will be visible, so no one can say they didn’t have sufficient warning if things get messy.”

His lips twitched. He picked up his fork and took another bite of his breakfast. “So you came to the Hall this morning to tell me about this celebration?”

Shit. “No, I came to clean out Jaenelle’s suite. Helene will help me.”

Daemon set down the fork again. “No,” he crooned, “you will not.”

She’d sometimes wondered if, with the right provocation, he would kill her without hesitation. She didn’t have to wonder anymore. The answer was in those glazed, murderously sleepy gold eyes.

She gave a pointed look to the bare ring finger of his left hand. “You made your promise, Sadi, and I made mine. Today I’m going to keep that promise. Jaenelle wanted her suite cleaned out after the year of mourning ended. There are specific things she wanted saved and taken to the Keep. The rest are to be given away or sold.”

He snarled at her, but it was a sound of pain rather than anger. Unfortunately, being driven by pain made him more dangerous.

She pointed a finger at him. “And that right there is the reason why I’m doing this and you’re not.” She wanted to get out of this room before her bowels loosened past controlling, but she didn’t want to spend the next few decades wondering if the Sadist would pay her a visit. “You would never disobey your Queen. Why do you think I would disregard a request from her?”

He looked away.

“If there is something particular you would like to keep and it’s not on the list of items Jaenelle wanted stored at Ebon Askavi, I’ll set it aside for you,” Surreal said gently.

Daemon hesitated, then shook his head.

“Will you be around if I need to ask you about something?”

“I’ll be in my study at least for the morning,” he replied. “I expect Holt has a long list of items he wants to review with me.” He pushed back from the table. “Keep your promise, Surreal. I won’t interfere.”

She waited until he left the room before she allowed herself to sag for a moment. Then she straightened up and took a last sip of coffee. The sooner she and Helene cleaned out Jaenelle’s suite, the better it would be for all of them.

TWO

The Arachnian Queen, the Weaver of Dreams, delicately touched one thread of the web spun by Witch before the living myth became a song in the Darkness. This web had slept many years because the dreams it held had been too unshaped to become flesh. But something had changed, and now the golden spider could sense the whisper of wishes, of longings.

Specific dreamers. Most unusual to tie threads to specific dreamers when the shaping had not yet begun. Too much chance that the dream would never be flesh if one of the dreamers stopped wishing, stopped wanting. But that was why Witch had made the web this way—because these dreamers had to wish long enough, had to want hard enough, even if they weren’t aware of the wanting.

As long as the dreamers gave her something to work with, the Weaver would keep her promise and add to the web Witch had begun. And someday, another Arachnian Queen would add the last strand to this dream.

THREE

Standing in the family parlor of Lucivar’s eyrie, Daemon grinned like a fool and didn’t give a damn. He looked at the Eyrien baby girl in his arms and purred, “Hello, beautiful.”

She studied him with solemn eyes. Then she broke into a grin.

“Hell’s fire,” Lucivar said. “She’s barely out of the womb, and she’s already half-seduced by your voice.”

“As she should be,” Daemon replied, loosening the blanket enough to get a better look at his niece. “Look at those perfect little fingers and those perfect little toes.”

“She is a darling.”

Daemon tucked the blanket around the baby. “Does Surreal know you named your daughter Titian?”

“Not yet. I have to go up to the northern camp tomorrow and most likely will be gone overnight. Surreal is coming here in the morning and will stay with Marian until I get back.”

Had Surreal told him she would be staying in Ebon Rih? Or would he find a note on his desk when he returned to the Hall? Sometimes he had the feeling that she was trying to avoid him, but he didn’t know why. Did she have a lover she didn’t want catching his attention, or was she still pissed off about the woman he’d bedded one night a few weeks ago? Damned hard to tell with her lately.

“Is there trouble?” Daemon asked.

“No, but I’ve already postponed this visit twice while waiting for the witchling to be born.” Lucivar reached for the baby. “Let me have her.”

Daemon took a step back. “Why?”

“Since I helped make her, I get to hold her.”

“You’re sharing.”

Lucivar narrowed his eyes. “Fine. But if she messes her diaper, you’re not handing her back until you clean her up.”

Daemon looked at Titian, who began grinning again the moment she had his full attention. “Tch,” he said. “You have a silly papa. He thinks I’m going to be scared off by a little poop.”

Lucivar snorted. “Suit yourself.”

Daemonar bounded into the parlor. “I get to hold her now.”

“No,” they said.

“Yes, I can,” Daemonar insisted. “Mother said I can.”

“No,” they said.

“Why not?”

“Because we’re older than you, and we outrank you,” Lucivar said. “So we get to hold her.”

“Neither of those things are true about me,” Saetan said as he walked into the parlor. “Hand her over.”

Daemon hesitated, but the gleam in his father’s eyes warned him not to start this particular pissing contest. So he transferred Titian into Saetan’s arms.

“Come on, boyo,” Saetan said to Daemonar. “You can sit over there with me, and we’ll both admire your sister.”

Daemonar gave his father and uncle a surly look that was just shy of an actual challenge. Then he turned his back on them and followed his grandfather.

Daemon held his breath while he watched Saetan cross the room. He didn’t realize Lucivar had done the same thing until he heard his brother’s careful sigh.

“Coffee?” Lucivar asked.

Daemon nodded, then said, “We’ll be in the kitchen if you need us.”

“We’ll be here,” Saetan replied dryly enough to tell them both they had been dismissed.

They retreated to the kitchen.

Plenty of food, Daemon noted as he eyed the various dishes on the counters. “Anything you need?”

“Besides help eating all this before it spoils?” Lucivar asked, letting out a huff of laughter. He poured coffee into two mugs. “No, we have plenty, even if we’re feeding a young male who claims to be hungry again before the dishes from the previous meal leave the table.”

“Judging by the look he gave us, he’s clearly left childhood behind within the past few weeks,” Daemon said, accepting the mug of coffee.

“Yeah, he’s in the ‘push until he gets his ass kicked’ stage, so I can look forward to a couple of decades of continuous pissing contests while he’s making the transition from boy to youth. Once his brain starts working again and he’s allowed the privileges of a young adult male, the pissing contests should lessen to one a week instead of several times a day. Or so I’m told. At first Marian sympathized with him about getting into an argument with me about every damn little thing, but she’s feeling less generous now that she finds herself dealing with a young Warlord Prince trying to fuss over her and give her orders instead of being around a son who takes orders.”

Laughing, they both leaned back against the counter.

“Marian is all right?” Daemon asked. He’d arrived at the eyrie an hour ago and he hadn’t seen her yet.

“She’s fine. Tired, but that’s to be expected. No reason for her not to get some sleep when we’re all here to watch the baby.”

“No reason at all.” Daemon studied Lucivar. “But something is wrong.”

Lucivar turned his head toward the window that looked out over Marian’s garden. “How long are we supposed to pretend, old son?”

“Pretend what?”

“That we don’t know there is something wrong with Father.”

He knew Lucivar would be the one to ask the question, to finally say the words.

“He’s old, Prick.”

“Yeah, I know that, Bastard. He’s old. But it’s showing now. Has been for the past few months.”

“I don’t feel him at the level of the Black anymore,” Daemon said quietly. “I’m not sure if that’s significant or not, but when I was with him at the Keep’s library a few weeks ago, I realized I was the only one standing in the abyss at the depth of the Black.”

Lucivar looked at him, a silent question.

“I’ll talk to him,” Daemon said.

Daemonar bounded into the kitchen. “Mother is going to feed Titian. Want to watch?”

“No,” Lucivar said firmly, “and neither do you.”

“Yes, I do!”

Lucivar stared at his son until Daemonar hunched in on himself.

“Another time,” Lucivar said, “but not today.”

“Yes, sir.” The subdued posture lasted until Daemonar focused on the covered dishes on the counter. “If I can’t watch Mother feed Titian, can I have a nutcake instead? And milk?”

“Fine. We’ll all have something. Sit down, puppy.”

Daemonar pulled out a chair at the big kitchen table and sat—and looked much too innocent.

*He wasn’t interested in watching his sister have a meal, was he?* Daemon asked Lucivar.

*Sure, he was.* Lucivar set his mug down and began pulling plates out of the cupboard. *But he’s smart enough to realize he could negotiate getting a treat for himself if I wouldn’t let him watch.*

Daemon held the coffee in his mouth until he was sure he could swallow without choking. Then he looked at the archway and noticed Saetan. The hint of sadness in the old man’s eyes was hidden the moment Saetan realized he was being watched.

*I’ll be back,* Daemon told Lucivar. Setting his mug in the sink, he looked at Saetan. “You’re leaving?”

“I think our Ladies could use some quiet time,” Saetan replied.

“In that case, I’ll go with you.”

A raised eyebrow to indicate a father knew an excuse when he heard one. But there was wariness now in Saetan’s gold eyes.

They left the eyrie and rode the Red Wind back to the Keep.

Daemon made no comment about the choice of Winds. He said nothing at all while he followed Saetan to one of the sitting rooms. He watched his father like a predator coming to some conclusions about the prey.

“Do you need fresh blood?” Daemon asked.

“No,” Saetan replied.

“Yarbarah?”

“No. Why do you ask, Prince?”

“Because the daylight hours are draining you in a way they didn’t before. Because you need the support of a cane more often than not these days.”

“I’m a Guardian,” Saetan said testily. “The daylight hours have always been draining. And I’ve had a bad leg for a lot of years.”

Watching. Studying. And then knowing.

“When was the last time you drank a glass of yarbarah, Prince SaDiablo?” Daemon asked softly.

Saetan tensed at the choice of title but didn’t correct it.

“When was the last time you had any fresh blood?”

Saetan turned to face him. “I haven’t had yarbarah or fresh blood since the day after my daughter died.”

“That was seventeen years ago.” A chill went through Daemon, but he couldn’t tell if it was temper or fear. “You haven’t drunk yarbarah or fresh blood for seventeen years?”

It began making sense—the slow decline, the absence of the Black Jewels that Saetan no longer wore, his seldom being available anymore during daylight hours.

“You’re changing from Guardian to demon-dead, aren’t you? You’ve lied to us for seventeen years?”

Saetan’s eyes glazed with temper. “I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

“Oh, yes, you do. And we both know why, don’t we, Prince SaDiablo?”

“Yes, we both know why,” Saetan replied with a snarl. “But I’m not the only one who has kept a secret, am I, High Lord?”

Daemon rocked back on his heels. Then he glided from one end of the sitting room to the other, too restless to stand still.

“I didn’t want that for you,” Saetan said quietly. “I didn’t expect that from you. To manage the family estates, yes. But not that.”

“I am my father’s son,” Daemon said just as quietly as he glided past. “Is that why you’ve let yourself decline? Because I intruded?”

“No, Daemon. No. Witch was the daughter of my soul. She was the reason I became a Guardian and extended my years for so long. I never intended to live beyond her.”

When he reached his father again, Daemon stopped. “But it’s different now. You have children who still need you, grandchildren who need you.”

“The same can be said for every father who loves his children. We all die—and we all have to let go, both the dead and the living.”

It’s not fair! But that was a boy’s cry, a response to losing someone he loved. The man who had been cautiously exploring Hell for the past few decades understood why the dead needed to be kept away from the living most of the time.

“How long before you make the transition to demon-dead?” Daemon asked.

“A few months.”

“And how long after that before the final death?”

Saetan hesitated. “A few years.”

“A dozen or more?”

“A handful or less.”

So damn hard to breathe. Why was it so hard to breathe? “Are you going to tell Lucivar?”

Saetan closed his eyes for a moment. “And confirm what he’s already guessed? If you think it will help him accept it, then I will.”

“Whether he accepts it or not, you owe it to him.” Daemon took another turn around the room. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“Do you want the truth?”

“Of course I want the truth!”

“I didn’t tell Lucivar because I didn’t want to spend a couple of decades fighting with him over a choice that is mine to make—and that is as much a part of living as every other choice. I wanted to enjoy the time I could have with him and Marian and Daemonar.”

“And me?” Daemon asked. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Saetan took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “Because you are your father’s son. You put aside mourning, as Jaenelle wanted you to, but you didn’t let her go enough to take up your life.”

Cold rage whispered in his blood. “Be careful, old man.”

Saetan smiled. “Yes. That look in your eyes. That’s why I didn’t tell you. You weren’t ready to accept another loss because her absence still haunts you, still hurts you.”

“I’ve ‘taken up my life,’ as you put it,” Daemon snarled.

“You’ve given in to your body’s needs and had sex with a woman on occasion, but you haven’t had a lover,” Saetan countered. “When loneliness eats at you enough, you respond to an invitation that offers more companionship than sex—at least for a while. You might even feel some affection for the woman once you do get to the bedding stage. But she’s still not a lover. Not to you. Then one day she stops drinking the contraceptive brew and comes to you ripe and fertile—and you can scent it in her body and in her emotions. That’s the day you walk away from her without a second thought. Because you don’t—can’t—love her, and while you trust a few women enough to have sex with them, you don’t trust them with the possibility of having your child. And some part of you is afraid that if you ever do trust a woman that much, she will be the wrong woman, and you’ll end up betrayed just as I was.”

Daemon said nothing.

“I knew that when you were ready to face my leaving, we would have this conversation,” Saetan said gently.

“And now we have.” The words came out colder than he’d intended. He had escorted many women over the past few years while fulfilling his obligations as the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan. But he’d bedded damn few of them, far fewer than Saetan assumed. He could get physical relief well enough without a partner, so he’d given in to the craving to touch another body only a handful of times since he’d last kissed his wife. And the last invitation he’d accepted, the one that seemed to offend Surreal for some inexplicable reason, had scratched at memories of being a pleasure slave. Instead of bringing some comfort, the sex had left him feeling dangerously mean. Because he knew too well what the Sadist wanted to do to that woman, Beale now had strict orders to keep the bitch out of the Hall, and Holt, his secretary, now checked the guest list for her name before accepting any invitations on behalf of his Prince.

Pushing aside his personal life, Daemon considered his duties. “When you decided to retire from the living Realms, you taught me what I needed to know to take over the family estates and fortune. Are you going to teach me what I need to know about Hell, or is that something I’m expected to learn for myself?”

Saetan studied him for a long moment. “I’ll teach you. It’s the least I can do for my heir.”

FOUR

“ Would you like to hold her?” Marian asked.

“No,” Surreal said quickly. Maybe. Where was this yearning to hold a baby coming from? “I think my mother would have been flattered that you named your daughter Titian.”

“And you?”

“I’m . . .” She sighed. “As the Shaladoran people say, my heart is too full for words.”

Marian smiled at Surreal. Then she looked at Titian. “This little bundle is asleep, and Daemonar will be in school for a couple more hours. Why don’t we go into the kitchen? I seem to be outeating my men since the birth. It’s a little scary.”

Surreal laughed softly as they walked from the parlor to the kitchen. Having arrived in time to help clean up the carnage Lucivar and Daemonar called breakfast, she didn’t think anyone could outeat those two, but she’d been told to encourage any desire Marian had for food.

Setting the baby’s basket at one end of the kitchen table, Marian rummaged in the cold box.

“Looks like there’s a couple good servings left of this vegetable casserole. And there’s a beef soup, and . . .” Marian looked over her shoulder. “Just tell me what you have a taste for. I can probably find it in one of these dishes.”

Surreal looked at the overflowing counters and the cold box that didn’t have room left in it for a spoon. “Is it traditional to provide this much food to a new mother’s family? Seems a little excessive.”

“How many dishes did you bring with you this morning?” Marian asked.

She set her teeth in a smile. “I suggested waiting a week to send the offerings from the Dea al Mon, the Hall, and my house. I was overruled—and anyone who thinks hearth witches are gentle, fuzzy-hearted women has never dealt with Mrs. Beale.”

“Mrs. Beale is an excellent cook, but she isn’t a hearth witch,” Marian countered.

“I don’t care.”

Chuckling, Marian pulled covered dishes out of the cold box. “We’ll have the vegetable casserole and some of that crusty bread.”

“Suits me.”

“And after we eat, you can tell me what’s wrong.”

“Nothing is wrong. Hey hey hey! You’re not supposed to be using Craft yet!”

“Keep your voice down,” Marian warned, glancing at Titian’s basket. Then she raised the dish. “It’s just a warming spell. Basic Craft. Nothing that requires power on the level of my Jewels, or any Jewel for that matter. Even Lucivar doesn’t fuss about me using this much Craft, and he fussed about everything through the whole of this pregnancy.”

“I don’t care if he’d fuss about it—you’re not doing it while he’s gone.” Surreal took the casserole dish, set it above the counter, and put a warming spell on the dish to heat up the food in a few minutes.

“Is it all right if I make the coffee?” Marian asked too sweetly.

“I’m not being unreasonable about this.”

“Yes, you are. But that’s because something is wrong, and you won’t talk about it.”

“Nothing is wrong,” Surreal growled.

“I saw your face this morning when Daemon’s name came up.”

She had learned the hard way that emotions left to fester could turn into a poison, so she moved to the other end of the kitchen, away from the table and the baby.

“For most of the years he and Jaenelle were married, I shielded Sadi from bitches who wanted to see how seriously he took his marriage vows, especially during the later years of Jaenelle’s life. Some of us have not forgotten what happened when Lektra tried to take Jaenelle’s place—or that Daemon threatened to kill all the Dhemlan witches if anyone tried to get between him and his wife again. I’ve made a particular effort to keep one bitch away from him, even after he began escorting women to social events. I can’t tell you her real name because I’ve been calling her ‘Dorothea’ since the day I met her.”

“Mother Night,” Marian whispered.

“I protected him for years. And the first time I spend a few days with the Dea al Mon and he’s in Amdarh on his own for some social obligations, he ends up sleeping with the bitch.” Surreal raked her fingers through her hair. “I don’t know what that says about him—if he’s become that lonely or that unaware of the intentions of the women who are all but stripping down in public to get his attention—but I do know the family history, and I do know Sadi is his father’s son. Anyone who knows those things has good reason to be afraid of what could happen if his temper snaps the wrong way. The purge in Dhemlan would be devastating.”

“Do you think he’d . . . ?” Marian cleared her throat. “Of course he would. What happened to the Dorothea woman?”

“Nothing as far as I can tell. I think she was hoping to keep him interested long enough to get pregnant, but it appears that something about her repulsed him once she got him into bed, and he’s avoided her since then.”

“So she’s not pregnant?” Marian asked.

Surreal shook her head. “No. Thank the Darkness.” Then she sighed. “He needs someone, Marian. He would deny it with his last breath, but he needs someone to cuddle and fuss over.”

“If he and Jaenelle had had children . . .” Now Marian sighed.

“Yeah. But they didn’t.”

“Not all the women who are interested in being with him are calculating bitches, are they?”

“No, some of them are young, starry-eyed, and love the Prince they see at social functions with all their hearts. But they haven’t seen the cold side of him. They haven’t seen the Sadist. And they think if he made any kind of commitment to them, he would love them the way he loved Jaenelle.”

“She was the love of his life,” Marian said. “He’ll never love another woman the way he loved her.”

“No, he won’t. And sooner or later, any of those starry-eyed girls would break and become bitter under the truth of that. And when they became bitter, he would become colder and more distant—and less capable of giving any woman any kind of affection.” And that would be a waste of a good man.

Marian’s eyes filled with tears. She waved a hand when Surreal touched her shoulder. “Just moods. Happens for a while after the birth. I feel too much.” She looked toward the counter. “And you’d better get that casserole out of the dish while it’s still edible.”

“Shit.” For the next few minutes they busied themselves with putting the food on the table and getting themselves settled.

Marian cut a piece of the crusty bread and handed it to Surreal. “Do you think it’s foolish to wish that Daemon finds someone to love again someday?”

“No,” Surreal said, looking at Titian asleep in her basket. “I don’t think wishing is foolish.”

As the Weaver of Dreams tended the tangled web that Witch had left in the golden spiders’ care, she listened to longings, yearnings, and wishes that resonated with that web—and added more threads.

FIVE

Daemon had known for three years that this day was coming, but he still wasn’t ready. Week by week, he’d watched his father’s gentle decline—the body getting more frail, the power fading. But the mind was still sharp and strong. That was why Saetan had chosen this day to say his good-byes.

Why is Grandfather going to leave us?

How were they supposed to answer Daemonar’s question? What were they supposed to say to Mikal and Beron about the man who had loved their mother and protected them after her physical death—and had had the strength to let Sylvia go when she was ready to become a whisper in the Darkness?

Daemon knew what Saetan would say: They were supposed to answer the questions and take care of the living just like every other man who faced this day and all the tomorrows that would come after.

He looked at Lucivar. They were the last ones left in Saetan’s bedroom at the Keep.

Lucivar looked at him. Resistance, denial, and then acceptance flashed in those gold eyes.

“Tell your brother what you know about me,” Saetan told Lucivar.

Lucivar hesitated, then nodded. “I will.” Then to Daemon, “I’ll be nearby.”

Daemon waited until Lucivar left the room before sitting on the edge of the bed.

“You have the letters I wrote to Mikal and Beron?” Saetan asked.

“And the ones for Daemonar and Titian. I also have the ones Sylvia wrote to her sons. I’ll abide by the instructions she gave you and see that the boys get the letters at the appropriate times.”

“Good.” Saetan shifted against the pillows. Then he smiled. “We’ve said our good-byes. I want you to go now and not come back until it’s done.”

“Your body?”

“Most often, the husks of the demon-dead end up nourishing the Dark Realm, but Draca and Geoffrey—and even Lorn—didn’t think that was appropriate for me. So the empty vessel will go to the fire, and the ashes will be mixed with the soil in one of the courtyard gardens here at the Keep.”

“In the same garden as Jaenelle’s ashes?”

“Yes. Sylvia chose a garden at the Hall in Hell, but ...”

“Your place is here, with the daughter of your soul.”

“Yes.”

Show some balls, old son, and do this for him. “We’re not going to let you linger here alone for a few more days.”

“I don’t want you here, Daemon. I want a clean break from the family.”

“I know.” He held out his right hand, his Black Jewel glowing with its reservoir of power. “You’re the one who taught me that the High Lord is sometimes merciful.” And that there can be a price for that mercy.

Saetan looked at Daemon’s hand, then looked into his eyes. “Can you live with this?”

He needed a moment to be sure his voice would be steady. “Yes, Father, I can.”

Saetan closed his eyes and held out his hand.

Daemon closed his hands around his father’s. So little power left sustaining that flesh, that mind. So little holding the Self to this life.

The Black absorbed that power between one breath and the next, and Saetan Daemon SaDiablo, Prince of the Darkness and High Lord of Hell, became a whisper in the Darkness.

After tucking Saetan’s hand under the covers, Daemon left the bedroom and went to the sitting room where the others waited.

Daemonar was cuddled up with Surreal. Little Titian was dozing on Marian’s lap. Lucivar stood close to them.

He’d told Saetan the truth. He could live with that particular duty, but he would deal with the grief of that choice in private. The family patriarch took care of his family first and his own heart second.

Lucivar shifted, just enough to catch Surreal’s attention and then Marian’s.

Daemon looked at the women and children, but it was his brother’s eyes that he met and held. “He’s gone.”

Alone in the passenger compartment of the small Coach, Surreal shifted restlessly in her seat. Part of her wished that Sadi had stayed in the compartment with her, distracting her from the grief she wanted to keep at bay a little while longer; the other part was glad he’d chosen to drive the Coach, since riding the Black Winds would get them back to the Hall faster.

It also meant she needed to make some decisions faster.

There was something wrong with Sadi, something more than the grief they were all feeling. That something had begun three years ago, shortly after they’d learned that Saetan had stopped drinking yarbarah and was allowing his power to fade—and, with it, the body that had been sustained by that power for more than fifty thousand years. Since then, Daemon had become increasingly withdrawn. Not from the family. He played with Daemonar and Titian, responded to Marian with warmth and love, and seemed the same as he’d always been with Lucivar. But she’d noticed he’d become colder and more calculating when he escorted a woman to a social event—and more often than not, the woman didn’t get as much as a good-night kiss, let alone anything more intimate.

At first she’d worried that the coldness was her fault. After some internal debate, and with Marian’s encouragement, she’d told Sadi why she’d been so pissed off with him about the bitch he’d bedded shortly before Titian was born. He’d accepted her explanation, even said he understood. But he began withdrawing from physical contact with everyone but the family.

She had been available whenever he needed a companion for a social obligation, and that had kept the bitches who lusted for ambition away from him. Had her presence also kept away the women who lusted for him?

Sadi hadn’t had sex in three years? Well, neither had she. That wasn’t the point. The point was he’d begun building a wall between himself and everyone else since the day he knew his father was leaving them, and she was worried about what would happen to him if that wall became so thick that no one could reach him.

But right now, there wasn’t anything she could do. Daemon was closed off with the Warlord who was supposed to be their driver, and she didn’t want to think about anything except her own aching heart and the man who had been a wonderful father to all of them.

He had managed the SaDiablo family’s wealth and estates for close to a century. He had been the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan for almost as long. And he had explored a Realm that few among the living had seen—and fewer still could survive. But until a few hours ago, he had still been a son, had still been the heir, had still had the illusion that he could hand all the duties and responsibilities back to the man who had shouldered them for a very, very long time.

Now the illusion was gone and it was time to officially shoulder two other titles: patriarch of the SaDiablo family—and High Lord of Hell.

Daemon escorted Surreal to the large sitting room in the family wing of the Hall. He thought she’d been steady enough when they’d left the Keep, but maybe he shouldn’t have left her alone in the Coach. Maybe she’d been pushing grief away as fiercely as he’d been.

This sitting room had a lived-in shabbiness seen nowhere else in the Hall, a kind of broken-in comfort. Only family and close friends were invited to this room. Bookshelves held the books of immediate interest, cupboards held toys for Titian and games for Daemonar and Mikal, and there were separate cupboards for the Scelties’ toys and chewies. There was a hodgepodge of sofas, chairs, lamps, and tables, and a round table that served as a game table as well as a place to have a light meal.

It was a private room that wasn’t meant to be seen by any but the most trusted.

“Beale is bringing up something to eat,” Daemon said, watching Surreal weave around the room, barely avoiding the furniture. The last time he’d seen her this way, the last time he’d spent time with her in this room while she’d cried and sworn and ripped a chair to pieces before she’d fallen into an exhausted sleep, was the night after Rainier died and was taken to the Keep to make the transition to demon-dead.

“I’m not hungry.” Her voice was stripped of emotion.

“I’m not either, but we should both try to eat.”

She moved as if she were drunk, but that lack of grace was caused by exhaustion and the grief finally breaking through her control.

“Do you remember the first time the High Lord kicked you out of his study?” Daemon asked.

“He kicked you out too,” she grumbled as tears slid down her face.

“Because of you.”

“It wasn’t my fault Kaelas helped Graysfang get past the shields I’d put around my bedroom.”

“You didn’t see Saetan’s face when you said you’d rather have a wolf in your bed than a man because a wolf could lick his own balls.”

She laughed a little and wiped at the tears, but they kept flowing. “He let me be family. I wasn’t, not by birth or blood, but he didn’t care about that. He treated me like family, hugging and scolding and . . .”

The effort to hold back a sob seemed to break her completely.

“Surreal.” Daemon gathered her up and held her close. Not a child who needed protection. Not anymore. If he’d protected her at times in her life, she had also protected him. And Jaenelle. They had circled around it for a lot of years, but he recognized that he and Surreal had developed a partnership committed to Jaenelle.

“That stupid bastard!” Surreal cried. “I want to kick his ass for dying on us!”

“So do I,” he said, holding her tighter as his eyes filled with tears. “So do I. But it was time for him to go.”

“That’s not the point.”

That little bit of snarl helped her regain some emotional balance. When she eased back, he let her go—and felt strangely hollow.

“Surreal . . .”

She scooted around him, heading for the bathroom adjoining the sitting room. “I’m going to wash my face. If Beale hears me sniffling, he’ll have ten Healers up here trying to listen to my chest. My lungs healed decades ago, but if I so much as sneeze, he’s there with sweaters and blankets. And Helton is even worse about . . .”

Whatever else she said was lost when she closed the bathroom door.

Calling in a handkerchief, Daemon wiped his own face and was sufficiently tidy when Beale brought in the tray.

“It’s done?” Beale asked.

“Yes, it’s done. Saetan is a whisper in the Darkness.”

“Then please accept our condolences.”

“Thank you, Beale. And please tell Mrs. Beale that I appreciate her preparing something for Lady Surreal and me so late in the evening.”

“I’ll tell her. Holt is staying with your mother and Mikal tonight. Lady Tersa has been . . . distracted . . . today, and since there is no journeymaid staying with her at the moment, we thought it best if someone was at the cottage.”

“I agree. I should have thought of it myself when Tersa decided not to come with us.” Daemon glanced at the clock on the mantel. “There’s no point disturbing them tonight. I’ll talk to Tersa and Mikal tomorrow. And Manny.” He’d have to walk carefully around his chat with Manny. She’d been feeling her years lately and had begun fussing about what would happen to the Blood who became demon-dead when Saetan no longer ruled Hell. “Do you agree?”

If Beale was surprised to be asked the question, he didn’t show it. “Yes . . . Prince. I agree.”

High Lord. The title hung in the air between them, proving that Beale had been aware of a great many things these past years and had kept his own counsel.

“For now, it will remain Prince Sadi,” Daemon said, then added silently, At least in public and in this Realm.

“Understood.”

Surreal emerged from the bathroom a moment after Beale left the sitting room, making Daemon suspect that she’d waited in order to avoid the butler.

“Any better?” he asked gently.

She shook her head. “Sadi? Could I stay here with you tonight?”

He’d been reaching for one of the covers on the dishes. He stopped and looked at her. “Of course you can stay. Your suite is always ready for you.”

She swallowed hard. “No. Could I stay with you tonight?”

He stared at her, sure he’d misunderstood.

“I don’t want to be alone.” She let out a watery laugh as the tears started again. “There are probably a hundred people in this house, so it’s not like being alone . . .”

Yes, it is, he thought. He’d been surrounded by those people too, but he’d still felt painfully alone after Jaenelle died. And still felt alone most of the time—and still sometimes had the dream where he looked in a mirror and saw the hole in his chest where his heart had been.

“Surreal.” He put his arms around her, wanting to give her some measure of the comfort she was seeking—and found some comfort when she wrapped her arms around him.

My father is dead.

The two people who had truly understood him in ways no one else ever could were gone.

He brushed his lips over her temple and felt something inside him stir. It had been so long since he’d held someone, and even longer since he’d dared hold someone when he was feeling vulnerable.

His lips traveled down her cheek, and he tasted tears. When he started to pull back, she kissed his jaw, then his mouth. A soft kiss, asking for nothing but contact.

Then her mouth warmed, moved, asked for more. And he gave her more because it felt so good to hold someone again.

With each brush of their bodies, something in him stirred, wanted, needed, yearned. But he started to pull away because she’d asked for comfort and not . . .

“Daemon.” Surreal took his face in her hands. “Freely given, freely taken. Just for tonight. So neither of us will be alone tonight. All right?”

She wasn’t a child, and the dream he’d waited for had come and gone.

My father is dead.

He allowed himself a moment to consider nothing except what he needed tonight.

“Come with me.” Clasping her hand, he led her out of the sitting room, not sure where he was going, not caring where he was going as long as they ended up in a room with a bed.

Except when he reached the first available room, he hesitated, and then bared his teeth in a snarl before he moved on, searching for something because now it was more than a desire for comfort and sex driving him, and that something was tangled around this particular woman.

By the time he found the room that felt right, he didn’t know where he was in the Hall and he didn’t care. It had a bed, and it had her. Heat pulsed in his veins, but it burned in her too because she tore at his shirt in order to touch skin, and her purr of satisfaction as she ran her hands over his chest and shoulders tripped something inside him. A moment before, he’d been pulling at her clothes too. Now he became savagely gentle, letting her strip him down before he used Craft to cuff her hands behind her back.

“Sadi,” she snarled.

Using Craft, he pulled back the covers and plumped up the pillows.

“Want me?” he purred.

Aroused past prudence, she tried to bite him.

He laughed, but he said, “Do that again, and the only thing you’ll get is a cold shower.”

She swore at him but let him coax her into bed. Then she swore some more while he played with her, stroking, petting, kissing, and licking until she was too caught up in sensation to form words. He gave her small climaxes that eased the need without eliminating the need, and enjoyed the slow emergence of her skin as he removed her clothing piece by piece.

Finally he released her hands and slid into her, relishing each moan and plea for more. So he gave her more. And then, when he couldn’t hold back his own need for release, he gave her everything.

Surreal drifted up to awareness. For the first time in weeks, maybe longer, she felt relaxed, easy. There was some soreness, but that was to be expected since she hadn’t had a man inside her for three years. She suspected she would find a few bruises from the times when Sadi had edged into rough play, but nothing she hadn’t asked for—and he probably had a few bruises of his own from her hands and teeth.

She hoped he wasn’t going to get pissy when he saw them.

She wanted to float a while longer, keeping her thoughts confined to the delicious feel of the bed and Daemon’s hand resting on her belly, warm and heavy. But when she opened her eyes ...

Her vision had been so tear-blurred last night, and Sadi had taken them through so many corridors to find a discreet bedroom, she hadn’t known where they ended up. And last night the room hadn’t mattered, as long as it had a bed or sofa. Hell’s fire, last night she wouldn’t have cared if they’d ended up on the floor. But now ...

His psychic scent was much too prominent for this to be a seldom-used bedroom. Maybe this was the bedroom he used when a woman stayed overnight for sex? The thought cut, but she’d asked for something they both needed last night, and she’d told him it was freely given. So she couldn’t quibble now if he hadn’t seen it differently from the other sex he’d had since he’d been anyone’s lover. Even if those other women hadn’t recognized the difference, she’d lived around him long enough to know that Daemon as a sex partner, even when he was giving great sex, paled in comparison with Daemon as a lover.

That thought added a wash of sadness over her contentment. Better to slip out now and go back to her suite to clean up and maybe get another hour of sleep. She would meet him at the breakfast table as if they’d parted company in the family sitting room and spent the night in their own beds.

She started to shift, to slide out from under his hand. Except the fingers suddenly pressed down on her belly and the nails pricked in warning.

“Going somewhere?” Daemon crooned as he rose up on one elbow and looked down at her.

It was still too dark to see his face, his eyes. But that particular timbre in the deep voice had her heart racing. She knew the Sadist’s voice when she heard it.

His hand didn’t actually press down on her belly, but it felt heavier, more ... possessive.

Then he turned back the covers for her at the same time a light appeared through a half-closed door on the opposite side of the room. Enough light to see the room—and to see his eyes.

Not quite the Sadist. But not Daemon either. He was riding a side of his nature that was somewhere between the two.

She slipped out of bed and walked into the bathroom, too aware that a predator watched her and was considering if she too was a predator and required careful handling or if she was prey.

She used the toilet, then let water run in the sink to wash her face and stall for time.

They weren’t in a guest room. She’d seen enough to realize the room was too personal to be any kind of guest room. His bedroom, then. The Consort’s suite, since he hadn’t moved out of the room next to Jaenelle’s. A swift, careful probe confirmed he’d put Black shields in the walls and Black locks on the doors. No way for her to get out of this room until he let her go.

Mother Night.

A Warlord Prince’s bedroom is his private place, and he tends to be more possessive when he’s there. So if you’re invited into his bedroom, you want to be more careful in how you deal with him.

At the time, Surreal had thought Jaenelle’s mind had begun wandering because of old age, especially because those kinds of comments had usually come when they were alone and working on some chore not even remotely related to the subject matter.

Which was why all those comments had stuck in her mind.

“Hell’s fire,” Surreal whispered as she dried her face. Jaenelle’s mind hadn’t wandered. She’d been giving lessons in a way that wouldn’t be resisted—and wouldn’t be forgotten.

Damned if he understood why they had ended up here, except that he’d needed to have her in this room, in this bed.

You’re only eighteen hundred years old, Daemon. You are not going to spend the rest of your life celibate.

You don’t think I can? he’d crooned.

I know you can. That’s why I want you to promise me that you won’t. No one will think you’re being unfaithful if you find another lover after the year of mourning. You’re not going to spend the rest of your life without that kind of companionship or comfort. If you’re not comfortable accepting that as a request from your wife, consider it a command from your Queen.

Cornered. He hadn’t liked making that promise, and he hadn’t liked the sex much. Even when he’d enjoyed it physically, he hadn’t liked it much because of the expectations that always seemed to shroud the bed. And because he usually dreamed about Hekatah and Dorothea afterward. He didn’t need more of a reminder than that of what could happen if a man got careless and had sex with a woman who rode a cock in order to ride ambition.

Besides, something had been missing from the bed with the women he’d pleasured that had made even the best sex a disappointment for him.

That elusive something wasn’t missing last night, though.

The water in the bathroom shut off, and his attention sharpened.

He’d have to think about why last night was different. Later.

Daemon hadn’t moved at all during her time in the bathroom.

“It’s early,” he crooned. “Come back to bed.”

Not a lot of choices.

She slipped into bed, not sure what to expect. Arousal was dominant in his psychic scent, so she wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d rolled on top of her. After all, he was the dominant male in Kaeleer, and that much power had privileges no other male could claim.

Instead, he pulled the covers up high enough to cover her breasts. Then his fingers lightly stroked her hair, combing it away from her face.

“How are you?” he asked, his voice still in that dangerous croon.

“All right.”

“Sore?”

“A little.” She didn’t dare so much as tweak the truth. Not with him. Not now.

His fingers drifted to her temple, down her jaw, over her neck and shoulders. So light. So delicate.

Her heart stopped racing as she relaxed under that delicate touch. When he eased the covers down to her hips, she didn’t protest, barely noticed because those fingers kept drifting along her skin, making her float.

A brush of thumb over hard nipple made her whimper—and whimper even louder because he stopped touching.

“Pain?” he asked. Then his mouth closed over that nipple, and what he did with his tongue stopped just shy of pain. “Stop?”

She curled her fingers in his hair to hold him in place. “Not if you want to live.” It was meant as a growl but came out a different kind of whimper.

After he gave her breasts sufficient attention, he kissed her mouth, hot and full. Then he said, “Do you want more, or do you want to leave?”

It took her a moment to realize she understood the words. He could sense her arousal, psychic and physical, but if she said she wanted to leave, he would release the lock on the door and let her go with no protest, no show of temper or disappointment. When a man belonged to the most dangerous caste of male, a display of temper in bed could be seen as coercion far too easily.

It took her even less than a moment to realize he would probably never make this invitation again, and while she’d had some men who were good lovers—and a few who had been excellent in bed—she had never been with anyone who could make a woman feel like he did.

“I want more,” she said.

He slid over her, slid into her as she opened for him.

As the sun slowly brightened the room, he rode her delicately, lazily, and so thoroughly he made her feel things she hadn’t ever dreamed were possible.

SIX

Four days after her night with Daemon, Surreal caught the Gray Wind and headed for Amdarh, intending to spend a few days at the family’s town house. She had barely reached the town beyond Halaway when she felt a pain in her abdomen—a pain more severe than the worst moontime cramps she’d ever experienced. A pain so severe she almost tumbled from the Gray Web.

Shaken, she dropped from the Winds and waited for the pain to subside. Then she continued on to Amdarh, riding the Green Winds.

A day after that, just wearing her Gray Jewels caused her the same kind of pain as trying to use her Gray power during her moontime, and even wearing her Birthright Green made her queasy.

A day after that, she used Craft without thinking and threw up on the sitting room rug—and became so weak and dizzy, Helton found her lying in her own vomit a few minutes later.

Helton panicked, along with the rest of the town house’s staff, and Healers converged on the SaDiablo residence, including Lady Zhara’s personal Healer.

She answered all their questions truthfully, except one.

Despite her protests that it couldn’t have happened, every single Healer assured her that it had.

So she stayed in bed resting for a day, putting up with Helton’s fussing to make up for scaring the man so badly.

For herself, she was excited—and she was scared.

And she was terrified of what would happen when she told Sadi.

SEVEN

Surreal walked into the Hall early the next morning and gave Beale a bright smile. “Good morning, Beale.”

The flash of alarm on Beale’s face before he regained control confirmed that her mirror hadn’t lied—she looked as washed-out and sickly as she felt, and she was becoming more fragile with every hour that passed. That was why she had to act before she lost the reason to act.

“I need to see Sadi,” she said, tipping her head toward the study door at the back of the great hall. “Is he there?”

“Yes.” Beale hesitated. “Should I send for the village Healer? Or your personal Healer in Amdarh?”

“Saw my Healer yesterday. Today I need to talk to Sadi.” Now it was her turn to hesitate, but she had to consider the tempers she would be dealing with today. “Prince Yaslana is supposed to see me this morning. I left a message at my house that I would be here. You know how early he can arrive, and I didn’t want him getting snarly if he didn’t find me at home, so . . .”

“I’ll be certain to let him know your whereabouts the moment he arrives,” Beale said.

Maybe he meant to sound reassuring, but as she walked to Sadi’s study, she thought Beale’s words sounded more like a threat.

Daemon didn’t look up when she entered the room, but he said, “Good morning. Beale said you were here. I don’t think there is anything today that requires my second-in-command’s attention, but you can check with Holt if you like. Let me finish this up, and then I can join you for a quick meal in the breakfast—”

He looked up at that moment. He dropped the pen back in its holder and pushed away from the desk.

“I need to talk to you.” She hated feeling so fragile—and hated even more how much that fragility scared her, because all the Healers had warned her that it would take so little right now to destroy the life beginning to grow inside her.

“What’s wrong?” He moved toward her with a speed that had her backing up against the door. “Are you ill? Have you seen a Healer?”

“No, I’m not ill. Yes, I’ve seen a Healer. Sadi, I’m—”

“Come over here and sit down. You’re—”

“—pregnant.”

He jerked to a stop, then took a step back.

Not Daemon anymore, she thought as she watched his eyes change. May the Darkness have mercy on me, whatever he is right now is more—and worse—than the Sadist.

“Pregnant.” His voice was cold and viciously gentle. He took another step back and slipped his hands in his trousers pockets.

“I don’t expect anything from you,” she said quickly. “That’s not why I’m here. I just wanted you to know that I won’t deny that you’re the baby’s father. When it’s time for the Birthright Ceremony, I won’t deny paternity. You have my word, Sadi. I won’t do that to you.”

“You’re not leaving with my child,” he said too softly.

“Well, it’s a little small to be staying here without me,” she snapped.

“You’re not leaving with my child,” he said again.

Now he approached her. Stalked her. She wasn’t sure he was sane.

“We’ll be married a week from tomorrow,” he said.

“I didn’t agree to marry you!”

“You’re not leaving with my child.”

“Well, as sure as the sun doesn’t shine in Hell, you can’t keep me locked away here.”

He raised his right hand. The Black Jewel in the ring flashed as he unleashed some of its reservoir—and the Hall shook as his power rolled through it. Black shields snapped into place within all the outside walls, and Black locks on the doors and windows turned the SaDiablo family home into a prison.

He smiled at her.

“Sadi, don’t,” she whispered, shivering.

“What are the Healers going to tell me when I ask, Lady Surreal?” he crooned. “You’re already fragile—and vulnerable. You can’t use any of your Jeweled strength while you’re pregnant without destroying the child. Which means you can’t protect yourself or the child. Your Jewels need to be drained on a regular basis for the next ten months in order for the baby to grow healthy in the womb.”

“Lucivar could drain the Jewels.”

“Instead of the baby’s father? I think not.” Daemon moved closer.

She couldn’t back away from him because she was already pressed against the door.

“I didn’t tell you about the pregnancy because I want something from you,” she said. He was too close. He wasn’t touching her, but he was much too close.

“Your heart is pounding, and your scent is filled with fear,” he crooned. “That isn’t good for you or the baby.”

Then back off. But she didn’t dare say that.

“Your Jewels need to be drained.”

“Lucivar will be here soon.”

“So you told him and not me?”

“No! I sent a message, said I needed to see him this morning, and it was urgent. But I didn’t tell him why. Not before I told you. I didn’t tell anyone who fathered this child, and I won’t if you don’t want anyone else to know.”

He studied her. She wasn’t sure he saw her as a person anymore. She wasn’t sure of anything where he was concerned. She’d expected him to be upset or pissed or defensive.

Right now, she was afraid he would kill her—or just kill the baby.

“Maybe it wasn’t smart to have sex that night,” she said, her words tumbling over one another in her haste to explain. “I hadn’t been drinking a contraceptive brew, but Hell’s fire, I haven’t been with anyone in years, so why would I keep drinking the stuff? And it shouldn’t have been my fertile time. Not that I thought about that—or anything else—that night, but it shouldn’t have been my fertile time.”

“And yet you got pregnant.”

“I didn’t do it alone,” she snapped. “And maybe you weren’t thinking clearly that night either, but you were the one who initiated the other three times the following morning.”

He said nothing for a long moment. Just studied her. She couldn’t tell if his eyes held affection or hate.

“If you don’t want to marry me, that is your choice,” Daemon crooned. “I won’t force you, although you should consider the advantages of being my wife. But regardless of what you decide, you’ll stay here until the baby is born. After that, you can leave. The child, however, stays with me, under my roof and under my protection. Is that clear?”

“I want to leave now.” She hated that her voice shook.

“No. Your suite is ready for you, as always. Beale and Helene will retrieve your clothing and other personal items from your house.”

“I can stay in my own house! It’s just down the road.”

“No.”

She should have run to the Keep, should have asked Draca for sanctuary until she’d reached some kind of agreement with Sadi. No chance to do that now.

“I don’t feel well,” she whispered. “I need to rest.”

“My offer of marriage stands. Consider it.”

He reached behind her and turned the door handle. As he pulled the door open, the movement nudged her against him. She turned to avoid feeling him pressed against her belly, but he still held the handle, and his left arm blocked her escape, so she felt the heat of him on her back and buttocks. And felt his breath on her cheek as he leaned into her.

“While you’re considering whether you would enjoy being the wife of the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan, also consider if you could tolerate being the wife of the High Lord of Hell.”

She half turned. “I’m not going to be marrying Uncle—”

She saw it in his eyes, and now understood why he felt different, felt even more dangerous. The Sadist was now the High Lord.

May the Darkness have mercy on me.

“I’d like to go to my room now.”

“Think about my offer,” he whispered. Then he stepped back and let her go.

She bolted out of Daemon’s study. Beale was waiting for her in the great hall. At first, she was grateful to hook her arm in his for light support, but by the time they climbed the stairs and were walking toward her suite, she was clinging to him to stay on her feet, and Holt came at a run to support her on the other side. Helene met them at the suite and tucked her on the sofa when she got stubborn about being put to bed. After admitting that she had left the tonic the Healer had made up for her at her house in the village, Jazen dashed to Halaway to retrieve it. She didn’t ask what else Sadi’s valet intended to retrieve while he was there.

She let them fuss over her because she needed some help. Mostly, she let them fuss as a way to keep all of them from thinking about the cold temper that waited for them behind the study door.

Daemon stood in his study, staring at nothing.

The vision he had seen in a tangled web last night: a beautifully wrapped gift being offered to him by someone he trusted. He hadn’t seen the woman, only the hands holding the gift. And today ...

A child. A baby. His.

The wanting was suddenly, brutally fierce. He wanted this baby with everything in him and would do whatever it took to keep it. He hoped for her sake that Surreal understood that. He didn’t want to hurt her, but if he had to choose between them, he wouldn’t hesitate to destroy her in order to protect the child.

There were times when the pain of missing Jaenelle almost crushed him. He wanted her back. Sweet Darkness, how he wanted her back!

Jaenelle wasn’t coming back, but now there was a chance to give his heart to someone else without betraying the love of his life. He wasn’t sure if the limited affection he could give a woman would be enough to keep a wife content, but he knew he could love the child.

He hoped for all their sakes that Surreal understood that too.

Lucivar hovered over the Hall and swore softly. When he received Surreal’s note last night, he’d known something was wrong, but based on her saying, “It’s urgent, but don’t come until tomorrow morning,” he hadn’t expected to arrive and find the Hall locked down as if prepared for an attack. Black shields. Black locks. The only partial access was the double front doors, which had a Red lock—probably because Beale would be the one granting access and could release, and restore, a Red lock.

He made a fast descent, then backwinged to land lightly on the gravel drive. The door opened before he reached it, and he was right—Beale was guarding the only potential way into the Hall.

“The Prince is in his study, waiting to speak to you,” Beale said.

“I’m here to see Surreal,” Lucivar replied.

“She is resting.”

“Resting? At this hour? Is she ill?”

“The Prince will explain.”

He didn’t like the sound of that. He liked it even less when he walked into Daemon’s study and found his brother standing in the middle of the room, watching him with glazed, sleepy eyes.

“Is Surreal ill?” Lucivar asked, shoving the door closed.

“She’s pregnant,” Daemon replied softly.

He rocked back on his heels. There hadn’t been a man in Surreal’s life in quite some time, so her unexpected pregnancy explained Daemon locking down the Hall against outsiders, and it explained why Surreal was here and not at her own house. It also explained the chill in Daemon’s temper and those glazed eyes.

Lucivar settled into a fighting stance, his wings half spread for balance—an instinctive response. “Am I here to help her drain her Jewels or to help you have a chat with the cock who danced with her?”

“I am the cock who danced with her,” Daemon crooned.

His lungs locked, and for a moment he couldn’t breathe. “You?”

Daemon smiled.

Lucivar shuddered. “I’d like to talk to Surreal.”

“You don’t need my permission.”

“Today I do.”

Daemon’s smile became more gentle—and more terrifying. “Yes, today you do.”

Would I have walked out of this room intact if I hadn’t known that? He didn’t need to ask the question when he already knew the answer.

The study door opened, Daemon’s invitation for him to leave.

Turning his back on the Sadist was playing with suicide, but he did it. When he reached the door, Daemon said, “Lucivar? I want this baby.”

Lucivar looked over his shoulder. “I’ll talk to Surreal. And then you and I will talk.”

He walked out of the study. Beale stood in the great hall at the doorway leading to the informal receiving room and the staircase that led to the family wing.

“Anything I need to know?” he asked the butler.

“Lady Surreal saw her Healer in Amdarh and was given a tonic to help her body adjust to . . .” Beale fumbled, clearly reluctant to speak of something so personal when it pertained to the SaDiablo family—especially when none of them knew if Daemon would take offense at someone talking about Surreal.

Lucivar nodded so that Beale didn’t have to continue. “I’m going up now to talk to her—with the Prince’s permission.”

“I don’t believe Lady Surreal’s Jewels have been drained yet,” Beale said.

Not something I can do for her now, Lucivar thought as he strode through the corridors that led to Surreal’s suite.

Blood was the living river, and the body was the vessel for the power that made the Blood who and what they were. But everything had a price. When a witch wore darker Jewels, her moontimes were more uncomfortable and the pain of doing more than basic Craft during the first three days was fierce. That was the reason they drained their Jewels before a moontime—to let the body rest. And when they were pregnant, they submitted to someone else draining the reserve power in their Jewels so that their power didn’t try to fill the child in the womb—and destroy it.

He rapped once on Surreal’s sitting room door and went in before she answered. One look at her had him yanking back his temper because she didn’t need a man yelling at her, but he couldn’t stop himself from going up to the windows where she stood and opening his wings halfway to look more intimidating.

“Get off your feet,” he snarled.

“Take a piss in the wind,” she snarled back.

Relieved that she didn’t sound as sick as she looked, he took a step back to give her some room.

“Aren’t you going to ask how this happened?” Surreal said.

“I have two children. I know how it happened. What I don’t know is what you want to do about it.”

“Do about it? I’m keeping it! How could you think I would . . .” She burst into tears.

“Ah, Surreal.” He put his arms around her and cuddled her while she cried. “That isn’t what I meant.”

“I’m not upset,” she said, still crying. “My body is doing strange things, and it’s making me weepy. And being weepy because I can’t help it is not the same as being upset.”

Lucivar rubbed his cheek against her hair. “It will be all right. In a couple of days, you’ll swing over to bitchy and that will feel more normal to you.”

She punched him. He laughed.

When she seemed settled again, he called in a handkerchief and let her mop her face.

“What I meant was, what do you want to do about Sadi? Talk to me, Surreal.”

“I’d rather you talk to him.”

“After you tell me what you want. I thought Daemon had this place locked down to keep everyone out, but that’s not all of it, is it?”

“He says I can’t leave with his child.”

“Well, the baby can’t go anywhere without you for quite some time, and he can’t seriously expect you to stay inside the Hall for the next ten months.”

“I wouldn’t bet on that, sugar.” Surreal sniffled once more, then vanished the handkerchief. “He offered to marry me. Told me, more like it. A week from tomorrow.”

He loved his brother, but he wasn’t sure Daemon was emotionally ready to be anyone’s husband yet—if ever.

“What did you say?” he asked.

“I haven’t given him an answer yet.” She looked sad and wistful. “But I am going to marry him.”

“Why?” When she didn’t answer, he swore softly. “I know you care for Daemon. And he cares for you. But I’m not sure he can give you the kind of love a wife deserves from a husband.”

“I do have some conditions that he’ll have to agree to, and if he agrees, I think we can do well enough together.”

“You don’t have to settle for ‘well enough.’ ”

She turned away to stare out the window. “I want this baby, Lucivar. Not just a baby; this baby. And I want this chance at a marriage. I haven’t shared my life with anyone since Rainier, and we were never lovers, never had that kind of bond. Plenty of men since then have been willing to entertain a short-term liaison, especially if it got them an invitation to sit at a dinner table with Daemon and talk about whatever grand idea they had that needed a little financial backing. But men from the short-lived races didn’t want to have children who wouldn’t reach true adulthood in their lifetime, and men from the long-lived races saw their offspring’s lives cut short if I was the mother. I never fit in to either place. Sadi knows all that, but he wants this child too, regardless of whatever life span it may have. And I have the feeling that if he doesn’t have someone soon who can make a claim on his heart, he’ll become so cold and distant we’ll all lose him. Or he’ll become so lonely, he’ll accept the illusion of love and end up like his father, with a woman who loves ambition more than him. Well, I do love him, and I know he probably will never love me. But I can keep him from being alone, and I can give him a family of his own.”

“And what will you get?” Lucivar asked.

“I’ll get a family too.”

“Is that enough?”

“I’ll find out.”

“Then I guess I should talk to him about the wedding.”

“I need to talk to him first. Could you stay around for a little while?”

“All right.”

“Lucivar? Did you know Sadi is the High Lord now?”

Her words froze Lucivar’s heart. He’d suspected that Daemon had begun absorbing that side of Saetan’s duties years ago—Sadi was, after all, Saetan’s true heir—but he hadn’t wanted to see the evidence, hadn’t wanted to acknowledge what had been unspoken until now. He’d been afraid that once he admitted that Daemon was the High Lord, he would lose the man who was his brother.

He understood Surreal’s decision now. The Realms couldn’t afford to let Daemon slide into an isolated, lonely existence. None of them wanted to see Daemon repeat the mistakes in Saetan’s life—or see the rise of someone like Hekatah because of those mistakes. The new High Lord of Hell needed to be kept tethered to the living because the simple truth was he was more dangerous than his predecessor.

“Go on and talk to him,” Lucivar said. “Get things settled between you.” He paused. “And then get off your feet.”

He thought her answer landed squarely on the side of bitchy, which pleased him because it meant she was feeling a little better—and he’d take bitchy over tears any day.

Surreal found Daemon standing in the middle of his study, watching her with those glazed gold eyes.

“I have some conditions,” she said. “If you can agree to them, I’ll marry you.”

“I’m listening,” he crooned.

Her throat closed up. She was dancing on the knife’s edge by making any demands of him, but now was the only time such things could be said—if she could get her voice working again.

He moved toward her slowly. He probably thought his movements weren’t threatening. Unfortunately, until things were settled between them, there was nothing about him that wasn’t threatening.

“Let me tell you what I think are some of your concerns,” he said as he stepped close enough to touch her. “The wife of the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan has to make a commitment to be faithful to her husband and take no lovers. Naturally, she would want the same commitment from her husband. Yes?”

“Yes,” Surreal whispered, staring at the Black Jewel peeking through the unbuttoned opening of his white silk shirt.

“But I don’t think you want to be married and celibate,” Daemon continued, his voice becoming a soothing caress. “And I think you enjoyed the pleasure I gave you in bed. Yes?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“So one of your conditions is that I be a husband to my wife in every way? That I don’t deny you the pleasure and comfort of sex?”

She nodded, still not daring to look into his eyes.

“I was aware of that when I made the offer, Surreal,” he said gently. “I can’t promise you a husband’s love, because I don’t know if I have that in me anymore. But I can promise you all of the social courtesies, all of the physical courtesies. That much I can, and will, give you.”

He lifted her chin with one finger, a silent command to look at him. “Is there anything else?”

“No. Yes. I don’t want to be locked up here for the next ten months!”

“If I agree to that, you, in turn, will try to tolerate occasional bouts of rabid protectiveness?”

She heard amusement in his voice and felt the slightest release of tension in his body.

“If you turn rabid, I’ll turn bitchy.”

He smiled. “Fair enough. One question. Is there a particular stone you would like for your wedding ring? Or a particular kind of setting?”

She shook her head. “Surprise me.”

“In that case, Lady . . .”

His lips touched hers, a soft kiss that remained soft but grew warmer. She floated on the sensation of being wrapped in the softest blanket. So soft, so deliciously warm. She felt light and heavy, and there was nothing in the world but his mouth so soft on hers and his hands lightly brushing her back under her shirt.

She wanted to snuggle down into that soft warmth and doze for hours, safe and content.

She didn’t know how much time had passed before Daemon raised his head and said, “Feel better?”

Her head began to clear, but the warm, sleepy feeling remained—and the sharp discomfort in her abdomen was gone.

“You drained my power,” she said. “Gray and Green.”

“Yes.” He kissed her temple.

“You going to kiss me like that every time you drain me?”

She felt him smile.

“I’m going to kiss you like that simply to kiss you like that. And I’ll do it often if it pleases you.”

Mother Night.

She felt the pull of desire between her legs, but the soft warmth wrapped around her again, and she didn’t want to do anything about that pull. Not right now.

“Once I drain your Jewels to give you an unfilled reservoir, your body will channel its power to them naturally, the same as it does during your moontime,” Daemon said. “I thought you would be more comfortable if I took a direct path this first time.”

She was pretty sure he’d wrapped some spells around her while kissing her, but she felt too comfortable and lazy and soft to care.

“Why don’t you snuggle down on the sofa in here and take a nap?” he said.

She nodded. She’d do anything to keep that voice stroking over her, petting her. And maybe tomorrow—or next month—she’d figure out why feeling that way should piss her off. For now, she let him settle her on the leather sofa in his study and tuck a light blanket around her.

“Rest, Surreal,” he said quietly as he ran a hand over her hair.

Rest, he’d said. So she obeyed.

EIGHT

Happy to have a few minutes when she wasn’t required to smile at women she wanted to knife, Surreal sat alone at a table near the ballroom windows, watching her husband partner one of the Province Queens in a dance.

Sadi hadn’t insulted anyone’s intelligence by pretending—or implying—that the reason the marriage had been planned with such speed was that he had suddenly fallen in love with his second-in-command. Besides, no one, male or female, who had participated in a pregnancy and saw the way Sadi and Yaslana responded whenever anyone came near her had any doubts about why Daemon was getting married again.

Some of the Province Queens who attended the brief ceremony and were now staying for the afternoon-long reception resented Surreal for standing between them and Sadi all those years, certain she’d done it so that she would be in position to snag the coveted title of lover or the more lucrative title of wife at a time when Sadi might be emotionally vulnerable—like, for example, the day his father finally became a whisper in the Darkness. Other Ladies were noticeably relieved that Daemon had remarried and had chosen someone whose temper and ambitions weren’t likely to give anyone unpleasant surprises. A few were genuinely happy for her.

All the Queens’ Consorts were hearty in their congratulations since her new title of “wife” meant their Ladies would no longer dare look in Sadi’s direction—which meant their own positions in the courts were secure at least for the duration of their contracts.

But whether they resented her, were relieved for themselves, or were happy that the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan had a steady sexual companion, they had all been careful of how they approached her.

Not because they felt threatened by her, Surreal thought with a dollop of resentment, but because the consequences of pissing off Daemon or Lucivar right now were bound to be painful—and messy.

“Am I interrupting?”

Surreal smiled at Lady Zhara. “Not at all. Please join me.” She and the Queen of Amdarh had had their share of disagreements over the years, but despite that, they had become friendly and worked well together.

Zhara set a plate on the table. “I thought you might be feeling up to a little nibble now that the ceremony is over and your nerves have settled. When I was pregnant with my first child, I found that a bite or two every couple of hours was easier to handle than a meal, especially in the early stages.” She studied Surreal. “But if seeing or smelling food makes you queasy, I’ll remove the plate right now. Is that why you’re sitting so far away from the feast?”

Surreal selected a triangle of toast that held a bit of chopped beef. “I wasn’t sitting away from the food; I was sitting close to the windows and fresh air. And, actually, I could use a bit of food now. Breakfast didn’t stay down this morning.”

Zhara made a sympathetic face. “It will get better.” She selected a slice of fruit from the plate and tipped her head toward the center of the room. “I’m surprised Prince Sadi isn’t dancing attendance on you instead of dancing with the guests. Especially since you weren’t feeling well this morning.”

Snarling, Surreal selected a cube of cheese. “After the wedding ceremony and well-wishing were completed, I went to the bathroom to pee. Just to pee. And he followed me inside the room and intended to stay so that I wouldn’t—I don’t know—fall over in a faint and crack my skull or some other such nonsense. After I tried to punch him, I told him if he didn’t stop fussing and give me some breathing room, he would have the distinction of being married and divorced on the same day. Which is why he’s currently over there and I’m over here.”

Zhara swallowed hard. Surreal couldn’t tell if the woman was appalled or amused.

“Mother Night,” Zhara finally said. “But he did respect your wishes.”

“You think so? The bastard sicced the Scelties on me!”

*He did not sic us.* The duet of voices came from under the table. *We volunteered.*

Zhara pressed her lips together and stared at the ceiling. Her shoulders shook.

Surreal pondered the plate of food. That flash of temper seemed to clear up the last of the morning wobbles, so she began eating with more enthusiasm.

Holt wandered by, set two wineglasses on the table, and wandered off.

Zhara picked up a glass and sniffed. “I’m guessing this one has water.” She set that one in front of Surreal, then took a sip from the other glass and nodded her approval. “Your ring is lovely. The design looks like something Banard would do, but I’ve never seen a stone like that.”

“It’s called earth’s moonlight,” Surreal said, holding out her hand so that Zhara could get a better look. The stone was a translucent dove gray that looked like it held streams of light. The ring, made of yellow and white gold, swirled around the center stone and had small diamonds.

“The design is like the moon and stars,” Zhara said.

Surreal felt a funny little twitch in her chest. “The stone is only found in Dea al Mon, which is why most people have never seen one.” Which meant Daemon had gone to the Dea al Mon, her mother’s people, to purchase that stone for her ring.

“None of your kinsmen are here today?” Zhara asked.

Nothing sly about the question, no digging for gossip. She heard delicate concern in the older Queen’s voice.

“We decided to do three small gatherings instead of one large one,” Surreal said. “The Queens from Kaeleer’s other Territories will be coming next week for an informal afternoon, and the following week, Daemon and I will spend a day with my mother’s clan.”

“And for your honeymoon?”

“A week in Amdarh.”

“That’s not . . .” Zhara stopped. She shook her head. “Forgive me, but . . .”

Surreal grinned. “The Queen of Amdarh is about to tell me her city isn’t romantic enough for a honeymoon?”

“No, of course not. I love the city, but . . .” Flustered, Zhara stopped again.

“But you thought the Prince would choose someplace else?” When Zhara nodded, Surreal smiled, feeling a little misty about the other woman’s concern. “Amdarh was my choice. Shopping. Concerts. The theater. I won’t be able to stay in the city without Sadi or Yaslana as escort until after the baby is born—and I won’t put everyone at risk by trying to defy that request and provoke their protective instincts.”

Zhara knew how sharp Sadi’s protective instincts could be. She had been there when Daemon had threatened to purge Dhemlan the next time someone tried to harm Jaenelle Angelline.

Anyone who remembered that threat and learned Daemon was the High Lord of Hell now would be scared witless.

“I’m going to indulge myself in the shops and let him fuss over me while I do it,” Surreal continued. “That should please both of us.”

Zhara laughed. “Yes, it should. Ah. I think your husband has sent a negotiator.”

Surreal looked over her shoulder and saw Lucivar walking toward her.

Lucivar greeted Zhara, then held out his hand to Surreal. “We’re dancing.”

“Do you know how to negotiate?”

“Sure. You want to lead?”

Surreal looked at Zhara, who shrugged. Then she looked back at Lucivar. “Why are we dancing?”

“I think your husband figured if you didn’t kick me in the balls, you were ready to suffer a dance with him.”

Suffer a dance. That didn’t sound like words from a husband who hoped for a warm welcome on his wedding night.

“He’s really upset that I wouldn’t let him stay and watch me pee?”

She wasn’t sure Zhara was still breathing. She wasn’t sure Lucivar was breathing either until he said, “Well, shit. Come on. I’ll dance with you and knock some sense into his head afterward.”

“You’d have more luck knocking sense into a stone wall.”

“Don’t push it, witchling.”

So she danced with Lucivar, then was handed off to Holt. And she watched a roomful of Dhemlan’s Queens and their aristo companions stand there with their mouths hanging open when Lucivar grabbed his brother and almost yanked Daemon off his feet as he hauled Sadi out of the ballroom.

When they returned, both looking a little rumpled but otherwise unscathed, Daemon asked her for a dance—a request she granted.

“Lucivar says I’m being an ass,” Daemon said.

“He could have been looking in a mirror when he said it,” she replied sweetly.

He let out a startled laugh. “I like the suggestion, but he was right. I can’t protect you from morning sickness or the other physical discomforts that will come, but I do want to protect you. I don’t want you to hurt.”

“Everything has a price, Sadi.” She smiled at him. “But it eases the discomfort some to know you’re suffering with me in your own way.”

“Really?”

“Shit, no.”

Chuckling, he drew her closer. “All right, Lady. I will try to behave and be reasonable.”

“So will I, Prince. So will I.”

“Do you think Daemon and Lucivar have tossed the last of the guests out the door?” Surreal asked Marian hours later. Pleading fatigue halfway through the festivities, she had come up to the family sitting room, and Marian and the children had come with her.

“Don’t encourage Lucivar by saying things like that,” Marian said. “We live on a mountain. When someone gets tossed out of our house, there’s a long drop after the first step.”

Surreal set her dinner tray on the table in front of the sofa. “How did we end up playing hawks and hares by ourselves?”

“We let Daemonar and Titian go up to the playroom with the Scelties. They ran around until they all fell asleep. I didn’t want to run around, and you’re not allowed to run around. So we ended up here, playing hawks and hares, eating dinner off a tray, and not having to be polite.” Marian looked at the clock. “Shouldn’t you get ready for your wedding night?”

“Do you think there will be one?” She tried to smile, but her eyes filled with tears.

“Why would you say that?” Marian asked as she reached over and held one of Surreal’s hands.

“He flinched when I slipped the wedding ring on his finger.”

“I didn’t see that, and I was standing right next to you.”

“I doubt anyone saw it, but I felt it. He’d been steady until that point, but he flinched when it came time to wear a wedding ring again.”

Marian looked alarmed. “It’s not the same ring, is it?”

“No. He had a new one made, but what it stands for . . .” Surreal sighed. “He’ll never get over Jaenelle. She will always be the love of his life.”

“That doesn’t mean he won’t love you.”

“I didn’t ask him to.” She rested her head on the back of the sofa and looked at the ceiling instead of at Marian. “When the conditions for the marriage were set, that was something he couldn’t promise, so it’s nothing I can expect.”

She sat up, brushed her hair back, and stood up. “Enough melancholy. I hope this baby is in a better mood once it’s outside the womb. If these moods are an indication of its temperament, this is going to be one blubbery child.”

“Get some rest,” Marian said gently. “We’ll see you in the morning.”

She walked to her old suite. At Daemon’s request, she’d chosen another suite of rooms as their private living quarters within the Hall. It was still in the family wing, but away from the rooms Jaenelle and Saetan used to occupy. Her new bedroom connected with Daemon’s but also had access to the baby’s room, making it a family suite until the child was old enough to have a suite of its own.

That suite was still being renovated. Daemon could be subtle about visiting his new wife’s bed, but she wondered how often he would force himself to make the walk while his bedroom was still distant from hers.

As she began to wonder if tonight would be one of the nights when he chose his own bed, he knocked on the door.

“Come in.”

She’d bought a deep green gown and robe shot with gold threads for this night. It took effort to pretend a calm she couldn’t feel, especially when he leaned back against the door and did nothing but look at her.

Just when she started to fidget, he pushed away from the door and walked up to her. His gold eyes stared at her lips until they started feeling kiss-swollen. She felt the room do one slow spin when one fingertip finally brushed over her lower lip.

Seduction spells. Or maybe it was just his presence when he didn’t try to leash all that sexual heat.

With his hands on her shoulders, he backed her up to one of the bedposts. Removing her robe, he raised her arms just above her head and guided her hands around the post.

“Hold on,” he said.

Be passive. Don’t push me.

She heard those silent commands. He would walk away if she couldn’t give him what he needed tonight—and he might not come back, despite his promise that she wouldn’t spend her marriage being celibate.

He touched her face, her neck, her chest, her belly. Butterfly caresses that whispered over her skin. Heat that reached her through the gown. A touch. A kiss. Sometimes just his breath against her skin. But he didn’t touch her breasts until her nipples hardened from wanting him. Then he touched, kissed, bit just enough to keep her still while his fingers drifted up her thighs and began teasing her until she moaned out of need. Her nightgown vanished as he sank to his knees and used his mouth to finish what his fingers had begun.

She didn’t remember him tucking her into bed, didn’t remember him getting undressed. By the time her brain started working again, he was suckling her breasts and playing with her until she was desperate to have him. That was when he mounted her, pinning her hands over her head as he moved with a lazy rhythm.

Was he moving like that because he was afraid he might hurt the baby? No, she realized in the last moments before her body surrendered to him completely and she couldn’t think at all. He played like this because he liked it—and making her mindless with pleasure was one of the things he liked.

NINE

The birthing room was ready, the adjoining room where the family could wait was ready, and the Healer and her assistant had arrived.

Beale was guarding the Hall’s front door from any premature well-wishers; Helene was giving the family suite another quick cleaning and the crib a last polish, and making sure there were plenty of linens, diapers, blankets, towels, and whatever else a newborn might need. Holt was sorting through the correspondence and business papers so that the new father could make the most efficient use of his available time. And he, the about-to-be new father, was apparently doing nothing but being a pain in the ass.

“I don’t need to sit,” Surreal snarled as she waddled around the birthing room.

She most certainly did need to sit, Daemon thought, but he couldn’t shove her into a chair. Not in her condition. “You’re not comfortable standing,” he pointed out in a soothing voice.

“Whose fault is that?” She grabbed the back of a chair and pressed the other hand to her belly, her face tight with pain.

“Remember what the Healer said about breathing,” Daemon said.

“Go take a piss in the wind.”

He slipped his hands out of his trousers pockets and made an effort to unclench his teeth as he took a step toward her, one hand extended. “Let me help you.”

“You and your cock have done quite enough already,” she snarled as she moved away from him.

“Surreal . . .”

Lucivar walked into the room and gave Surreal a lazy, arrogant smile. “Want to shred something, darling?”

“Yes,” she snapped, “but since he likes his balls, I doubt he’d stand still for it.”

“Surreal . . .,” Daemon soothed.

“Stop hovering over me!” she shouted. “This baby will come when it wants to come, and your pushing at me isn’t going to make it come any faster!”

“I’m not pushing. . . .”

“You prick-assed son of a bitch, get out of here!”

Daemon looked at Lucivar. “I was told she’d be bitchy, but is it normal for her to sound insane?”

“Insane?” Surreal shrieked. “You think I sound insane?”

“Yes,” Lucivar said to Daemon. “Right now, she doesn’t like you much, old son, so come into the next room and give her some peace.”

“Why are you taking my side?” Surreal demanded.

“When Marian was in labor with Daemonar, she wanted the birthing room clear of males on occasion, and when I got stubborn about it, she threatened to cook up the afterbirth and feed it to me.”

Daemon felt like something stringy and greasy was stuck in his throat. He swallowed hard and looked at Surreal.

She looked at him and said, “I’ll stab you before I cook anything.”

“Thank you,” he said faintly. “I appreciate it.”

“Then get out!”

Lucivar hauled him into the adjoining room, closing the door to the birthing room most of the way. That gave Surreal sufficient privacy but made it easy to hear her.

Daemon let out a shaky sigh. “She’s hurting.”

“She’s in labor, old son. Having a baby hurts like a wicked bitch. Or so I’ve been told.”

“There has to be something the Healer can do. Something I can do. Hell’s fire, Lucivar. If I can drain the power from Surreal’s Jewels to make her more comfortable, why can’t I take some of the pain?”

“The Healer has spells to dull the pain. You have to let her take care of that part,” Lucivar said. “You trust her, don’t you?”

“Yes, I trust her but—” Daemon tensed as he heard another voice in the birthing room.

“It’s Marian,” Lucivar said. “She’ll keep Surreal company until your presence is requested.”

“Will it be requested?” Daemon asked softly. “She’s hurting, and it’s my fault. She’s having my baby, and she kicked me out of the room.”

“Like I said, she doesn’t like you much right now and doesn’t want you around every minute, but that doesn’t mean—”

“Sadi!” Surreal shouted. “If you want to keep that overrated cock of yours, get your ass back in here!”

“—she wants you to go too far away,” Lucivar finished.

Daemon rocked back on his heels and stared at the partially open door. “So she’s going to keep flipping from wanting me with her to wanting me gone? For how long?”

Lucivar put both hands on Daemon’s back and gave him a light shove. “For as long as it takes to birth this baby.”

“Mother Night.”

“And may the Darkness be merciful. Show some balls, boyo.”

“That’s what got me into this in the first place,” Daemon muttered. But he went into the birthing room and found Surreal looking teary-eyed and vulnerable—and ready for a few hugs and cuddles.

Lucivar wandered over to the window farthest away from the door. Moments after Daemon walked into the birthing room, Marian walked out and closed the door between the rooms.

“How are they?” he asked when Marian wrapped her arms around his waist and leaned against him.

“They’ll be fine, but your brother is going to need you today,” she replied. “Surreal is focused on having the baby, but Daemon seems . . . shakier, more vulnerable.”

“Until the Birthright Ceremony, the child isn’t legally his. He’ll spend years raising that child and loving that child, but it won’t be his until that day.”

Marian leaned back enough to look at him. “You’ve never worried about that, have you?”

He brushed her hair away from her face. “No, but that’s you and me. It’s not going to be as easy for Daemon to trust.”

“That’s not fair to Surreal.”

“No, it’s not, but that’s how it is.”

Marian hesitated. “Have you ever wondered . . . ?”

He sighed. Then he nodded. “I don’t know if Jaenelle wasn’t able to have children or if it just never happened for them.”

“I think there was a concern—a fear—that she wouldn’t survive childbirth,” Marian said quietly. “Nothing was ever said; I just had that impression the couple of times her moontime was late. It seemed like Daemon was relieved when the moon’s blood started.”

“Could be. It would have destroyed him if she had died that way.” He huffed out a breath. “Maybe that’s why it never happened. Hell’s fire, I was able to make myself infertile for centuries and did it so thoroughly I know I never sired a child until the night we made Daemonar. And Daemon had suppressed his sexuality and fertility even more than I did for most of his life.”

“He wasn’t unreceptive to having a child,” Marian said. “At least, not until Jaenelle got hurt.”

“Not until Jaenelle’s body was healed and remade through a tangled web,” Lucivar corrected. “After she came back to him, he had a hard time dealing with her being in any kind of pain—and took care of whatever was causing the problem.” And maybe had taken care of more things than he’d intended to.

Lucivar kissed Marian’s forehead. “Doesn’t matter why things happened the way they did. Today we focus on helping Surreal get through childbirth without killing her husband.”

Marian froze for a moment, then looked at him with wide eyes. “Someone did remember to take away all her knives. Don’t you think?”

Lucivar released his wife and headed for the birthing room door. “I think I’ll slip in and take a quick look around.”

She felt frightened, feral, and more than a little possessive. Ignoring Helene and the Healer’s assistant as they cleaned her up, Surreal kept her eyes on the man who stood too far away from the bed, cradling her child in his arms. She wanted to tear the baby out of his arms—and tear off his arms in the process.

“Drink this,” the Healer said, holding a cup to her lips. “You need to drink this now.”

“Trying to drug me?” She flicked her eyes to the woman’s startled face, then focused again on the man who wouldn’t even look at her.

“It’s a tonic to provide you with some quick nourishment. A couple of swallows is all. Your body will use it all up; it won’t get to your milk.”

Milk. The baby needed milk.

“A couple of swallows, Lady,” the Healer said.

She took the cup and drained it.

“There,” Helene said as she smoothed the bedcovers. “You should be able to rest easy now.”

The man immediately looked up, looked at her, and she realized he hadn’t been ignoring her; he’d been giving her privacy while they cleaned her and the bed. Now he watched her as she watched him, but there was wariness in his eyes.

What had she done to make him so wary?

Warlord Prince. Husband. Daemon.

With each word that identified who he was, her head cleared a little more and images and sounds flashed by in memory, jumbled and distorted—the pain, the Healer’s encouraging voice, a male voice promising it wouldn’t hurt much longer, the thin cry of a baby, the man lowering her to the pillows and moving toward the child a woman lifted from between her legs, and her sudden attack to keep him, and everyone else, away from her baby. Hands holding her down while she fought and screamed—and the woman, the Healer, rushing to the far side of the room and handing her baby to ...

Surreal raised a hand, touched her shoulder, and flinched.

“You’re going to have a few bruises,” the Healer said quietly. “Prince Yaslana wasn’t trying to hurt you, but you had to be restrained for your own safety and the child’s.”

She stared at Daemon. “Was anyone hurt?”

“No,” he said quietly. “But we all learned some things about the Dea al Mon side of your nature.”

He was lying. She could feel it. Someone had gotten hurt, but she knew he wouldn’t tell her if she asked him. At least, not right now.

“I’ll be back in a little while to answer any questions you may have,” the Healer said. “For now, why don’t the three of you get acquainted?”

Helene and the Healer’s assistant left through the outer room while the Healer went into the adjoining room, no doubt to report to Lucivar and Marian.

“I guess I must have gone a little insane?” she asked.

“Something like that.” He sat on the edge of the bed near her knees, still wary of her and ready to move out of reach. He also had a shield around himself and the baby so she couldn’t touch either one.

She scraped her fingers through sweat-damp hair. “Hell’s fire, Sadi. What do you want me to say? Things got fuzzy toward the end.”

“Sometimes you’re a scary woman, Surreal.” Daemon studied her. “Still feeling fuzzy?”

“No.” Now she felt scared as she realized how badly she’d unnerved him. He was keeping the baby away from her. Was he going to take her child? Had she done something that made him think she would hurt the child? Mother Night. “The baby?”

“She’s fine.”

She. Daughter. “She has the right number of fingers and toes?”

He smiled. “Yes, she does. I didn’t have a chance to look at everything, but I saw that much.”

We’re both afraid, she thought. Both afraid of being shut out by the other. And I don’t know what I did to make him so wary of letting me near my own baby.

“I hadn’t decided on a name for a boy, but I know the name I’d like to give our daughter—with your consent,” she said.

“Unless it’s outlandish, I doubt I’ll have a problem with any name you choose,” he replied.

“Jaenelle Saetien. I would like to name her Jaenelle Saetien in honor of two people who meant a great deal to me.”

Shock. Pain. And then, gratitude. “Are you sure?”

Surreal smiled. “I’m sure.”

She watched his shoulders relax as he studied his daughter.

“Jaenelle say-tee-ehn,” he said, pronouncing the name as she had. Then he gave his girl a loving smile. “Hello, witch-child.”

The right choice, Surreal decided as she watched Daemon relax enough to unwrap the blankets and get a better look at his baby. She wanted to touch them both, and she couldn’t until he trusted her enough to drop his shield.

His eyes wandered leisurely over that small body that had come from hers. Then he studied the head and his expression became bemused.

“Her ears are pointed,” he said softly.

Suddenly self-conscious, Surreal pulled her hair over her own delicately pointed ears.

Daemon’s smile turned soft and silly. He shifted position, moving up so that she could finally see her daughter and share this discovery.

She reached out to move the blanket to get a better look—and couldn’t touch it. He tensed, but he dropped the shield. When she did nothing more than touch the blanket, he relaxed and shifted his body to include her.

“Look,” he said, sounding enchanted. “Her little ears are pointed. She’s going to be beautiful, like you.”

A prick of tears. She blinked them back before he noticed.

Jaenelle began crying. Surreal saw Daemon change in a heartbeat from a soft man to a predator ready to protect his own.

“What’s wrong?” Daemon’s gold eyes were cold and glazed as he raised his head and looked at her.

The temper wasn’t aimed at her, she realized. If he couldn’t deduce what was wrong with his child quickly enough, he expected her to point out the problem so that he could take care of it—permanently.

That was the moment she understood that her part of the job wasn’t so much to protect the child as to push Sadi back the necessary half step that would give his girl some breathing room from the instincts that would be honed to a lethal edge from now on.

Uncle Saetan hadn’t had the leash of a partner when he’d raised Jaenelle and stood as the coven’s protector. Looking at Daemon now, she began to appreciate just how formidable the old man’s self-control had been.

“I think she’s hungry,” Surreal said.

A heartbeat. Two. Then Daemon blinked and looked around as if expecting to find a table of food that would appeal to his girl.

Surreal touched his sleeve. When he focused on her, she tapped her chest. “For the next few months, her kitchen is right here.”

He looked at her chest and blinked again. “Oh.”

She held out her arms and waited.

Hesitation. Reluctance. But he finally settled the baby in her arms.

When he sat there, waiting, she turned shy. “I know you’ve seen my breasts before, but this is different.”

Another heartbeat. Two. “You want me to leave?”

She nodded. “Could you ask Marian to come in?”

That request melted whatever resistance he had for leaving her alone with the child. He brushed a finger over the baby’s hand, then leaned over and kissed Surreal with a tenderness that made her heart ache.

“Thank you,” he said.

She grinned. “She is pretty wonderful, isn’t she?”

“She’s her mother’s daughter. How could she be anything else?”

She sat there, stunned by the words, as Daemon slipped out of the room and Marian slipped in.

The moment Daemon stepped into the adjoining room, Lucivar caught him in a hard hug and held on while his brother shook with the effort to control his emotions—and probably control the pain he’d been hiding.

“Is Surreal all right now?” Lucivar asked.

“Yes,” Daemon replied. He eased back enough to rest his forehead against Lucivar’s. “What in the name of Hell happened?”

“Damned if I know. Marian got bitchy during labor, but she settled down once the baby was born. Surreal acted like a wild she-cat, and we were the bad humans trying to take her kitten.” He paused. “How’s the arm?”

“Not bad. The bleeding stopped.” Daemon looked down at his right jacket sleeve. The illusion spell hid the tears and the blood.

“Liar. Come over here and strip down. I’ll wash the arm, and then we’ll have the Healer take care of it.”

“I don’t need—”

“Bastard, what part of that sounded like a choice?”

Daemon stared at him. Lucivar matched the look.

“I’m fine.”

“She ripped your arm open and scared the shit out of you and everyone else in the room. Everyone was focused on taking care of her and keeping the baby safe, and no one’s had a look at how badly you’re hurt. So you’re not fine. Not yet.”

“She won’t hurt the baby,” Daemon said as he followed Lucivar to the table where a basin of steaming water sat beside basic healing supplies.

“She was never going for the baby, old son. She was going for your throat.”

Daemon stripped off his jacket and swore vigorously as Lucivar helped him remove the shirt where it had stuck to the wounds in his upper right arm.

“What did she rip me with?” he asked as he sank into a chair next to the table.

Lucivar looked at the slices in Daemon’s arm. They were deep enough that he wanted the Healer to take care of them and make sure the arm healed properly, but he could clean the wounds to give Daemon time to settle. “An open metalwork glove that had talons honed almost as sharp as my war blade. That must have been something she always kept with her, stored by Craft. I made sure she hadn’t hidden any weapons in the room, but I hadn’t expected her to use Craft so soon after birthing or have something that lethal that she could call in. And I didn’t expect her to attack you.”

“Why did she do that? I haven’t given her a reason to feel hostile toward me. Have I?”

“Surreal didn’t have an easy childhood or a soft life afterward. She saw as much blood, pain, and cruelty as we did in Terreille. Everything has a price, and the price strong witches pay for wearing dark Jewels is more painful moontimes and harder births. I’m guessing the pain and the smell of blood pushed her to someplace in her memories, mixing things up in the end. I don’t think she knew who was with her; you were just a male reaching for her baby. As sure as the sun doesn’t shine in Hell, she didn’t know who I was when I was holding her down to give you and the Healer time to get the baby away from the bed so it wouldn’t get hurt.”

“You don’t think it was just me she wanted to keep away?”

Since they were going to talk, Lucivar smeared a cleansing ointment over Daemon’s wounds. “Nah. I told you. A witch who wears Gray Jewels has to be more careful and work a lot harder to keep a baby in the womb. Surreal has been feeling shaky and protective since the first morning she threw up. During the past few hours, she gave up everything civilized in order to birth this child.”

“Her name is Jaenelle Saetien,” Daemon said.

Lucivar froze for a moment. “Good name. What does Surreal think of it?”

“It was her choice.”

Daemon was starting to sound drunk stupid. Lucivar thought it was a good sign that he was finally, and fully, relaxing. Of course, sounding drunk stupid could indicate that he’d lost more blood than was obvious, and that wouldn’t be good.

Stepping into the corridor, Lucivar summoned the Healer to deal with Daemon’s arm while he checked in with Beale, Jazen, and Holt to confirm that nothing needed Daemon’s immediate attention—or his attention, since he figured he’d be handling any problems for the next day or so. They had nothing to tell him except that Tersa, Manny, Mikal, and Beron were now in the family sitting room with Daemonar and Titian. Once everyone had a little time to settle and he was sure Surreal was steady enough to tolerate the rest of the family meeting its newest member, they would all have a chance to coo before he nudged them out to enjoy the celebration dinner.

Surreal didn’t ask the question until Jaenelle finished nursing. Cradling her baby girl, she looked at Marian. “Who did I hurt, and how bad is it?”

Marian turned her head toward the adjoining room’s door. Surreal’s stomach flipped.

“Lucivar?” she asked. “Did I hurt Lucivar?”

“No.” Marian laid a hand on her arm, just above where the baby’s head rested. “Lucivar is fine.”

Surreal stared at the woman who was a sister through marriage. “Daemon.”

Marian hesitated, then nodded. “But he’ll be fine. The Healer’s taking care of him.”

“What did I do? Marian, tell me.”

“Hush, now. Don’t upset the baby.”

They waited until the baby stopped fussing. Then Marian said, “I’ve been here with you since Daemon left, so I haven’t talked to Lucivar to get all the details. What I do know is you called in some kind of metal glove and ripped up Daemon’s arm when the Healer picked up the baby. You attacked without warning. Daemon got between you and the Healer to protect her and the baby. Then Lucivar rushed in to restrain you until you were thinking clearly enough again to allow the women to take care of you.”

“Where is it now, the metal glove?”

“Lucivar has it.”

“When he’s willing, I’d like it back. It was a Winsol gift from Rainier.”

“I’ll tell him.” Marian hesitated. “The talons weren’t poisoned, were they? I’m not sure anyone thought to check.”

No wonder Sadi had been so wary of getting near her or letting her near the baby. “No poison. Not even a possibility of residual poison.”

“That’s good.”

“Are you sure Daemon will be all right?”

“Yes. He’ll be fine. Are you feeling up to letting the rest of the family see the baby? Just for a few minutes? Mrs. Beale has a meal ready for you. Are you hungry?”

“Yes, I’m hungry, and yes, they can come in.”

A minute later, Lucivar walked in, and Surreal could hear excited voices in the other room.

“Daemon has gone to his suite to wash up and change into fresh clothes,” Lucivar said.

“Are you pissed off at me?” Surreal asked. She heard tears in her voice.

“No, I’m not pissed off at you,” Lucivar said. “Neither is Daemon. We want to do whatever you need to feel safe and easy.”

“I’ll stay and have a bite to eat with Surreal,” Marian said quickly, looking from one to the other. “Daemon could come back a little later.”

Surreal studied Lucivar’s face, his eyes. “He doesn’t want to see me?”

Lucivar met her look, made some decision, and sighed. “You caught him in the ribs as well as the arm. Bastard managed to hide that from me even while I was cleaning the arm. It wasn’t until the Healer stepped in the blood that had pooled under the chair and I pushed to break the illusion spell that we discovered the other wounds and realized how much blood he’d lost.”

“Mother Night,” Surreal whispered.

“After she closed the wounds, we got him a clean shirt and let him receive congratulations from the family before taking him to his suite. Right now, the Healer is pouring some potent healing brews down his throat, and Jazen and the Scelties are under orders to make sure he stays down for a couple of hours. Then, if he’s steady enough, he can come back and see you.”

Tears filled her eyes and spilled over. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to hurt him. I’m not sure what I was trying to do.”

“You thought you needed to protect your baby. He doesn’t fault you for that, Surreal. Neither do I. But I need to know you’re steady before I let him back in this room. He’s in no condition to defend himself right now. Not from you.”

“He doesn’t have to.”

Marian went into the small bathroom and returned with a damp cloth. “Here. Wipe your face so the children can come in and meet their new cousin.”

Surreal did as she was told. She had a feeling Tersa knew why Daemon wasn’t present, but the others were more interested in the baby and didn’t notice the absence of the father.

When Lucivar decided they’d all had sufficient chance to coo, he herded them out, reminding them that there was a celebratory feast in the dining room.

“I’ll tell Beale we’re ready for some food and be back in a minute,” Marian said.

Finally alone, Surreal looked at the baby girl sleeping in her arms and sighed. “Your birthing day turned out to be a lot more exciting than I’d intended. I figure your papa and uncle will start forgetting about that around the time we’re planning your wedding. Of course, getting your papa to agree to let a boy have that first kiss could be a problem, but I’ll work on it. I promise I will.”

As soon as the rest of the family was out of sight, Lucivar wrapped his arms around Marian.

“Is Daemon really hurt that bad?” she asked.

“Yeah, he’s hurt that bad,” Lucivar replied. “He was bleeding all that time and hid it.”

“To protect the baby.”

“And so that Surreal wouldn’t know, wouldn’t feel the weight of blame for something done when she wasn’t thinking clearly.” He sighed. “But he will be all right.”

“Did he tell you the baby’s name?”

He nodded. “And that Surreal chose it.”

“Lucivar?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you think either of them has realized yet that Jaenelle Saetien has the same birthday as Jaenelle Angelline?”

Later that evening, Surreal looked up from watching the baby sleep to find Daemon standing in the doorway.

“May I come in?” he asked.

“Sure.”

He moved slowly, stiffly, as he approached the bed and came around to the side that held the baby basket.

“Hell’s fire, Sadi, you look like shit.”

“You flatter me, as always.”

“I’m not playing,” she said sharply, then lowered her voice when the baby stirred. “Sit down before you fall down.” How much blood had he lost? And why had the fool allowed himself to keep bleeding like that?

Because he wouldn’t leave the baby. And she wouldn’t have calmed down if he’d left the room with the baby. So he’d stayed, hiding the wounds and the blood soaking into his clothes.

They were going to have a little chat about him taking care of himself so that he’d be able to take care of the child. On the other hand, she appreciated his restraint in not hurting her today.

“Daemon, sit down.”

He used Craft to move a chair next to the bed. When that didn’t give him a good view of his daughter, he sat on the edge of the bed, wincing as he shifted position. One finger touched a tiny hand.

He’s already in love with her, Surreal thought as she watched him watch Jaenelle. The baby had a fuzz of black hair, gold eyes, and light brown skin. The delicately pointed ears were the only sign that she wasn’t purely from the long-lived races.

“Are you disappointed that she’s not a Queen?” Surreal asked.

The Healer had said it might take a few days for a psychic scent to become strong enough to identify a caste, but the words had been said to ease possible disappointment. Surreal had known within minutes of holding her baby that Jaenelle Saetien wasn’t a Queen. Lucivar had known just by being in the same room with the girl, so she figured Daemon also knew.

Daemon looked at her, surprised. “Disappointed? No.” His eyes went back to the baby. “Queens are the Blood’s moral center and the heart of the land. Their will is the law, and every single person who lives in their territory is held by their whims. But for all that, their lives are set from the day they’re born, and their lives are never truly their own. We need the Queens, but I’m relieved that my daughter will be spared the weight of those duties. She can become whatever she chooses to be.”

“I’ll remind of you of that when she announces a new course of study that’s so outrageous just hearing about it makes you snort coffee out your nose.”

He let out a startled laugh. Then his breath caught from the pain.

Surreal sighed. “Daemon, we both need to get some sleep before she wakes up and wants another meal.”

He nodded, clearly unhappy.

This should have been a wonderful day for both of them, and he shouldn’t have been exhausted from pain and blood loss because of her.

She snugged the baby basket up against her. “Come on, Sadi. Stretch out here and get some sleep.”

He studied her, and she couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

“There’s not much room,” he finally said.

And if she called in a knife, his throat would be in easy reach.

“There’s enough.” She thought for a moment. “But it would be smart to put a light shield along the sides so neither of us accidentally rolls off the bed.”

He stretched out on his left side, the head of the baby basket brushing his chest, and put up the shields as she requested. It hurt her heart to see him moving so carefully because of the wounds and the pain. When the Healer came back tomorrow to check on her, she would make sure she knew what he was supposed to do to heal fully—and she would make sure he did it.

She looked at him, intending to ask if he’d taken the healing brew he was supposed to before bedtime. But Daemon was already sound asleep, his body curved protectively around the basket holding his daughter.

TEN

Daemon looked up when the study door opened, and watched Surreal walk toward the blackwood desk. Judging by that particular expression on her face, he knew he was in trouble. He just didn’t know why.

“You’re the parent on duty this morning,” he pointed out.

“I’m aware of that, Sadi.” Surreal pressed her hands on the desk and leaned toward him. “Before I decide if you deserve to have your ass kicked, I want to know one thing: Did you give Jaenelle permission to ride the horsie all by herself?”

Why was she pissed off about that? “The wheeled toy horse in the playroom?”

“No, the big live one outside.”

He blinked. Sat back. “What, exactly, are we talking about?” Because she couldn’t mean what she said. Jaenelle was much too young to mount a horse and ride alone.

“A black horse showed up this morning. When Jaenelle went outside to play, they made friends. Now they’re cantering around the backyard, having a grand time.”

“A groom put her up in front of him?” He couldn’t approve of that, since the man hadn’t asked permission from him or Surreal first, but Jaenelle loved the horses and she could be a persuasive little witchling. Of course, a groom being present didn’t fit with Jaenelle being “all by herself.”

“There’s no groom,” Surreal said. “There’s no saddle or bridle. And he’s not from our stables. His name is Nightwind, he comes from the Isle of Scelt, and he’s an Opal-Jeweled Warlord Prince.”

Daemon shot to his feet. Seeing the look in Surreal’s eyes, he sank back down. She hadn’t called in a weapon—yet—but he knew better than to push her when she was in a riled-mother frame of mind.

“She’s riding an unfamiliar horse—,” he began.

“Who is an Opal-Jeweled Warlord Prince,” she added.

“—bareback?”

“Yes. The grooms tried to approach him, but every time they got close, he took off—with her. The humans have retreated because they’re afraid he’ll bolt or try to jump something in his path. No one is sure how she’s keeping her seat, although the stable master assures me that she’s riding as if she’d been born knowing how to ride. Fhinn and Sorca are watching her, since the horse doesn’t mind Scelties running along with him. So Jaenelle is fine for the moment, which is why we have time to discuss this.”

He shot to his feet again. “Hell’s fire, Surreal! Why haven’t you done something?”

“Like I said, I wanted to make sure you hadn’t given her permission.”

“Why would you think I would give my permission?”

“Because you have a firm no and a soft no, and I had the feeling that Jaenelle heard whatever you said about the horsie as a soft no.”

“There was no no, and there was no yes,” Daemon snarled. “I didn’t know about him!”

“Now you do. This one isn’t about who’s on duty, Sadi. This is about a pissing contest between two Warlord Princes and establishing now that Prince Nightwind gets his orders from you and not Jaenelle.”

Daemon narrowed his eyes. Surreal didn’t need him for this. She wore the Gray. She could slap that horse from one end of the estate to the other if that was what it took to convince Nightwind that he had to follow the rules they set for their daughter. Convincing the daughter, on the other hand . . .

“Why do you want me to be the strict parent who draws the line?” he asked.

“Because a line has to be drawn and held. She’s too young to be galloping off without supervision. When that line gets drawn, there are going to be tears. She’s having a wonderful time right now, so you know there will be tears. And we both know you tend to buckle when there are tears.”

“I don’t buckle,” he snarled.

Surreal just looked at him.

“Not always.” Actually, it wasn’t the tears that gave him trouble; it was his fascination with how her little mind worked that usually tangled him up. He’d been stumbling over Jaenelle’s logic since the day she figured out how to string words into complete sentences adults could understand. “All right. Fine. I’ll draw the line.”

“And I’ll back you up all the way,” she said sweetly.

He came around the desk and headed for the door. “You owe me.”

Surreal laughed.

As he entered the great hall, he noticed Beale and Holt, but they didn’t try to talk to him, so he kept going. If Jaenelle was having a grand time with the horsie, she was going to be one unhappy little witch when he put a stop to her playing with her new friend. And wouldn’t that be pleasant to deal with?

He would be calm but firm with horse and child. After all, it wasn’t that long ago that his little witchling had needed to hold on to him in order to walk. Of course, now she was running all over the place, and the Scelties were the only ones besides himself and Surreal who could keep track of her. But that didn’t mean she could go riding by herself. No, it did not.

He stepped out on the back terrace, saw his little girl and the young black stallion, and thought, Shit.

They looked beautiful together—and they reminded him of another young girl and a horse named Dark Dancer who had looked just as beautiful as they flew over the ground.

But it wasn’t the same. Jaenelle Angelline had been twelve at the time, not a little girl like Jaenelle Saetien. Still, he had to admit Surreal was right—he’d have a much harder time holding this particular line if he wasn’t the one drawing it.

“Papa!” Jaenelle raised a hand and waved at him—and wobbled on that bare back so dreadfully far above the ground.

Daemon’s heart bounced down to his knees and back up to his throat, but he kept his movements smooth and easy as he approached the horse, who had slowed to a walk and kept an eye on him.

“Papa! Look at me!”

“I see you, witch-child.” But he was watching the stallion. “Come on, now. Let me help you down so you can introduce your new friend properly.” And once he got her down, he would decide if she was ever getting near the horse again.

“Go over to Papa now,” she said. “We’ll get hugs!”

A Warlord Prince was a Warlord Prince, whether he walked on four legs or two. And this youngster was feeling just as possessive and territorial as Daemon.

Well, that wasn’t quite true. No one could feel as possessive and territorial about his daughter as he did.

He waited, letting the stallion move toward him, giving Opal a chance to show respect for the Black—and remain among the living.

Once Daemon had his girl safely in his arms, he looked into those gold eyes shining with excitement. It wasn’t the thought of tears that defeated him. It was the thought of how dull those eyes would be if he didn’t allow the boundaries of her world to keep expanding.

Sighing, he looked at the horse and got down to the delicate business of negotiating the rules.

Surreal stepped out of Daemon’s study and found Holt and Beale in the great hall, waiting for her.

Holt shook his head. “You’re both so strict about the on-duty rule, I didn’t think you could talk the Prince into going out there, not when you could deal with a kindred visitor.”

“You just have to know the right thing to say,” Surreal replied. And knowing when Daemon needs to set the boundaries for his daughter doesn’t hurt either—especially when being the one to set those boundaries is as much for his sake as for hers.

“You talked him into handling it,” Holt said, still shaking his head.

“I did—which means I win the bet.” She grinned and held out a hand. “That will be ten silver marks each, gentlemen. Pay up.”

ELEVEN

Surreal walked down the steps to the sunken garden that held two statues. She’d built her own little garden for quiet reflection, and came to this one only once a year on this particular day. Daemon came here often, and it held so much of his sorrow and grief she wondered how the groundskeepers could stand tending the flower beds and trimming the lawn—and cleaning the fountain where a woman with an achingly familiar face rose out of the water.

She glanced at the statue of the male, then looked away. She couldn’t help the male, so she went over to the other statue and lifted the mug she’d brought with her.

“I brought you coffee.” She poured the contents on the grass near the fountain. “Daemon’s gone to your cottage in Ebon Rih, like he does every year on the anniversary of your death. He’ll stay for a day or two, remembering you. When he comes home, he’ll sleep in his own bed for a few days while he wrestles with the question of whether having sex with me is being unfaithful to you or if still loving you is somehow being unfaithful to me. I think he’ll always wrestle with that question at this time of year. It’s not easy being the second wife, not when you were the first. I wouldn’t give it up, though.”

She vanished the mug, then stuffed her hands in the pockets of her coat. “Jaenelle Saetien is a lot like you. I think that helps Daemon. I know it helps me, because watching him deal with her reminds me of you and Uncle Saetan. Hell’s fire, you should have seen him the first time he said no and she tried to negotiate to get parts of that no turned into a yes. I can’t laugh at him when he’s losing ground, because I need him to back me when I make rules, but it is fun to watch him deal with her. And not just fun for me. Beale and Holt are often in prime position to watch our little dramas. She’s not shy the way you were. I blame her uncle Lucivar for that. I think she absorbed some of his Eyrien arrogance while she was in the womb, just by my being around him. She throws herself at the world and is confident the world will catch her. And maybe it always will.”

A tear suddenly spilled over. Surreal wiped it away. “I know you’re gone and can’t hear me, but I’ll ask anyway. You were Kaeleer’s Heart, and you were Daemon’s heart. Your death left a hole in him, and I don’t know if it will ever heal.”

“It will.”

Surreal jolted, then looked toward the stairs. “Tersa.”

Daemon’s mother joined her and smiled at the statue that wore Jaenelle Angelline’s face. “She knew Daemon’s rise out of the Twisted Kingdom needed to be a slow journey in order for his mind to heal. The same is true of his heart. A slow journey, Surreal. Be patient. It will take time, but the hole inside him is filling—and you’re one reason why it can.”

Surreal licked her lips and asked the question that had been circling in her mind ever since Nightwind showed up a few months before. “Has Jaenelle Angelline come back as Jaenelle Saetien?”

Tersa shook her head. “No. Of that I am sure.”

“But they’re so alike in some ways.”

“Yearnings can be strange things. What kind of daughter did you yearn for in the long hours of lonely nights?”

The question made her uneasy, but she answered it. “Someone like the golden-haired child I once knew, without the pain.”

“Then you have the daughter of your heart. And isn’t she also exactly the kind of daughter Daemon needs in order to heal?”

Surreal didn’t know how to answer that.

“You worry without reason,” Tersa said. “One is like the other but is not the other.”

“How can you be sure?”

Tersa brushed her fingers along Surreal’s cheek. “Witch told me.”

Daemon closed the cottage door and pressed his forehead against the wood. Most days the pain was a dull ache in the background of his life, a constant and faithful lover. Most days he barely noticed it while he was busy taking care of his family and the SaDiablo estates, and the Territory of Dhemlan.

Most days. But not on the anniversary of the day he lost his Queen, his lover, his heart. Then the pain roared back, sharp and cutting. It wasn’t fair to Surreal, but he couldn’t be around her on this day. Couldn’t even be around Jaenelle Saetien, mostly because he didn’t want to explain the tears and the hurting to his little girl.

Being invited to Jaenelle’s private place had been special, a pocket of time when they could be nothing more than a man and woman in love. He cherished those memories, just as he cherished the memories of the time they took for themselves each Winsol. He tried not to think about them too much during the rest of the year. He’d made a promise to Surreal to be a husband, and he did his best to keep that promise. But on this day, he wandered the acre of land that belonged to the cottage or sat in the front room and let the memories flow—the ones that made him laugh, the ones that made him cry.

Later in the evening, he ate the food Marian left for him in the cold box. Then he lay down on the bed and closed his eyes. The dream would come—the one where he was dead and had a hole in his chest where his heart had been. It didn’t plague him as often anymore, but it would come tonight.

Except it didn’t. Instead, he dreamed he was stretched out on the altar in the Misty Place, comfortable and passive, lulled by the steady beat of his heart.

He opened his eyes and rolled onto his back, bumping against someone else on the altar—except she was propped up on one elbow, watching him out of ancient sapphire eyes.

“Jaenelle,” he whispered.

She tapped a cat claw lightly against his chest. “Stubborn, snarly male. But I guess that’s not surprising, since you always were.”

The steady beat of his heart.

He looked down. The hole was still there, a gaping wound. But not completely empty anymore. Half a heart now beat in his chest.

“You taking that much back is progress,” Witch said. “I’ll keep the rest of it safe until you’re ready to take it back.”

“I want you to have it.”

“No, Daemon. I had all of it for a lifetime. Eventually you’ll take the rest of your heart back in order to share it again.” She gave him a long, gentle kiss. “Sleep. I’ll watch over you tonight.”

He closed his eyes. As he drifted into an easy sleep, he heard her singing. He couldn’t make out words or even a melody, but the song drifted through the Darkness and wrapped him in peace.

He woke up just after dawn, alone. But he could have sworn her scent was on his skin and he could feel the lingering warmth of her next to him in bed.

TWELVE

Daemon jolted awake when his bundle of witch landed on his back.

“Papa! I have something wonderful to show you!” Jaenelle gave his bare shoulder a smacking kiss.

He grunted, raised his head, and got his eyes open enough to look out the window. Then his head dropped back down on the pillow. “Witch-child, nothing is wonderful before the sun comes up, and the sun is still sleeping. Don’t you want to sleep for another hour?”

“Tch.”

Daemon groaned. What reasonable child wanted to get up before the sun?

“Papa.”

Reaching out, he groped for the other adult who should have been in the bed. *Surreal?*

*I’m in the bathroom. I’ll be back in a minute.*

*Are you well?*

*Needing to pee first thing in the morning doesn’t mean I’m ill. And being in the bathroom doesn’t mean my moontime has started yet, so back off, Sadi.* Defensive temper sizzled in the psychic link before Surreal broke the connection, a sure sign there was nothing wrong with his ability to read a calendar.

Fine. Wonderful. The sun wasn’t up, he was barely awake, and he already had one female snarling at him and the other prepared to keep jumping on him until he saw whatever wonderful thing she wanted to show him.

He turned on the bedside lamp, its candle-light still set to the soft light he preferred for sex, and tried to force his brain into believing he should be awake at this hour of the morning. “All right, witch-child. Let me up.”

Jaenelle slid off the bed, bouncing with excitement. “Come on, Papa.” She started to yank the sheet off him.

He grabbed the sheet before she pulled it below his waist, and snarled softly, a sound that would have frightened everyone else and just made his daughter pause.

“Get out of here,” he said. “Let me get dressed.”

“I can wait for you,” she protested. “If I leave, you’ll take forever.”

“I’m not wearing anything, so I’m not getting out of bed until you’re gone.”

“Oh, tch,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “I’ve seen boy parts before.”

He didn’t remember moving, but his hand was suddenly locked around her wrist. His temper had turned feral and cold and was rising to the killing edge, and he knew by the way her eyes widened that his eyes were glazed.

“Explain, witch-child,” he crooned.

“I’m sorry.” She tried to pull away from him, but his hold, while gentle, was unyielding. “We didn’t mean to cause trouble.”

“Jaenelle Saetien.”

*Daemon?* Surreal asked.

He shut out his wife and stared at his trembling daughter. “Explain.”

“Uncle Lucivar said it was all right!”

He saw the room through a red veil. With effort, he released Jaenelle’s wrist. “Get out of here. Now.”

She ran. The moment she was out of the room, he flung the sheet aside, sprang out of bed, and strode to his own adjoining bedroom to get dressed. He could hear Jaenelle yelling for her mother, felt the crackle of Gray power in response. No doubt Surreal had used Craft to pass through the wall and meet Jaenelle in the corridor. Better that way. Right now he couldn’t get past the rage to deal with the girl in any gentle way.

He was dressed and striding for his bedroom’s door when Surreal rushed in from her room.

“Jaenelle’s practically in hysterics,” she said. “What in the name of Hell is going on?”

“I don’t know yet.” His hand closed on the door’s handle.

“Where are you going?”

He turned his head and looked at her—and watched her freeze because she recognized the difference between dealing with the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan and the High Lord of Hell.

But she swallowed hard and pushed, because Surreal wouldn’t do anything less. “Daemon, where are you going?”

He yanked on the handle and ripped the door off its hinges. Letting it fall, he snarled, “I’m going to have a chat with my brother.”

All the way to Ebon Rih, Daemon worked to keep his temper chained—at least until he had some kind of explanation from Prince Yaslana.

“Oh, tch. I’ve seen boy parts before.... Uncle Lucivar said it was all right!

Memories swam too close to the surface. Memories of a place called Briarwood and men who were called uncles—men who violated little girls. Memories of Jaenelle Angelline’s body torn from a savage rape. And blood. So much blood. That terrible night had been the first time he’d seen Witch in the Misty Place after he’d fallen too far in the abyss and shattered his mind.

He dropped from the Black Wind to the landing web below Lucivar’s eyrie. The air around him turned frigid, and the green leaves of the nearby plants frosted as he climbed the steps to the flagstone courtyard.

He walked into his brother’s home without knocking, then twisted the chain on his temper a little more when he heard Daemonar and Titian chattering in the kitchen—and heard Lucivar answer some question that had been inserted in the chatter.

Maybe it was better this way, with the children here. If Lucivar had been alone . . .

He walked into the kitchen. Titian looked up and gave him a cheerful, “Hi, Uncle Daemon,” before she picked up his mood and hunched in her seat.

Lucivar gave him one measuring look, then continued cooking breakfast.

Daemonar stood up, a young Warlord Prince prepared to die defending his father and sister. The boy swallowed hard and said, “It wasn’t Jaenelle’s fault.”

“It wasn’t anyone’s fault,” Lucivar said with such dismissive certainty the tone pierced Daemon’s cold rage, leaving behind a moment’s doubt.

“But something did happen,” Daemon said too softly.

Lucivar shrugged, then filled two of the plates on the counter with eggs and bacon, adding slices of toast and a bowl of summer berries. Calling in a tray, he stacked it with the plates, silverware, the butter dish, and a jar of Marian’s jam. He took two glasses from a cupboard and filled them with milk.

“Daemonar, take the tray into the dining room. You and your sister have breakfast in there. Titian, can you carry the milk?”

“We’re supposed to eat where?” Daemonar asked as Lucivar handed him the tray.

“Dining room,” Lucivar replied. “You know. The place you only see on special occasions. Now go.”

“But, Papa.”

“Go.”

Daemonar glanced at Daemon, fear in his eyes. “Come on, Titian.”

Daemon said nothing, did nothing except assess every move and every sound Lucivar made. When the children were in the other room, he wrapped a Black shield around the kitchen, then added an aural shield. Whatever they said to each other would remain private—providing they were both still alive when the discussion was done.

Lucivar took two white mugs from the cupboard. “Coffee?”

“Not yet.” He didn’t eat with an enemy. Refusing the coffee right now was a warning that while he and Lucivar would always be brothers, they might no longer be friends.

Lucivar filled one mug, then set the coffeepot back on the stove. “I’m surprised you didn’t show up sooner. And frankly, Bastard, I’m surprised you’re this pissed off about it.”

“My daughter was exposed to a naked male. You knew and didn’t tell me. You’re damn right I’m pissed off about it.”

“I told her to tell you.” Lucivar sighed. “I guess she didn’t.”

“Now you will,” he said coldly. “And the first thing you’re going to tell me is who displayed himself to a girl her age.”

Lucivar took a slow swallow of coffee. “Me.”

It crushed his heart. He suspected that would be the answer and had hoped he was wrong.

Then he considered Daemonar’s words and Lucivar’s dismissive response. Jaenelle had been equally dismissive about whatever had happened. Was he wrong?

“Explain.” He could barely force out the word.

“Do you want the short version or all the details?”

“Oh, I want all the details, Prick. I do want the details.”

“All right.” Lucivar huffed out a breath and told him.

Lucivar rested in the small pool that was one of his favorite places in Ebon Rih, lulled by the twitter of birds, the easy fall of water, and the voices of young girls doing happy girl things. He’d checked the area before setting up a perimeter shield that allowed Titian and Jaenelle Saetien to have a feeling of independence while never being beyond his awareness.

After a quick dip to cool off from the summer heat, they’d said they wanted to pick wildflowers so that Marian could teach them . . . something. Since he and Daemonar had the pool to themselves, they stripped completely and settled into water he considered sun-warmed to perfection, since it was still first-gasp cool.

Through half-closed eyes, he watched his son trying to act relaxed and lazy, but the boy was too focused on the sound of the girls’ voices to be either.

No. Daemonar still acted like a boy at times, but he was well into the adolescent stage, both physically and emotionally, and the aggressive temper of a Warlord Prince was now added to the possessive, protective side of their caste.

Daemonar sighed and ducked under the water. When he surfaced, he sighed again. “They giggle a lot. Especially when they’re together. Why do they giggle like that?”

“Because they’re girls.”

“That’s not much of an answer.”

“It’s the only one I’ve got, boyo. Young females are still females, and their minds are wondrous, strange, and confusing.”

Daemonar rolled his eyes. “It makes Titian and Jaenelle sound dumb, like some of the older girls in school. Except Jillian. She wouldn’t act dumb.”

Quick to defend, Lucivar thought. “Anything I need to know about?”

“No, sir.”

And a little too quick with that answer. Might be nothing, but Lucivar wouldn’t dismiss it until he’d had a chat with Jillian and knew it was nothing. Daemonar saw Jillian as an older sister, which meant she was his to protect and defend. So the boy would never admit to an adult that she was doing something dumb even if he thought she was doing something dumb.

Looked like it was time for a reminder talk about the difference between doing something dumb but not dangerous and doing something that put one of them in the position of needing the intervention of an adult—namely, him.

“They’re going to pick all the flowers,” Daemonar said.

Lucivar studied his son. “If you want to do something for your mother, you can help her weed the garden this evening. Then you can have some time alone with her. She’ll like that just as much as picked flowers.”

Big sigh. “The girls will push in.”

“I’ll keep the girls out of the way.”

“Yeah?” Daemonar climbed out of the pool, looking happier.

“Hey.” Lucivar waited until Daemonar met his eyes. “Do not start teasing them.”

“I won’t.”

Lucivar stared at him. “They’re having a good time. Let them be.”

“I’m not going to do anything. Not with Jaenelle here.”

“Because she’s younger than you and Titian?”

Daemonar grinned. “No, because she hits a lot harder than Titian.”

His sigh turned into a chuckle. “Go on, then.”

Daemonar grabbed his clothes and darted over to the bushes where he would have privacy dressing.

Lucivar pushed away from the edge of the pool and floated on his back, his wings spread.

Didn’t get much quiet time these days, not since Marian had given birth to their third child, a boy they named Andulvar in honor of the Demon Prince. A hard birthing, and it was taking Marian longer to recover. Because she needed more rest and her time and strength were being given to the baby, he made sure Daemonar and Titian had a little time alone with her each day. And he made sure she had a little time for herself. Like today when he took the children for an afternoon at the pool and Jillian was at the eyrie to help out and watch the baby so that Marian could have a couple of hours to sleep or read in peace.

With all the children nearby but occupied, he could have a few minutes of peace himself.

The girls’ shrieks had him snapping upright, but he stayed in the pool, listening while he sent out psychic probes to search for the problem. They weren’t yelling for help, and those shrieks weren’t telling him much. The sound could be for anything—bug, snake, weird formation of bark on a tree. Granted, the girls weren’t prone to shrieking, since they’d learned early how their fathers responded to the sound, but they were young girls of a certain age, so . . .

Daemonar’s voice. Angry. Distressed. Close to panic.

It didn’t matter if he couldn’t sense anything wrong. If all three of them were upset, there was a problem.

Lucivar surged out of the water, calling in his war blade as he strode toward their voices. He used Craft to pass through the bushes in his way, never breaking stride. Nothing should have been able to slip through his perimeter shield. Nothing! But if something had and the children were under attack . . .

He burst in on them, his temper rising to the killing edge as he scanned the clear, grassy area where Jaenelle and Titian stood, then probed the bushes behind Daemonar—and found nothing.

“What in the name of Hell is going on?” he roared.

Daemonar and Titian began talking so fast they were barely coherent, their words a cacophony of tripping sounds full of accusations, justifications, denials, and explanations. But it was Jaenelle’s expression—baffled and a bit disappointed—that caught his attention and made him uneasy.

A sharp whistle silenced his children. Daemonar clutched his clothes to cover himself. Titian twisted her fingers. Jaenelle remained focused on ... whatever.

Then, sounding apologetic, she said, “It looks like baby Andulvar’s stuff.”

Daemonar made a strangled noise. Titian glanced at her father, blushed fiercely, and looked away. Jaenelle cocked her head and continued to ponder.

“What?” He looked down to figure out what the witchling found so interesting—and swore silently but with great sincerity. And suddenly all the accusations, justifications, denials, and explanations made sense.

After making one more swift probe to be sure there was no danger, Lucivar vanished his war blade and called in the loin wrap he usually wore as a morning cover-up in the summer. As he secured the wrap, he said, “Before I decide whose ass gets kicked, let me see if I understand this. Some of the older girls at school have gotten curious about what a boy has tucked in his pants, and they’ve been teasing Titian, saying she’s too young to know about such things.”

“They made it sound all mysterious, and I wanted to know!” Titian wailed.

“So when you heard Daemonar in the bushes, Jaenelle tried to sneak up on him and get a look at what the older girls were talking about.”

“I tried to be quiet, but Daemonar heard me right away,” Jaenelle said.

No, he didn’t, Lucivar thought. Otherwise, he would have started yelling before the shrieking started. But he found it interesting that Jaenelle was trying to give Daemonar credit for catching her—and even more interesting that she had been able to sneak up on an Eyrien boy who already had a few years of formal training. Of course, that boy was still naked and nowhere near the bushes where he’d gone to get dressed, which meant he’d decided to sneak up on the girls and see what they were doing and had been so intent on that he’d forgotten the reason he was still carrying his clothes—until Jaenelle sneaked up on him and he realized how much trouble he’d be in for being naked in front of his young cousin.

Lucivar said, “So now you’ve seen the mysterious boy parts that are making the older girls act silly.”

“Really?” Jaenelle asked doubtfully.

“Darling, if someone is male and human, this is what he’s got in his pants.”

“Oh.”

He quivered with the effort not to laugh at the keen disappointment held in that single word. Apparently boy parts weren’t mysterious after all. In fact, they weren’t even interesting. At least, not for a good many years.

Thank the Darkness for that.

“Papa?” Titian said after a long moment of feet-shuffling silence. “Can we go back to picking flowers?”

“Not yet.” Lucivar gave all the children a lazy, arrogant smile. “First, we’re going to discuss some new rules.”

“That’s it,” Lucivar said, setting his coffee mug on the counter.

Daemon stood still, saying nothing, trying to find his balance. Jaenelle Saetien hadn’t seen a strange man intent on doing her harm in any way. And he couldn’t fault Lucivar for choosing the war blade over pants when it sounded like the children were in trouble. He would have made the same choice of weapons over modesty.

His head throbbed and his stomach churned, no doubt from holding in all that rage that now had no target.

He watched Lucivar pick up the coffeepot and refill one mug. “Is there enough in there for another cup?”

Lucivar gave him that measuring look, understanding the message. He filled the other mug and handed it to Daemon.

“I don’t know what to say.” Daemon sipped the coffee. “I know too much, Lucivar. I heard too many nightmares while Jaenelle and I were married, and I never want my little girl to know the things my Queen knew.”

“I know about those nightmares too.” Lucivar took two plates out of the cupboard and divided the rest of the food. “Jaenelle Saetien didn’t say anything about her visit here until this morning?”

“Oh, she was a bundle of information about the visit, talking about the baby, and Auntie Marian teaching her and Titian to make wildflower wreaths, and getting to do practice routines with you using the sparring sticks, and playing with the wolf pack who lives on the mountain with you, and shopping in Riada with Titian and Jillian and the three of them stopping at The Tavern for the midday meal. She said you had some new rules, but that was thrown in with the rest, and she didn’t elaborate, so it sounded like they were boundaries that just applied to her when she was with you in Ebon Rih.” Daemon took a long swallow of cool coffee. “She didn’t say anything about seeing a man’s body until she wanted to show me something wonderful and tried to drag me out of bed.”

“What was it?” Lucivar asked.

Daemon sighed. “I don’t know. The conversation ended once she mentioned boy parts.”

Lucivar looked out the kitchen window. “Hell’s fire. What time did she jump on you that you got here so early?”

“Before sunup.”

Lucivar huffed out a laugh. “No wonder you arrived here looking like you were skating the border of the Twisted Kingdom.”

“Prick, I know you better than to think what I was thinking. For that, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. If Titian had hit me with that bit of information before I was awake, I would have landed on your doorstep wondering the same thing. The only difference is I would have pinned your ass to the wall before we started talking.”

He meant it. All of it.

Lucivar picked up one of the plates and held it out. “You want this?”

“Yes, I do.” Taking his plate and mug to the kitchen table, he sat down.

Lucivar tossed him a fork, then joined him.

“Tell me about these rules,” Daemon said.

“I kept it simple.” Lucivar spread jam on his toast. “Look equals tell. Touch equals tell. Permission before action. No exceptions.”

“Is that supposed to make sense?”

“The long version of the rules is, if any male tries to show them his stuff or tries to talk them into showing him their bodies, the first thing they do is shield. The second thing they do is holler for you or me, and we will decide what needs to be done. If anyone tries to touch them or tries to make them touch body parts—”

“They shield and holler for one of us.”

Lucivar nodded. “If they want to spend private time with a friend, male or female, they get our permission first. I won’t refuse any reasonable request and will set whatever boundaries I feel are necessary, but permission comes before action.”

“And the consequences of disobeying your rules?”

Lucivar looked him in the eyes. “I’ll destroy the enemy, regardless of gender or age. And unless there is permission beforehand, I will regard any person who tries to sneak off with one of my children as an enemy.”

Daemon sat back. “There might be mitigating circumstances.”

“Not if I find out about it afterward instead of beforehand.”

“That’s a hard line.” One he knew Lucivar would hold. “Do these rules apply to Daemonar too?”

“Yes. And Jillian.”

Daemon stiffened. “Has someone been bothering Jillian?”

Lucivar shook his head. “No—and I intend to keep it that way.” He paused. “Look, Bastard, you may think those rules are harsh, and maybe you want to soften them for Jaenelle Saetien. But when it comes to my children, when they stay with you, I expect you to hold that line.”

He polished off the eggs. “I don’t have any trouble with your rules or holding that line for any of the children—including Mikal.”

“And Beron?”

Daemon shook his head. “Beron has his own residence and is apprenticing in his chosen profession, so he’s old enough to choose his own company.” But it wouldn’t hurt to remind the young Warlord that being given that much independence didn’t mean the family patriarch wasn’t aware of all of his activities.

“The theater group he belongs to is performing a play in Riada next month. We’re looking forward to seeing him.”

And Uncle Lucivar will keep an eye on him while Beron is in Ebon Rih, Daemon thought, working to hide a smile.

“You want more coffee?” Lucivar asked. “I’ll make another pot.”

“Sure. Where is Marian?”

“Sleeping in.”

Something in the tone, in the way Lucivar moved around the kitchen. “Is she all right?”

“Just slow coming back from this birthing. It’s taking longer for her to regain her strength and energy. She’ll be fine.”

“But . . . ?” Daemon asked gently.

Lucivar filled the coffeepot and put it on the stove to heat before replying. “Nurian is an excellent Healer, and I trust what she says. But I wish Jaenelle Angelline was still here to tell me Marian will be fine. I’d feel a lot easier if she was still here to tell me that.”

Daemon walked into his study and found Surreal waiting for him, comfortably settled on the long leather sofa. She had a book in her lap and a crossbow aimed at his groin.

“Is that necessary?” he asked politely.

“You tell me.” Her tone was a few steps short of polite.

He slipped his hands in his trousers pockets and waited. When Surreal began a discussion by pointing a weapon at a man, it was wise to yield as much as possible.

“I upset Jaenelle.” The crossbow didn’t waver, so he considered the other half of his offense. “And I left you to deal with it without giving you any idea of what you were facing.”

“Which is something you won’t do again. Agreed?”

Was there a choice? “Agreed.”

Surreal vanished the crossbow, then shifted so that he could sit beside her.

“Jaenelle Saetien is very sorry that she forgot to tell you about Uncle Lucivar’s new rules—which you will explain to me in detail by the end of the day,” she said. “A new friend showed up early this morning, and she needed to tell you about him before she totally broke the rules instead of just bending the rules by waiting for you to wake up before she told you about her new friend, since he was in her room, but you didn’t wake up, which is why she woke you, but then she mentioned the boy parts, which Uncle Lucivar had also told her to tell you about, and before she could explain, you cat-puffed, kicked her out of the room, and left to yell at Lucivar.”

“I what? Cat-puffed? What in the name of Hell is that?”

“I’m guessing it’s what a pissed-off feline does.”

“Well, that makes me sound scary.”

“No, it makes you sound like a rolly ball of fur. Regardless ...” Surreal grabbed a fistful of his shirt and pulled him closer. “I’ll give you a choice. You can go up there and settle things with your daughter and her new friends, or you can take the second part of the discussion about why boy parts wiggle.”

He felt all the blood drain out of his head. “Why would there be a second part if the two of you already discussed this?”

“Because with Jaenelle Saetien, there is always a second part to a discussion.”

That was a frightening truth. “All right. I’ll meet these new friends.”

“One of them is in her room. The other is in the stables.”

“I take it these new friends have boy parts?”

Surreal released his shirt and leaned back. “Trust me, Sadi. Their boy parts are the least of your problems.”

Once Daemon was on his way to meet his daughter’s new friends, Surreal breathed out a shuddery sigh. No sign or scent of blood or wounds, so it wasn’t likely that he and Lucivar had done more than yell at each other.

If it had been anyone other than Lucivar, even if the man’s actions had been innocent or unintentional . . .

Sadi hadn’t looked like a man who had shattered the family by maiming or killing his brother. No, her sense of him when he’d walked into the study was that of a man who knew it would take some work to clean up the emotional mess he’d left behind when he’d thundered out of the Hall.

She called in her favorite stiletto and studied its edge.

She’d been twelve when she was raped, but the man hadn’t been strong enough to take more than her virginity. She’d come away from that bed with her Birthright Green Jewels and her power still intact.

Jaenelle Angelline had been twelve when she was raped. No one could have taken away Witch’s power—she stood too deep in the abyss for anyone to do that—but she had abandoned her body for almost two years, traveling roads in the Twisted Kingdom, and maybe even the Darkness itself, that no one else could walk. And what had been done to her in Briarwood had left emotional scars that had haunted her all her life.

Daemon had married two women who had been scarred by rape, and he wasn’t without scars himself—not with what she guessed had been done to him as a child and what he’d endured as a pleasure slave. So any hint that his daughter might be at risk of having the same kind of scars was enough to have his temper turn cold and brutal and committed to slaughter.

That was the mess Daemon had left her with this morning—trying to find a way to explain to a frightened girl why her darling papa had been so angry about the boy parts. Jaenelle Saetien had been more worried about getting Uncle Lucivar into trouble than whatever punishment she might face for failing to tell her father about the incident at the pool—and she’d been worried that she had somehow hurt her papa’s heart.

Which was true.

Surreal vanished the stiletto, grabbed two fistfuls of hair, and pulled gently to ease some of the ache around her skull.

Old memories were bound to start surfacing now that they were this close to Jaenelle Saetien’s Birthright Ceremony.

But old memories weren’t the only things surfacing now, and she didn’t know what to think about that.

Jaenelle Saetien’s new friend was a half-grown Arcerian cat named Kaele. A Warlord Prince who wore a Green Birthright Jewel.

May the Darkness have mercy on me, Daemon thought as the cat put himself between man and girl.

Kaele looked at Daemon and snarled.

Daemon looked at Kaele and snarled—and let his Black power thunder softly through the room, leaving no doubt about who was the dominant male.

“No no no,” Jaenelle said, throwing herself on the cat and clamping both arms around his neck. “Do not snarl at Papa! He won’t let us play if you snarl at him.”

*Why are you here?* Daemon asked on a spear thread.

*To be friends with your kitten,* Kaele replied. *And with you. The Weavers said it was time.*

Mother Night.

There were rules for the wilder kindred to follow when they stayed at the Hall. He just couldn’t remember any of them.

Well, there was the most important one.

“Do not swat anyone or eat anyone without asking me first,” he said.

*I could ask the dogs,* Kaele said, clearly preferring to communicate with other kindred.

“No, you’ll ask me.” He trusted the Scelties for the most part, but the ones who lived at the Hall came from the Sceltie school Jaenelle Angelline and Ladvarian had begun and that he now co-owned with Ladvarian’s descendants. So these dogs were loyal to his family and very protective of his wife and daughter. Usually he was grateful for that, but with the presence of an Arcerian cat, he could see Morghann and Khary happily pointing out a human they didn’t like and putting the label of “dinner” on the fool.

“Are you mad at Uncle Lucivar?” Jaenelle asked in a small voice.

Daemon shook his head. “No, we got that sorted out. But I wish you had told me about it when I was more awake to understand what had happened.”

“I know.” She hugged Kaele’s neck hard enough to produce a grunt from the cat.

Daemon went down on one knee. “Come here, witch-child.”

She released the cat and came to him. Of course, the cat, being a Warlord Prince, came too.

He rested his hands on her shoulders, giving Kaele time to accept that he could touch his own daughter.

“Uncle Lucivar is going to hold you to his rules—and so am I. Do you understand that?”

“Yes, Papa.”

“I’ve seen too many bad things, Jaenelle, and I’m afraid of what I would do if someone hurt you.”

“That’s what Mama said.”

“Your mother is a very smart woman.”

Jaenelle smiled. “She said that too.”

He kissed her cheek and hugged her, as much to reassure her as to comfort himself. As he held her, he sent out a delicate psychic probe. It wouldn’t invade her mind or thoughts, but it would give him a sense of her emotions, of whether she was as easy about seeing a naked man as she seemed to be.

And found something he hadn’t expected.

His daughter was keeping secrets from him.

He eased back and looked at her. Nothing haunted those gold eyes, but something was there. Something, he suddenly realized, that had been there on and off for the past few years—and more so in the past year as she got closer to her Birthright Ceremony.

“I guess I should introduce myself to your other friend,” he said as he rose gracefully.

“You’ll like him.” She gave him an unsure but game smile that made him tremble.

He wasn’t sure he would like this friend, but unless he hated the male on sight, he’d let things slide. At least for today. But before he met this second friend, he wanted to have a word with his wife.

Surreal was still sitting on the sofa in his study, so he didn’t have to hunt for her.

“Hell’s fire,” she said, grinning. “If your father could see the look on your face, he’d laugh himself silly.”

He sank down beside her, feeling boneless. “There is an Arcerian cat in the Hall again.”

“I know. I met him. You need to put strengthening spells on Jaenelle’s bed—and think about getting her a bigger bed if he’s intending to be a frequent visitor.”

“Since he’s in the stables, I’m assuming her other friend has fur and boy parts?”

“He does. He also has a spiral horn—and his name is Moondancer. He can trace his bloodlines back to a Warlord Prince named Kaetien.”

Daemon heard the wobble in her voice. He turned his head and studied her, seeing enough in her eyes before she looked away.

He cupped her face in his hands. “Talk to me, Surreal. What do you know?”

“About what?”

Shaky. Of course, this whole day must have stirred up memories for her too.

“Jaenelle Saetien is keeping secrets. Even if she had a reason for not telling me, she might have told you.”

“Let it go, Sadi.”

“I can’t. Not today.”

Surreal pulled away. He released her face but closed one hand around her wrist.

“Surreal,” he said gently. He could see her struggling to decide what to tell him.

“A special friend,” she finally said. “A secret friend. Someone she’s known ‘forever,’ which I take to mean these past few years.”

“How could someone have slipped into the Hall without our being aware of it?”

“No one could. But she doesn’t see this friend here at home. She meets this friend in dreams.”

Daemon forgot how to breathe. “Have you asked . . . ?”

Surreal shook her head. “She was upset about telling me. She didn’t want to break Lucivar’s rules, especially now that she knew how upset it would make you, but she didn’t want to tell me because it wasn’t time for us to know about this friend. So I told her it was all right to keep the secret for a while longer.”

She meets this friend in dreams.

He didn’t know what to think, didn’t know what to feel.

“Daemon?” Surreal wrapped her hand around his other wrist. “Aren’t you wondering?”

He felt dizzy, off balance. “About something in particular? I’ve wondered about too much already today.”

“The wild kindred races withdrew from most human contact decades ago. Even most of the wolves don’t talk to us directly; they maintain contact with the two packs who have stayed connected to the family. Now there’s an Arcerian cat descended from Kaelas visiting here. There is a unicorn descended from Kaetien. The Scelties who live with us now are named Morghann and Khary, and we didn’t name them. Are a tiger and dragon going to show up in the next few weeks?”

He rested his forehead against hers. “You think this has something to do with Jaenelle’s special friend?”

“I don’t know, but what I’m wondering is this: What do the kindred know that we don’t?”

THIRTEEN

The Birthright Ceremony. A rite of passage. One of the most important days in a child’s life.

And in a father’s life.

A dozen aristo families gathered at a Sanctuary in a central Dhemlan Province to witness the children who would be gifted with their Birthright Jewels—and to witness the fathers who would be legally gifted with their children.

Because one of those children was the daughter of Prince Daemon Sadi and Lady Surreal SaDiablo, the Sanctuary grounds were packed with Queens, both District and Province, and aristos from every Province in Dhemlan as well as the whole SaDiablo family.

Surreal stood apart from the rest of the parents, ignoring the nervous glances being cast her way by the Queens and other adults. Sometimes several children went through the Birthright Ceremony on the same day. Sometimes only one child stood at the altar and resonated in the Darkness, drawing the particular Jewel that matched who and what she was.

They had decided to let Jaenelle Saetien participate at the same time as other children—which meant the second part of the Ceremony would also be public. That was the reason everyone was keeping their distance from her. There was one father who was a danger to them all if anything went wrong today.

“And they still brought their children here,” she growled.

“Did you really think they wouldn’t want to watch the spectacle?” Lucivar asked as he came up beside her.

“If I were them, I would stay far away from this place today.”

“Is that why we’re doing this at a Sanctuary near one of the family’s estates instead of in Halaway?”

“This was Sadi’s choice. I think . . .” Because it was Lucivar, she slipped an arm through his and voiced the worry that had gnawed at her ever since Daemon announced where the Birthright Ceremony would take place. “I think he chose this Sanctuary and this estate so that he would have someplace to run to if anything went wrong. There won’t be memories of this day at the Hall.”

“Is something going to go wrong?” Lucivar asked, giving her a sharp look.

Surreal shook her head. “No, I made my choice the first time I saw Daemon’s face when he looked at his daughter. I’m just not sure what his choice will be after today.” She tried to smile in response to Lucivar’s unspoken question. “After today, when his daughter is irrevocably his, he may not feel the need to stay married.”

“Is that your way of warning me that you’re leaving him?”

“No,” she said softly. “I’m not leaving him.” Don’t do this. Not today. “I did want to warn you about something else.”

“Oh?”

“Has Titian said anything about the incident this summer when you and the children were at the pool?”

“She said something to Marian.”

It was obvious he wasn’t thrilled about what was said, but he was accepting it—and maybe even felt a little relieved.

“Do I need to call in my crossbow to get the details?” she asked.

“I overheard Titian tell Marian that the older girls had been making a fuss about boy stuff just so the younger girls would think they knew about something interesting, and it was all a big tease.”

“Oh, dear.” She bit her lower lip and told herself to behave. Then she thought, Ah, shit, he deserves this. “Jaenelle has been doing a lot of thinking about the day she saw your boy stuff.”

“Is she upset?” Lucivar asked with a hint of alarm.

“Noooo. But she did come to a different conclusion than Titian. Jaenelle Saetien has decided that, for the most part, boy stuff is not interesting and it looks funny when it wiggles.”

He made a pained sound, but since he was managing to keep a straight face, she went on. “However, she also concluded that when someone is special, his stuff becomes special too. Like, your stuff becomes special when you’re around Auntie Marian. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have let you help her make the baby.”

She felt him shake. She wasn’t sure if he was about to start laughing hysterically or just become hysterical.

“Having come to that conclusion about her darling uncle Lucivar—”

He whimpered.

“—she has decided the same must be true of her darling papa. He’s shyer than you so she hasn’t been able to confirm that, but she’s certain it’s true because Daemon is her papa and he’s wonderful.”

“Mother Night.” Lucivar swallowed hard. “What did Daemon say?”

“He doesn’t know about this yet. She decided that he’s been so nervous about the party we’re having after the Ceremony it wasn’t the time to tell him about her conclusions regarding boy stuff.”

“Then why in the name of Hell did you tell me?”

“Because one of these days he’s going to be standing at your door looking like he’d gotten kicked in the head, and I thought you should have some idea about why so you can comfort him.”

“Why can’t you comfort him?”

“Because, sugar, I tend to agree with her—especially when boy stuff wiggles.”

He walked away, weaving a little. Within moments, Marian came up to her, the baby asleep on her shoulder.

“I want to know what you said to put that look on his face,” Marian said. “I think it will come in handy someday.”

“Oh, don’t worry. You have a daughter too. I’m sure you’ll see that look again.”

Marian laughed softly as she rubbed the baby’s back, but her eyes remained serious. “Are you concerned about today? About Jaenelle?”

“A little. I don’t care what Jewels she wears. Neither does Daemon. But I should have sensed something at this point, should have some idea of what Jewel Jaenelle will wear, and I don’t. Based on how quickly she picks up basic—and not-so-basic—Craft, she should be strong enough to need a reservoir for her power.”

“Daemon isn’t sensing anything either?”

Surreal shook her head. “I wear the Gray; Daemon wears the Black. If her power is so weak she comes away from the Ceremony without a Jewel ...”

“She’ll feel like an outsider within her own family,” Marian concluded. “Especially because Titian wears Birthright Summer-sky and Daemonar wears the Green.”

Surreal shivered at the thought. Wasn’t that how so many things had gone wrong with Jaenelle Angelline’s life? She had been the outsider in her family, with her special friends and abilities no one had wanted to understand until Saetan had recognized her as the daughter of his soul.

Well, Jaenelle Saetien was never going to feel like an outsider whether she wore a Jewel or not.

“You look so fierce,” Marian said. “Where did you go?”

“Nowhere. Too far.” She tried to smile. “Daemon is going through the steps with Jaenelle. Want to make a bet on who is lecturing who?”

“Do you remember—,” Daemon began.

“I remember!” Jaenelle huffed out a breath. “Papa! We’ve gone over this forever-many times!”

He went down on one knee to be closer to her. “I know, but—”

“Papa!” She cat-puffed and jumped back. “Don’t put your knee on the ground. You’ll get dirty! Stand up!”

He obeyed. She immediately closed in on him and began whacking at his knee to clean off flecks of dirt.

“We have to stay neat and tidy because this is an important day,” Jaenelle said.

“Yes, Lady.”

She gave him a narrow-eyed look to see if he was making fun of her. Then she got a look in her eyes that was much too old for her young years—and scared the shit out of him.

“You’re afraid, aren’t you?” she asked.

Terrified, actually. “A little.”

She grabbed his hand in both of hers and gave him a sweet smile. “Don’t worry, Papa. Everything will be fine. I already know what Jewel I’m supposed to pick. My friend told me.”

His stomach lurched. There had been no mention of the special friend over the past few weeks. “Witch-child, you can’t choose a Jewel just because you like its color.”

“Tch. I know that. I know all this stuff, Papa.” She looked past him. “I’m supposed to stand with the other children now, and you’re supposed to stand with Mama.”

She hauled him over to where Surreal stood with Marian, then ran off to join the other children who were going through the Ceremony.

Marian looked at him, then looked at Surreal and sighed. “I’ll pay you later.” She wandered off.

“Problem?” Surreal asked.

“Apparently, it’s now your responsibility to keep me neat and tidy,” he replied dryly. “And if you’re going to place bets about me, do I get a share of the winnings?”

She gave him a sharp smile. “No.”

His heart raced and the need to move was almost unbearable. But he stood still because he wasn’t willing to let anyone know how much effort it was taking to stay in control and appear no more anxious than any other father waiting to be told his fate with regard to his child.

Surreal slipped her arm through his. Then she looked at the children and sighed. “She’s at the end of the line.”

“Maybe we should have had a private Ceremony,” he muttered.

“You’re the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan. Even if she had been the only child acquiring a Birthright Jewel today, it wouldn’t have been a private Ceremony.”

A hard truth. If nothing else, all the Dhemlan Queens would have come to witness the second half of the Ceremony.

“We should move up with the families who are participating today,” he said. When she started to withdraw her arm, he pressed his hand over hers, holding her in place. “There’s no reason to be formal. Is there?”

She studied his face and shook her head. “No reason.”

Her mood seemed bittersweet, and he suspected he was the cause of whatever bitterness dimmed her pleasure in this special day. She had been his partner, his friend, his lover. They had laughed together and worried together and, sometimes, fought with each other.

He hadn’t been the husband she deserved. He had taken care of her body and enjoyed doing it, and he’d made an effort not to deliberately hurt her heart. He cared for her, deeply, but he’d never said the words that matter most to a woman.

And yet, she had stayed—and he wanted her to stay because he wanted to be with her, wanted to share his life with her.

Maybe, once this day was behind them, the tension that had been building between them would go away, along with the unspoken questions and doubts.

Maybe.

Or maybe, like the previous patriarch of the SaDiablo family, he would find himself surrounded by people he loved and yet always feel alone.

His heart ached with love and pride as he looked at the people who were his family. Sylvia’s boys, Beron and Mikal. Manny, who had taken care of him when he’d been a child. Tersa, his mother. Jillian. Marian and the children. Lucivar. And Surreal.

Giving his arm a squeeze, Surreal slipped away to talk to Manny. Lucivar shifted to fill the space.

“How did you survive this twice?” Daemon asked.

Lucivar shrugged. “Nothing I could do about it. A child will wear the Jewels a child will wear. I figure it’s my job to teach them to live up to their own potential instead of trying to match someone else—including me.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“If you don’t know the answer to that, old son, then you haven’t been paying attention to the woman you’ve lived with these past fifteen years,” Lucivar said quietly, turning enough to make the words private. “She loves you. You know that, don’t you? And she’s as committed to her daughter as you are.”

“I know.” Daemon sighed. “I know.” But was that commitment enough?

“Boys,” Tersa said.

He and Lucivar immediately looked toward the Sanctuary where the first girl was coming out with her new Jewel.

“Oh,” Marian said with warm pleasure. “She has a Summer-sky.”

The next child in line, a boy, went into the Sanctuary with his chosen witness while the girl stood beside her mother, who proceeded with the formal granting of paternity.

Another child went in, and another man was granted legal rights to the child he had made.

Daemon called in chairs for the women and spread a blanket for the children so that they could sit on the ground and play hawks and hares. Lucivar called in a jug of water and let Daemonar take a glass to Jaenelle while he poured water for the rest of them.

By the second hour, Manny was dozing in her chair, and Surreal had gone off with Marian, who needed to feed and change the baby.

“A dozen children is too many,” Daemon said, accepting the glass of wine Lucivar poured for him. “We should have been split up into smaller groups throughout the day, like they did in Ebon Rih when your children went through the Ceremony.” When Lucivar said nothing, he felt like a fool. “I should have insisted on this group being split into smaller groups.”

“Maybe. Not that it would have made any difference. Not today. They are here to watch you and your daughter.”

“Isn’t that delightful?”

“Everything has a price.”

By the time they reached the third hour, children were getting whiny, adults were getting restless, and Daemon was ready to exile every Queen and aristo present. He’d had enough of the speculative looks and the whispers behind their hands. He also made note of the ones, like Lady Zhara, who had remained gracious and friendly during the long wait, and didn’t appear to be there for any other reason than to offer her good wishes.

Then, finally, Jaenelle was the only one waiting her turn.

He held out his hand, palm side down. Surreal placed her hand over his, standing on his left. They walked up to the Sanctuary, where the Priestess waited for them.

The Priestess looked at Jaenelle. “Who will stand as your witness?”

Daemon tensed and felt Surreal do the same. How was Jaenelle supposed to choose one parent over the other in public?

Before he could insist on both of them going in with her, Tersa walked up to them and held out her hand. “Come with me, little Sister.”

Jaenelle took her grandmother’s hand and followed the Priestess to the room where her Birthright strength would be acknowledged and made apparent by the Jewel that would be both warning and reservoir for the power she wielded.

Surreal’s hand trembled on his, but she gave no other sign of surprise or distress.

*Is that possible?* she asked. *Have you seen signs that Jaenelle might be a natural Black Widow?*

*She’s too young for there to be any sign that she belongs to that caste. I don’t think Tersa meant to indicate that Jaenelle was another Sister of the Hourglass.* But she could have meant exactly that. With Tersa, it was hard to tell. *Besides, Tersa stood as your witness too, didn’t she?*

*Yes, she did,* Surreal replied softly. *Yes, she did.*

Five minutes later, Tersa and Jaenelle walked out of the Sanctuary. Jaenelle held nothing in her hands, and there was no Jeweled pendant around her neck.

Daemon’s heart sank, but he smiled at his girl—and the happy smile she gave him in return almost broke him.

*Daemon . . . ,* Surreal said.

“My Jewel hasn’t arrived yet,” Jaenelle said. “My friend said it might come late because its presence would confuse the other children.”

“Finish the Ceremony,” Tersa said.

Daemon looked at the Priestess. “I don’t understand what—”

“Prince,” Tersa said. “You will have no answers until the last choice is made.”

He moved away from Surreal until he stood in the spot where the other men had stood.

“Come here, Jaenelle,” Surreal said. She placed her hands on the girl’s shoulders and looked at him.

“I, Surreal SaDiablo, acknowledge Prince Daemon Sadi as the father of Jaenelle Saetien SaDiablo. I grant him all paternal rights from this day forward.”

Surreal raised her hands. Jaenelle walked the distance between them and took the hand he held out to her. Even though his hand closed around the child’s, his eyes never left the woman’s.

*She’s yours now,* Surreal said on a psychic Gray thread.

*Thank you.*

*Let’s hear you say that the next time she asks an ‘interesting’ question.*

He huffed out a quiet laugh. *Smart-ass.*

That made her smile.

“Well,” Daemon said, as he led Jaenelle back to the rest of the family. “Let’s finish up here so we can go to the estate and have our party.”

“We can’t go yet,” Jaenelle protested. “We have to wait for my Jewel!”

“Witch-child . . .”

Jaenelle and Tersa turned at the same moment, looked in the same direction. Jaenelle pulled away from him and ran off. Before he could take off after her, Tersa froze him in place with three words.

“She has come.”

He stared at his mother, a Black Widow who walked the roads of the Twisted Kingdom. She had changed his life centuries ago with those same three words.

“Daemon.” Surreal looked stricken, but she squared her shoulders and said, “Go.”

Not sure how much pain he was leaving behind him, he ran after his daughter.

She was walking back to him when he caught up to her, her smile brilliant as she clutched a pendant, its gold chain spilling over her hands.

“Look at my Jewel, Papa! Isn’t it wonderful?”

He looked at the Jewel in her hands and sank to his knees.

“I told the Priestess that I would have a Rose and a Summer-sky and a Purple Dusk and an Opal and a Green as my Birthright, but she said I could only have one, and I knew that wasn’t right because the Lady had shown me this Jewel and said it used to be hers but now it would be mine. It even has a name! It’s called—”

“Twilight’s Dawn,” he whispered.

“Yes.” She beamed at him. “She said you would understand and teach me how to use it.”

His mind was spinning. His heart was in turmoil. “Who said this, witch-child?”

“My special friend. The Lady in the Misty Place. The one who’s called the Song in the Darkness.”

He swallowed a sob. Pain? Joy? He couldn’t tell. “Where . . . ?”

“She’s over there.” Jaenelle turned and pointed. “She’s waiting for you. She said I should wait for you here.” She rolled her eyes. “And that I should let you put a shield around me.”

“She always was a wise Lady.”

Jaenelle hesitated. “She said, when you were ready, you would tell me stories about her. About when she lived in the Realms. She said Uncle Lucivar and Mama could tell me stories too.”

“They can. They will.”

He stood up. After a moment’s hesitation, he put a Red shield around his darling witch-child, since Lucivar or Surreal could break it and get her out. Just in case he didn’t come back.

He walked over to the place where she had pointed. One moment he felt nothing. The next . . .

Not the Misty Place, but not the grounds of the Sanctuary either.

And there she was. Witch. The living myth. His love and his heart.

“Prince,” Witch said, smiling.

“Jaenelle,” he whispered, reaching for her.

His hand went through hers, but when she reached up and rested that same hand against his face, he felt the warmth of her, breathed in the familiar scent of her. She had chosen to show him the Self that lived in the Misty Place deep in the abyss, to show him the dream that had lived within the human flesh.

She was showing him his Queen rather than his former wife.

“How can you be here?”

“This is a shadow, an illusion.”

“I know, but . . .”

She looked at him with those haunted, ancient sapphire eyes. One hand still rested against his face; the other now rested against his chest, over his heart.

“Jaenelle Saetien . . .”

“Is the daughter of your blood, the daughter of your heart, and the daughter of your dreams. She is those things to Surreal as well. Two dreamers, Daemon, yearning for the same dream.”

His brain felt sluggish. He couldn’t get past that he was seeing her again, feeling her touch—but he had to try because his daughter waited for him.

His daughter. And Surreal’s.

“You know about me and Surreal?”

Her cat claws pricked his chest. “The Arachnian Queens tended the web until it was ready to be more than dreams, but I’m the one who first gave it shape because of what I saw in a tangled web years before I became a song in the Darkness. You could have married someone else, and you might have had children. But not this child, Daemon. Not this one. This one needed a mother who had known you before you came to Kaeleer, who had known me.”

“This one?” Words tumbled through his mind. Webs. Visions. Dreams.

He turned his head and looked toward the spot where he’d left his little girl—and suddenly it made sense. “Jaenelle Saetien is . . . ?”

“Dreams made flesh.” Witch smiled. “Your dreams. Surreal’s dreams. And my dreams for both of you.”

Like Jaenelle Angelline, but not the same.

“Daemon.”

He turned back to her. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Don’t you? It’s simple, Prince. Listen to your heart. It’s healed. It’s whole. You loved me as a wife with all your heart for the whole of my life. You will love me as your Queen for the whole of your life. But there is someone else you love now, Daemon, and it’s time for you to share your heart with more than your daughter.”

He closed his eyes and said nothing.

“Stubborn snarly male. Do you need my permission to love the woman who is now your wife, to acknowledge what you feel for her?”

“I don’t love Surreal the way I loved you. I’ll never love anyone the way I loved you.”

“I know. But you do love her, Daemon.”

“Yes. I do.”

Her voice softened. “Then it’s time you told her.”

She stepped back, and the loss of her touch raked his heart.

He opened his eyes and studied her, drinking in her face. “Will I see you again?”

She hesitated, then said, “Your daughter will, when she needs to, but you need to let go of the past. However, you won’t be alone. No one understands what it’s like to stand so deep in the abyss. No one understands what it’s like to know there is no one who can touch the most private part of your Self. Saetan was the strongest protector the Realms had ever known, but he also made mistakes because even Andulvar’s presence at the depth of the Ebon-gray wasn’t enough to keep him from feeling isolated and alone. You’re not alone there, Daemon.”

“How can I not be . . .”

What had Jaenelle Saetien called the Lady in the Misty Place? The Song in the Darkness. He’d heard it when he stood in the abyss at the full depth of his power, when he knew, with absolute certainty, that he was alone. But that song had been there, a voice that wrapped around him down where it wasn’t possible for anyone else to be. He thought he imagined it being Jaenelle’s voice because he missed her so much, but she’d been with him all along.

“You won’t be alone,” she said again.

“For how long?”

Witch smiled. “Long enough.”

He thought about that web of power that spiraled from the Misty Place down into the Darkness. Enough power to keep her with him in this one way, to keep him balanced for a lifetime.

And because he had this assurance that she was still with him in some way, he began letting go of what could no longer be.

“May I tell Lucivar about any of this?”

“He’s your brother. You can tell him anything.” She took a step back and began to fade away. “It’s time for you to go.”

“Your will is my life.”

He closed his eyes. When he opened them, she was gone.

“Papa?”

And there was his other dream, waiting for him. She’d put the chain over her neck and was holding the Jewel, shifting it this way and that to look at the colors.

He walked over to her, sank to his knees, wrapped his arms around her, and pressed his face against her shoulder.

“Papa?” Jaenelle put her arms around him. “Why are you crying? Weren’t you happy to see the Lady?”

“Yes. Yes, I was. She gave me a gift. Such a wonderful gift. For your mother too.”

Fighting for control, he sat back on his heels, took out a handkerchief, and cleaned up.

Jaenelle Saetien studied him. “Maybe if we go to our house and have the party, you’ll feel better?”

Laughing, he vanished the handkerchief. “Maybe I will.”

He stood up, brushed off his knees before she could comment about the dirt, and held out his right hand.

“Papa! I’m supposed to stand on your left. Those are the rules.”

His Jaenelle Saetien was a stickler for Protocol. Much like his father had been.

“Indulge your papa. Just for today. We’ll go back to following the rules tomorrow.”

She looked skeptical, but she put her left hand over his right and let him escort her back to where the rest of the family waited.

Most of the families had left for their own celebrations, but the Queens and aristos who had come to witness the spectacle, as Lucivar called it, were still milling around when he walked by. So they saw Lucivar’s stunned look and the way Surreal pressed a hand against her chest and began to laugh and cry when she realized what Jewel her daughter wore.

He walked up to Surreal and said softly, “We need to talk.”

“You saw her?” she whispered. “You actually saw her?”

“Yes.”

Pain. Confusion. Unhappy acceptance.

“It will be all right,” he said. “I swear by all that I am, it will be all right.”

“Can we go now?” Daemonar asked. “I’m starving.”

“Shall we go?” he asked Surreal.

She nodded.

He dropped his hand from under Jaenelle’s, tacit permission for her to race after her cousins. Then he slipped an arm around Surreal’s waist and guided her to the Coach.

Surreal gulped a mouthful of sparkling wine as she watched the children run around. As soon as they reached the estate, Jillian had herded the younger children to their rooms to change out of their formal clothes.

Good thing, Surreal thought. She wasn’t sure what game they were playing, but it was a good bet that at least one of them was going to end up with scraped knees or a bloody nose.

“Enough!”

Unless Lucivar roared them into a decision to find a less rambunctious game.

Twilight’s Dawn. Jaenelle Saetien wore Twilight’s Dawn—a Jewel no one thought would be seen again.

“Are you brooding or just getting drunk?” Lucivar asked as he reached from behind her, took her glass, and drained it in one long swallow.

“I guess I’m not getting drunk,” she replied, looking at the empty glass. She followed the sound of laughter, and there was Daemon standing next to Tersa and Manny, looking as beautiful as the first time she saw him. “I don’t know what to do, Lucivar. I don’t know what he wants me to do now. She’s come back to him.”

He handed her the empty glass and gave her a lazy smile. “If you believe that, you’re drunker than you look.”

“Mean-hearted prick,” she muttered. But since she suspected he was right, at least about the being drunk part, she didn’t try to walk over to the terrace and refill her glass.

“Who’s a mean-hearted prick?” Daemon’s arm wrapped around her waist. “Do you want more wine?”

“I think I’ve already had a bit too much.”

He pressed his lips gently against her temple. “Me too. It’s been quite a day.”

The sexual heat that usually poured out of him was banked to a sensual warmth. She leaned into him, more comforted than aroused.

She wasn’t sure how long they stood there with the light fading around them and the autumn air turning cool. She would stand here with him forever if that was what he wanted.

“Surreal?” he said quietly.

“Hmm?”

He took the glass from her and vanished it. “You know that small table in the sitting room that you’re so fond of?”

“Uh-huh.”

“It now has a vase in it.”

“You mean on it.”

“No, in it.”

She was suddenly a lot more sober. “There isn’t one of them old enough or with sufficient training to try to pass one object through another.” And she had a bad feeling she knew exactly which child had tried it. “They shouldn’t be—”

He pressed a finger against her lips. She narrowed her eyes and raised his hand. “If I have to deal with this tonight when I’m on the shaky side of sober, you have to answer the next sex question.”

There was the expected glint of panic, but there was also laughter in his eyes. “Or the table could just disappear and we could scratch our heads and wonder where it went.”

Playful. She hadn’t expected that from him. Not tonight. “We could do that.”

He brushed a finger over her lips. “Surreal . . .”

I love you.

He didn’t say it. Not quite. But when he cupped her face in his hands and kissed her, she felt the words.

And that night, when he made love to her and said her name, it sounded like a promise, like a lovely caress.