by Anne Bishop
The Red-Jeweled Warlord he’d left in charge appeared at the far end of the great hall, along with an Opal-Jeweled Warlord. He knew these men. He’d still kill them with the slightest provocation, but he knew them.
Power sizzled behind him. The Sadist pivoted toward the open door to meet this new enemy.
A bolt of lightning, blacker than the night, struck the landing web—and the Demon Prince strode across the gravel drive and walked into the Hall. His eyes were wild, but the hand holding his war blade was steady.
Their eyes met. Held. Before the Sadist could decide if this required a dance, a midnight voice rose from the abyss.
How many sides does a triangle have?
The tone was conversational, as if they were in her sitting room at the Keep.
He heard the words. So did the Demon Prince. So did the Green-Jeweled Warlord Prince, the third side of this triangle that served Witch.
They served as he served. They could be trusted because she trusted them.
The Demon Prince walked around him and looked toward the girl on the floor who was gasping with the effort not to draw their attention. The Demon Prince bared his teeth in a snarl, and his gold eyes went molten with fury. Then he leashed his temper, vanished the war blade, and said, “I’ll deal with her. You can have the bitches.”
One flick of the Demon Prince’s fingers shattered the Twilight’s Dawn shield. He grabbed the girl on the floor and half carried, half dragged her toward the front door. The Sadist obligingly released the shield on the door, and the Demon Prince went out with the struggling, screaming girl.
Zoela. The girl’s name was Zoela.
A winged girl took a step toward the door, catching his attention. She stopped moving, her wings flaring in an effort to keep her balance on a floor that was now slick as ice.
“Please,” she said.
“No,” he replied, turning again to meet the Gray power that rushed through the open door.
The Assassin. His second-in-command. Not his wife. She wasn’t the Sadist’s wife. Sometimes she was wife and lover and friend. But not tonight.
“Hell’s fire,” Surreal said, taking in the blood and the bodies. Then she looked at him, wary.
“Surreal,” he crooned. “Escort Lady SaDiablo to her suite—and then seal those rooms with a Gray lock and shields.”
Surreal tipped her head in acknowledgment of her orders, stepped out of the shoes now stuck in the frozen gore, and used Craft to stand on air. She walked over to the girl who looked so like her, grabbed an arm, and pulled the girl to the back of the great hall and the servants’ staircase that would eventually take them to the family wing.
“Lord Beale.”
Beale bowed. “High Lord.”
“Escort the invited guests to their rooms.”
“Some of the young Ladies should be seen by a Healer,” Beale said.
The Sadist looked over his shoulder at the young Warlord Prince, then back at Beale. His smile made the Red-Jeweled butler shudder. “The Ladies are not the only ones who require the Healer. Summon her.”
Beale hesitated. “There was an attack in the kitchen. There has not been time to remove that body.”
Meaning Beale had been dealing with other bodies. How interesting.
“Leave it there until I come down.”
“Very well.”
Beale collected the witches who were guests the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan had allowed in his home and shouldn’t be harmed without sufficient cause.
“Lord Holt.”
“High Lord,” the Opal-Jeweled Warlord answered.
“Do you know where to take these intruders?”
“I do. Some of them are already occupying those accommodations.”
The Black chains he’d put around his enemies would drain their Jewels if they tried to use their power or any kind of Craft. Holt should be safe. But he didn’t underestimate an enemy, so he wrapped them all in bubble shields, including the dead, and connected the shields so that Holt could take them all, like beads threaded through a single cord.
Finally, he turned to the Eyrien boy, who vanished the war blade and watched him in silent wariness.
“You’re injured,” he said silkily as he approached the boy and used a psychic tendril to make his own assessment of the damage. “The Queen will not be pleased.”
“Couldn’t you scold me instead?”
The question surprised him, amused him enough for the Sadist to take a step back.
“Oh, boyo,” Daemon said. “I will not deprive the Queen of the pleasure of hearing you explain, in person, why you were so careless with someone she values.” He leaned in, almost close enough for his lips to brush the boy’s. “But better to explain this lapse to the Queen than to have to explain it to your auntie J.”
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
Lucivar dragged Zoey to the snow-covered grass beyond the gravel drive. It was a cold night and the girl wasn’t dressed warmly enough to be outside. Wasn’t dressed for what was coming either, but he couldn’t let that matter. Not right now. One look at her, collapsed on the floor of the great hall, had told him what had been done.
He created a domed Ebon-gray shield around them, large enough for the area inside the shield to be a sparring ring. He added warming spells to bring the air from freezing to chilly. And he added an aural shield so that whatever was said would not be overheard.
The moment he released her, Zoey rushed to get away, slammed into the shield, and turned to face him. A cornered little animal hating herself for her own need and desperation.
“Sex or violence,” he said. “Those are the only ways to burn out the drug they gave you.”
“I’m not having sex with you,” she rasped.
“Damn right you’re not.”
He called in two Eyrien sparring sticks. One was his personal stick. The other was smaller and lighter—and an appropriate size and weight for a female Zoey’s size and age. He tossed it to her. She caught it and bared her teeth.
“So that leaves violence,” Lucivar finished. The next words came out as both order and challenge. “Come on, witchling. If you don’t want to end up under someone tonight, show me you’ve got enough spine to fight.”
She screamed and launched herself at him. At first her moves were frenzied, mindless, desperate. He countered them with enough force that she would know he was neither playing with her nor mocking her attempts to defend herself. When she began to understand that he would let her fight, she settled into actual sparring, unleashing anger and unwanted sexual arousal as she beat at him and beat at him and beat at him.
Daemonar had done a good job of teaching Zoey how to spar. Too bad he was going to have to knock the boy on his ass for getting hurt.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
Surreal solved the problem of Jaenelle Saetien struggling to get away by creating a Gray shield around the two of them that allowed the girl to walk beside her or get knocked down by the moving Gray wall and dragged. The girl needed to get knocked down only once to realize there were no other options.
*Beale,* Surreal called. *What happened after I left to check on the sanctuary?*
His report chilled her, especially the part about Jaenelle Saetien giving her word before witnesses and then breaking her word when Beale stepped in to do his duty, insisting that he back down because he was the butler.
Hell’s fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful.
She used Craft to open the door of Jaenelle Saetien’s bedroom, then let the Gray shield pull the girl into the room with her. She closed the door and dropped the Gray shield around the two of them before she pressed her hand against the wall and created a Gray shield that followed the outer walls of the suite, carefully wrapping the shield around the pipes and plumbing in the bathroom to avoid cutting off the water. The
n she leaned against the door and studied the girl, who tried to look defiant but was, in truth, very frightened.
“You don’t have to lock me in,” Jaenelle Saetien said. “I’ll stay here.”
“The High Lord gave me a direct order.” Actually, the Sadist had given her that order, which was far worse. “I’m not going to disobey him or challenge him tonight. Not for anyone.”
“I can explain.”
“I hope so, sugar, because based on the little I saw when I walked in, the best you and the rest of the coven of malice can hope for is being broken back to basic Craft. I suspect some of you will be executed along with the prick-asses who survived the fight with Daemonar.”
Jaenelle Saetien’s eyes widened with shock. “My father would never—”
“You’re not dealing with your father anymore,” Surreal said coldly. “You have to answer to the High Lord of Hell for breaking the promise you made before witnesses.”
“High Lord?” The girl’s voice rose to the point of shrillness. “I didn’t—”
“Prince of the Darkness, High Lord of Hell, Warlord Prince of Dhemlan. Daemon Sadi has held all of those titles since before you were born, but until tonight, very few knew he was the High Lord, that he’d assumed that title when his father became a whisper in the Darkness. Now everyone will know because he will ram that title down everyone’s throat when he starts hunting for the rest of his enemies.”
Jaenelle Saetien stood there, saying nothing.
“We should thank you for this little game,” Surreal said. “We didn’t have enough proof against Krellis, Dhuran, and the other males to convince the Dhemlan Queens that those boys had been breaking young witches deliberately at Delora’s behest. Because of their age, the Prince felt we needed sufficient proof before he executed Krellis and the others. And now he has the proof. The enemy came inside the walls of his home and drugged a young Queen with the intention of raping her body and violating her mind to the point where her inner web would break along with her power.”
“You don’t know that,” the girl said, sounding desperate. “Father doesn’t know that.”
“He will. He will take those boys apart piece by piece, layer by layer, until he knows everything they have done, everyone they have hurt. Every girl each of them has raped. He will find every male connected to Delora, whether that male was here tonight or not, and have them taken to Hell to be questioned. Some will be released. Others will feed the demon-dead, as well as the Dark Realm’s flora and fauna.” Surreal didn’t want to look at the girl anymore, but as Sadi’s second-in-command, she had to fulfill her duties. “You will remain in this room until the High Lord is ready to deal with you.”
“How long will that take?”
“That will depend on the injuries that were sustained by the girls you brought into this house as guests—the ones who were on the list you provided. But you need to understand something, Lady SaDiablo. Daemon and Lucivar have a long and complicated relationship, and Daemon needs his brother more than he needs me or you. If Titian was hurt tonight because you betrayed the family and commanded Beale to allow an enemy into this house, Lucivar will come for you—and Daemon will not stop him. He will grieve the loss of you, but he will not stop the Demon Prince from calling in the debt you owe Titian’s father.”
The girl started to cry. “It was nothing. Everyone lets the boys slip into their parties.”
“Maybe that was true. Maybe that’s why it’s been hard to prove whose cock was used in the rapes that were meant to look like an accident that happened at a party because two youngsters let lust rule instead of their heads. But now that we know everyone connected to Delora and her coven did this little trick, it will be easier to hunt down—and eliminate—the cocks who were responsible for the breaking.” Surreal turned to leave.
“Mother . . .”
“You didn’t want me to be your mother. Didn’t want to be associated with a whore. You made that very clear. You don’t get to change your mind now, just because you want me to stand in front of you.” Surreal looked at the girl she had loved so fiercely from the moment she felt that presence in her womb. “I hope you survive this, Jaenelle Saetien. I truly do. But if you find someone like Delora so compelling that you would betray your family, betray your father, in order to please her, then maybe I stood in front of you too often, trying to keep you safe. That’s all your father and I wanted to do, keep you safe and give you time to grow up. But we failed somehow, and you grew up to be the enemy.”
She walked out of the room and put a Gray lock on the door. She’d arrange for food and water to be brought soon. Right now she needed to help Sadi make a list of the dead.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
“Enough,” Lucivar said, vanishing his sparring stick.
“No.” Zoey tried to raise her stick—and couldn’t.
He walked up to Zoey, vanished her sparring stick, and hauled her to her feet. “Witchling, you can’t even stand up by yourself. You’ve had enough for now.”
“It still . . .” She looked up but didn’t meet his eyes. “It still burns inside me.”
“Yeah, it will for a while longer. We’ll get you through it.”
She was exhausted, but with the safframate burning inside her and making her want something her mind and heart didn’t want, she’d still fight his help. He made things simple by dropping the Ebon-gray shield—and the warming spell with it. He created a warming spell around himself, gave her a moment to get hit with the bitter cold air, then picked her up and strode toward the still-open front door of the Hall.
Zoey burrowed into the only warmth available, pressing her face against the chain mail he still wore, trying to work her fingers into the chain in order to hold on.
Wondering why no one had shut the door, he automatically used Craft to step up and walk on air when he crossed the threshold—and hit a cold so savage, the outside air couldn’t compete.
He closed the door. The Black shield snapped back into place.
Well, that explained why no one had shut the door.
It didn’t explain why no one was in the great hall cleaning up the mess.
A quick psychic probe told him Daemonar was in the family wing, in the room he usually occupied when he visited. It told him that Titian was in another area of the Hall—an area crowded with other minds. Female minds.
He headed in that direction. *Helene?*
*Prince Yaslana?*
*I’m bringing Zoey up to her room.*
*I’ll run a hot bath. The young Lady will be chilled to the bone by now.*
*Do that. The Healer needs to examine her, and*—may the Darkness have mercy on him—*it would be good to have one of the Scelties stay with her tonight.*
*Four of them are here with the girls, along with the two shadow cats Prince Sadi left with Beale.*
Shadow cats? Shit. He wondered if Witch had helped Daemon shape those spells, then decided he’d rather not know. The shadows Witch used to create had been able to do a little too much independent thinking, and even if the cats couldn’t eat what they caught, they still enjoyed tearing it into pieces and then playing fierce games of tug with the limbs.
Not any different from what the real Kaelas and Jaal had done a few times when someone unwelcome had come too close to Jaenelle Angelline when she had walked among the living.
When he walked into the bedroom that had been assigned to Zoey, he found Titian waiting for him. He stopped, gave his girl a swift, assessing look. Scared, mussed, and her Summer-sky Jewel was drained almost to the last drop of power.
“Papa . . .”
“You hurt?” he asked. No point asking if she was okay. She wasn’t. But he’d start by dealing with the body and work from there.
“No.” She thought for a moment. “Sore.”
“Give me a minute to help Zoey, and then we’ll talk.�
�
“Can I . . .”
He shook his head and went into the adjoining bathroom.
Helene had started running the bath. The water had a fragrance. Pleasant enough if you were female.
He set Zoey on her feet and turned off the water taps. It would be easier to simply tear the dress down the back—he didn’t think she’d ever wear it again—but she was shivering now and not because she was cold. So he turned her around and began dealing with the small buttons that ran down the back of a wet dress.
“You can’t do that,” Zoey protested weakly.
“Sure I can. I have a daughter. I’ve had practice with buttons. Besides, you can’t raise your arms right now to do this by yourself.”
While she pondered his matter-of-fact response, he finished undoing the buttons so that it would be easy for her to slide the dress off. He helped her sit on the wide rim of the bathtub and knelt to tackle the shoes. He tossed those aside, hesitated a moment, then reached under the dress to find the tops of the stockings, figuring they’d be similar to what Titian had started wearing and were secured with ribbons and Craft a finger length above the knee.
“As soon as you’re undressed, you can get in the bathtub and soak the chill out of your bones and the soreness out of your muscles.” He stripped off one stocking and swore silently when he saw the blisters on her foot. Party shoes and stockings weren’t the proper footwear for sparring.
He was looking at her foot when he felt a flash of Craft. When he looked up, Zoey pushed a sodden wad of material at him. Her clothes. All of her clothes, except for the other stocking. Her eyes were so dull from exhaustion, he doubted she knew what she’d done. She wanted to get in the water, so she took off her clothes.
He stripped off the other stocking, laid one of the towels on the floor, then tossed all the clothes on that.
“Okay, witchling. In you go.”
She just leaned back and would have cracked her head on the other side of the tub if he hadn’t caught her and gently settled her in the water.
