Twilight's Dawn dj-9

by Anne Bishop

  “Let’s start with you using a warm-up as an excuse to push an injured man so that his damaged leg would go out from under him, ripping the muscles that were just beginning to heal. Let’s continue with using that man’s pain and his vulnerability in that moment to force open his inner barriers and see if he knew anything you could use against Lucivar—or, more to the point, if there was any information you could give someone else to use against Lucivar. And Rainier did know something about Lucivar. He knew about a weak left ankle, a spot that would be more vulnerable to a blow that in turn, might be enough to hobble even the best warrior when he was fighting against so many trained adversaries.”

  “Anyone could have told them about Yaslana’s ankle!”

  “Why would they?” Daemon sounded surprised. “The information about Lucivar’s ankle was a lie Rainier let you find.”

  Falonar stared at Sadi.

  “Rainier was Second Circle in the Dark Court at Ebon Askavi,” Daemon purred. “He was well trained.”

  “That son of a whoring bitch.” He’d thought Rainier was in too much pain to sense the intrusion, let alone try to deceive him.

  “Rainier serves me, and I do take care of my own,” Daemon said. “Which brings us to your new, if temporary, place of residence.”

  Falonar took a step toward Daemon. He would demand that Sadi take him back to that damn village, would demand that Sadi answer to a tribunal of Queens for breaking another Warlord Prince.

  A vine whipped around Falonar’s lower left leg, its curved thorns digging into his skin, chaining him to that spot.

  “It doesn’t have a quaint name like Little Weeble,” Daemon purred, “but I think the place, and its name, suits you better. Welcome to the bowels of Hell, Prince Falonar.” He turned and walked away.

  “Sadi!” Falonar shouted, as another vine wrapped around his right leg. “Sadi!”

  Ignoring Falonar’s increasingly shrill screams, Daemon glided along a path in this forever-twilight Realm. One moment he was alone; the next a dozen males with glowing red eyes stood in front of him. Since a couple of them had been Eyriens, judging by what was left of their wings, he knew their eyes hadn’t started out red. Did these males use an illusion spell to look more terrifying or did some physical change take place because of this particular location?

  That was an interesting question for another day. For now, he bared his teeth and snarled, a soft sound that rolled through the land like thunder. And with that sound, he sent a whisper of his power.

  “It’s him,” one of them said, shuddering.

  “But . . . I thought he would be older,” another said.

  “Did you?” Daemon asked too softly. He raised his right hand and rubbed a finger against his chin, giving them a good look at the long, black-tinted nails and the Black Jewel in his ring.

  They stepped aside, making sure they gave him enough room to avoid accidentally touching him.

  As he passed them, Daemon said, “There is fresh meat at the end of the path—if the plants don’t consume it all first.”

  They bowed, and one of them said hesitantly, “Thank you, High Lord.” Then they rushed to get their share of the feast.

  Daemon walked a few minutes more, observing the flora and fauna that moved toward him, drawn by the scent of the hot, fresh blood running through his veins, and then withdrew when they brushed against the feel of his power and the cold depth of his temper. Satisfied that he’d seen enough for the moment, he caught the Black Wind and rode to the Keep. He slipped in and out, staying only long enough to tuck a folded piece of paper between two of the books his father was sorting. A courtesy, really, to inform the current ruler of Hell about the delivery of meat.

  Then Daemon caught the Black Winds again and rode to the Hall, where his wife, and Queen, waited for him.

  SIXTEEN

  Surreal studied the room that would be her home for the next few weeks. The furniture was basic but in good condition, and gleamed from a fresh cleaning. Everything felt a bit rustic, but this was Dea al Mon. Could any furnishing be considered rustic when there was a tree growing through the room?

  Chaosti had told her there were a dozen homes within sight of the meadow that served as a play area for the children. She hadn’t been able to spot one of them—and she wasn’t sure she’d be able to find this one again on her own.

  Nervous butterflies fluttered in her stomach as she put her clothes away. Her mother had lived nearby in a house like this. The people who lived in the houses around this meadow came from the same clan, were kin. Even now in the heart of winter there was a sharp beauty to this place. She could picture her mother playing beneath these trees, watching the stars. Such a long way from the slums in Terreille where Titian had tried to raise a daughter and survive.

  She was looking over the selection of books she’d bought during a two-day shopping spree in Amdarh, and pondering which to read first, when Chaosti knocked on her door.

  “You’re settled in?” he asked. “Is there anything you need?”

  “Yes, I’m settled in, and no, there is nothing I need.” But you’re not settled, she added silently. “Something wrong?”

  “You’re safe here, Surreal,” he said. “Nothing will enter our land and harm you. I give you my word.”

  Mother Night. “All right. Although I will point out that I’m pretty good with a knife.”

  His lips curved in a hint of a smile. “How could you not be? You’re Titian’s daughter.” Then he sighed. “Falonar has disappeared, just vanished from the court of the Rihlander Queen he was serving. It’s thought by some that he’s gone into hiding in the Askavi mountains.”

  “If that is what people think, then it must be true,” Surreal said.

  Chaosti studied her. “And what do you think, cousin?”

  “I think that just as I am Titian’s daughter, Daemon Sadi is his father’s son.”

  Chaosti’s eyes filled with understanding. “I see. Something understood among the family but unspoken?”

  “Yes.” Although if she ever felt ballsy enough, someday she might ask Daemon if Falonar was still a threat to anyone. Problem was, anyone who asked the question would most likely receive the answer from the Sadist—and regret it.

  But maybe someday.

  “So whatever business you brought from Ebon Rih is finished now?” he asked.

  “It’s finished.”

  Chaosti held out a hand. “In that case, cousin, Grandmammy Teele is waiting to meet you.”

  FAMILY

  Ten years later . . .

  ONE

  Pulling the collar up around her ears, Sylvia added more power to the warming spell in her coat as she followed another path through her hosts’ gardens. She needed the crisp night air and the silence. More, she needed to be away from her hosts. Was her uneasiness due to staying at an estate that bordered the Territory called Little Terreille, or was there a tangible reason she wanted to grab her sons and Tildee, catch the Winds, and flee?

  Remembering the cloying, desperate civility that had surrounded her at the dinner table, she used Craft to put a shield around herself under her clothes—a subtle precaution that made her feel better. And because having that much protection did make her feel better, she stopped trying to rationalize her feelings.

  There was something wrong with this place, with this family, maybe with the whole damn village.

  Her son Beron had reached the age where he was allowed to attend house parties in order to become acquainted with youngsters beyond his home village. At one of those parties he had struck up a friendship with Haeze, a Warlord his own age, and had asked if his new friend could spend a few days with them at the end of Winsol. Her father had chaperoned Beron to that particular party and had voiced no objection to Haeze, so she agreed.

  Haeze had been staggered by the proximity of Beron’s home to SaDiablo Hall—and even more staggered when the boys passed the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan on the street and Daemon stopped to talk to them, making it clear he to
ok a personal interest in young Lord Beron. Add to that a couple of weapons lessons from Prince Yaslana and Haeze’s first encounter with a kindred Sceltie, and she’d seen the impact that a few days with them had on the boy. By the end of the visit, Haeze had sounded more confident and carried himself with an assurance that had been hidden by his initial shyness.

  A few weeks later, Haeze extended an invitation to Beron to visit his family’s estate. Sylvia would have asked a Warlord from her Second or Third Circle to stand escort for the short visit, but the invitation had included her other son, Mikal, claiming that Haeze’s younger brother was eager to become acquainted. Making connections was an intrinsic part of the Blood’s society, not just for friendships in general, but for the kind of association that could eventually provide a young man with the opportunity to train in a specific court.

  This house party hadn’t sounded like it would be any different from others Beron had attended, except that the invitation hadn’t included her, and it should have if a boy Mikal’s age was going to be visiting a family who was unknown to her. That had scratched her sense of propriety enough that she had declined the invitation on her sons’ behalf.

  The next invitation from Haeze’s family arrived shortly after that, crammed with apologies and gorged with assurances that they had meant no insult. They did not have the means to entertain a Queen, since that would mean guesting her escorts as well, and they had thought she wouldn’t want to visit their small estate simply as a mother with her sons.

  Having been in the position of entertaining to excess because a guest brought several unanticipated companions—and having her children grumble about the other parties they couldn’t attend after she paid the bills for that excess—she understood the dilemma Haeze’s mother faced: Pay for a visit by a District Queen that might not net enough social value to be worth the cost, or have the means to send Haeze to several parties in other villages.

  Her Steward and Master of the Guard had voiced no objections to Sylvia not bringing a human escort because Tildee was coming with her. The Sceltie, who was a Summer-sky witch, poked her nose into everything that had to do with her family, especially when it came to Mikal, who was her special human.

  So Sylvia had accepted the second invitation for a family visit.

  She stopped walking. She’d been careful not to wander beyond the formal gardens, but she was still alone in the dark. Thinking about the invitation that brought her family here, she used Craft to create several balls of witchlight and tossed them in the air to float above her as she headed back toward the house.

  There would have been room for a couple of escorts because she and her boys were the only guests—and that second invitation had given her the distinct impression the house would be crammed with guests. Haeze’s younger brother wasn’t eagerly waiting to meet Mikal as she’d been told. The boy wasn’t even here, and the excuses being made for his absence rang false.

  She should have listened to Tildee when the Sceltie growled about something smelling wrong near the house. The dog had wanted to get away from this place and these people within minutes of arriving.

  Thank the Darkness she had a code phrase the Sceltie promised to obey. If used, Mikal would be taken away from the danger, no matter what else might be lost.

  When had a sense of something wrong turned into a conviction there was danger?

  *Mother?* Beron called on a psychic thread.

  *Coming,* she replied. If a son had noticed her absence and come looking for her, she had been out in the garden longer than she’d intended.

  Sylvia lengthened her stride, the witchlights bobbing along with her. Hearing Beron’s voice helped her make her decision. She didn’t care if she was being rude. She didn’t care if she embarrassed her son and his friend. She was taking her boys home!

  The attack came without warning. A bolt of power hit her in the chest, knocking her down, shattering the shield beneath her clothes. As she scrambled to her feet, a male figure, dressed in black, rushed toward her.

  “Bitch,” he snarled. “This is your brat’s fault.”

  She threw a Purple Dusk shield between them, certain the feel of power clashing would bring the men in the house running to help. The man shattered that shield and kept coming toward her, destroying the next one too as she backed away.

  A hint of rotting meat in the air now, and a foulness to his psychic scent that gagged her more than the physical smell. In the moments before he struck again, she knew why Haeze’s brother wasn’t home. Since she couldn’t hold this Warlord off for long and it was clear she wasn’t going to get any help from the people in the house, she made her choice.

  Everything has a price.

  *Beron! Run!* she shouted on a psychic thread. *Tildee! Run now!*

  As the enemy lunged at her, she wrapped shields around herself and ran, hoping to lure him away long enough for her boys to escape. She didn’t worry much about Mikal. Asking Tildee to run meant something terrible had happened, and the Sceltie would protect the boy with everything in her while getting him to a safe place. But Beron . . .

  “Mother?” Beron shouted, sounding much too close. “Mother?”

  *Run!* she screamed.

  A blast of power hit her legs, breaking her shields and exploding her knees. She struck the ground hard and rolled, denying the pain while she twisted around to face the enemy.

  “Mother!”

  No time to argue with Beron about running toward her instead of running away. She blasted the enemy with everything she had in her Purple Dusk Jewel. It didn’t break his shield, but it stopped him for a moment. He was stronger, had a deeper reservoir of power than she did, and that meant he would win this fight.

  She’d still make the bastard work for the kill.

  Slipping on the blood and shattered bones, he fell on her and began tearing at her clothes. She tore at him with her nails, breaking through his shield long enough to rip her fingers on a protective mesh that covered his face.

  He rammed a knife between her ribs. Before her body registered pain, he yanked it out.

  “I’m going to give you a smile from ear to ear,” he snarled.

  A blast of power knocked him off her. Leaping to his feet, he grabbed her torn clothes and used Craft to fling her far out into the garden.

  As she flew through the air, in those moments before the physical death, she saw the enemy attack Beron.

  Daemon followed Jaenelle into her sitting room, closed the door, then wrapped his arms around her.

  “I love listening to you sing,” he said as he nuzzled her. “And so did everyone else tonight.”

  “I was pleased that we had a full house.” She tipped her head to give him access to his favorite spot on her neck.

  He brushed her hair back before giving that spot a delicate taste. After years of keeping her hair sleek-short or shaggy-short, depending on her mood, she had finally let it grow out. It wasn’t as long as it had been when she was twenty-five, but it now hid the spot between neck and shoulder that the Warlord Princes who served her found so intriguing.

  “You always have a full house,” he said, feeling a swell of pride, among other things. She owned a music shop in Halaway and sang there twice a month, hosting Dhemlan musicians as well as musicians from many other Territories in Kaeleer—and beyond. “Since you included a couple of folk songs from Shalador Nehele, I was surprised you hadn’t asked Ranon to come here and play with you.”

  Jaenelle gave him a wicked grin. “I knew better than to ask Ranon. I asked Cassidy and Shira if he could indulge me. They—and Vae—ganged up on him. He’ll be here for the next concert.”

  Daemon laughed. He felt a keen sympathy for the Shalador Warlord Prince because he knew how it felt to be backed into a corner, but he laughed anyway.

  Then Jaenelle kissed him with heat, and the parts of him that had swelled along with his pride responded with enthusiasm. But he eased back a little before he forgot what he’d wanted to discuss.

  “You’re g
oing to be thirty-seven this year,” he said.

  “And that is significant because . . . ?”

  “You’ve never been thirty-seven before. I thought we should do something special for your birthday.”

  “We always do something special for my birthday.” She rocked her hips, brushing against him. “And some part of the ‘something special’ usually involves you being deliciously naked.”

  The world narrowed to his need to make love with her—to play and seduce and savor until they were both boneless and satisfied. His arms tightened around her, and just as his mouth touched hers . . .

  *Daemon!*

  *daemondaemondaemondaemondaemon.*

  He raised his head, snarling. *Go away!* One Sceltie might be cowed by the snarl traveling along the psychic link, especially when he made no effort to hide that he was aroused and wanted to mate. But cowing three of them? Wouldn’t happen.

  *Daemon!*

  *daemondaemondaemondaemondaemon.*

  “I like Shuveen,” Daemon growled as he stepped away from Jaenelle, “but why can’t we send Boyd and Floyd back to Scelt for more . . . seasoning?”

  “Ladvarian is staying here with us for a while and wanted those two with him for extra training.” She looked toward the door and frowned. “They seem upset.”

  “They probably got in trouble with Mrs. Beale again.” And wouldn’t sorting that out be a fun way to end the evening?

  *Daemon!* Shuveen called.

  Boyd and Floyd began barking outside the door.

  Swearing, Daemon strode to the door. He would tolerate them interrupting him when he was in his study working. After all, they were young, and living with him and Jaenelle was part of their training to become a working member of a household. But he wouldn’t tolerate their intrusion when he was about to make love to his wife, and that was something they also needed to learn.

  Then Ladvarian passed through the wall and said, *Sylvia told Tildee to run.*