by Anne Bishop
“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 afra
id 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?”
