by Anne Bishop
“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 ro
om 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.
