Bishop, Anne - Dark Jewels 02 - Heir to the Shadows (v1.0)

by Heir to the Shadows [lit]

  "That isn't possible."

  "I have another appointment."

  Slowly the darkness changed, lessened. A cold, silver light spread along the stone walls, floor, and ceiling, following the radial and tether lines of an immense web. On the back wall hung a huge, black metal spider, its hourglass made of faceted rubies. Attached to the silver web embedded in the stone were knives of every shape and size.

  The only other thing in the room was a table.

  Menzar's sphincter muscles tightened.

  The table had a high lip and channels running to small holes in the corners. Glass tubing ran from the holes to glass jars.

  Stop this. Stop it. He was letting his own fear beat him. He was letting this room intimidate him. That old man certainly wasn't intimidating. He could easily brush aside that doddering old fool.

  Menzar turned around, ready to insist on leaving.

  It took him a long moment to recognize the man leaning against the door, waiting.

  "Everything has a price, Lord Menzar," Saetan crooned. "It's time to pay the debt."

  The water swirling into the drain finally ran clear. Saetan twisted the dials to stop the hard spray that had been pounding him. He held on to the dials for balance, resting his head on his forearm.

  It wasn't over. There were still the last details to attend to.

  He toweled himself briskly, dropped the towel on the narrow bed as he passed through the small bedroom adjoining his private study deep beneath the Hall in the Dark Realm. A carafe of yarbarah waited for him on the large blackwood desk. He reached for it, hesitated, then called in a decanter of brandy. He filled a glass almost to the rim and drank it down. The brandy would give him a fierce headache, but it would also soften the edges, blur the memories and twisted fantasies that had burst from Menzar's mind like pus from a boil.

  Brandy also didn't taste like blood, and the taste, the smell of blood wasn't something he could tolerate tonight.

  He poured his second glass and stood naked in front of the unlit hearth, staring at Dujae's painting Descent into Hell. A gifted artist to have captured in ambiguous shapes that mixture of terror and joy the Blood felt when first entering the Dark Realm.

  He poured his third glass. He had burned the clothes he'd worn. He had never been able to tolerate keeping the clothing worn for an execution. Some part of the fear and the pain always seemed to weave itself into the cloth. To be assaulted by it afterward . . .

  The glass shattered in his hand. Snarling, he vanished the broken glass before returning to the small bedroom and hurriedly dressing in fresh clothes.

  He had scrubbed Menzar off his body, but would he ever be able to cleanse Menzar's thoughts from his mind?

  "You understand what to do?"

  Two demons, once Halaway men, eyed the large, ornate wooden chest. "Yes, High Lord. It will been done precisely as you asked."

  Saetan handed each of them a small bottle. "For your trouble."

  "It's no trouble," one said. He pulled the cork from the bottle and sniffed. His eyes widened. "It's—"

  "Payment."

  The demon corked the bottle and smiled.

  "The cildru dyathe don't want this."

  Saetan set the small bottle on a flat rock that served as a table. He had distributed all the others. This was the last. "I'm not offering it to the rest of the cildru dyathe. Only you."

  Char shifted his feet, uneasy. "We wait to fade into the Darkness," he said, but his blackened tongue licked what was left of his lips as he eyed the bottle.

  "It's not the same for you," Saetan said. His stomach churned. Thin needles of pain speared his temples. "You care for the others, help them adjust and make the transitions. You fight to stay here, to give them a place. And I know when offerings are made in remembrance of a child who has gone, you don't refuse them." Saetan picked up the bottle and held it out to the boy. "It's appropriate for you to take this. More than you know."

  Char slowly reached for the bottle, uncorked it, and sniffed. He took a tiny sip and gasped, delighted. "This is undiluted blood."

  Saetan clamped his teeth tight against the nausea and pain. He stared at the bottle, hating it. "No. This is restitution."

  8 / Hell

  Hekatah stared at the large, ornate wooden chest and tapped the small piece of folded white paper against her chin.

  Beautifully decorated with precious woods and gold inlay, the chest reeked of wealth, a sharp reminder of the way she'd once lived and the kind of luxury she believed was her due.

  Using Craft, Hekatah probed the interior of the chest for the fifth time in an hour. Still nothing. Perhaps there was nothing more.

  Opening the paper, she studied the elegant masculine script.

  Hekatah, Here is a token of my regard.

  Saetan

  There must be something more. This was just the wrapping, no matter how expensive. Perhaps Saetan had finally realized how much he needed her. Perhaps he was tired of playing the beneficent patriarch and ready to claim what he—what they—should have claimed so long ago. Perhaps his damnable honor had been sufficiently tarnished by playing with the girl-pet he'd acquired in Kaeleer to take Jaenelle's place.

  She'd savor those thoughts after she opened her present.

  The brass key was still in the envelope. She shook it into her hand, knelt by the chest, and opened the brass lock.

  Hekatah lifted the lid and frowned. Fragrant wood shavings filled the chest. She stared for a moment, then smiled indulgently. Packing, of course. With an excited little squeal, she plunged one hand into the shavings, rummaging for her gift.

  The first thing she pulled out was a hand.

  Dropping it, she scrambled away from the chest. Her throat worked convulsively as she stared at the hand now lying palm up, its fingers slightly curled. Finally curiosity overrode fear. On hands and knees, she inched forward.

  Porcelain or marble would have shattered on the stone floor.

  Flesh then.

  For a moment, she was grateful it was a normal-looking hand, not maimed or misshaped.

  Breathing harshly, Hekatah got to her feet and stared once more at the open chest. She waved her hand back and forth. Lifted by the Craft wind, the shavings spilled onto the floor.

  Another hand. Forearms. Upper arms. Feet. Lower legs. Upper legs. Genitals. Torso. And in the corner, staring at her with empty eyes, was Lord Menzar's head.

  Hekatah screamed, but even she couldn't say if it was from fear or rage. She stopped abruptly.

  One warning. That was all he ever gave. But why?

  Hekatah hugged herself and smiled. Through his work at the Halaway school, Menzar must have gotten a little too close to the High Lord's new choice little morsel.

  Then she sighed. Saetan could be so possessive. Since Menzar had been careless enough to provoke him into an execution, it was doubtful the girl would be allowed outside SaDiablo Hall without a handpicked escort. And she knew from experience that anyone handpicked by Saetan for a particular duty wasn't amenable to bribes of any kind. So ...

  Hekatah sighed again. It would take a fair amount of persuasion to convince Greer to slip into the Hall to see the High Lord's new pet.

  It was a good thing the girl whining in the next room was such a choice little tidbit.

  9 / Terreille

  Surreal strolled down the quiet, backwater street where no one asked questions. Men and women sat on front stoops, savoring the light breeze that made the sticky afternoon bearable. They didn't speak to her, and she, having spent two years of her childhood on a street like this, gave them the courtesy of walking by as if they weren't there.

  As she reached the building where she had a top-floor flat, Surreal noticed the eyes that met hers for a brief moment. She casually shifted the heavy carry-basket from her right hand to her left while she watched one man cross the street and approach her cautiously.

  Not the stiletto for this one, she decided. A slashing knife, if necessary. From the way he moved, he might sti
ll be healing from a deep wound on his left side. He'd try to protect it. But maybe not, if he was a Warlord experienced in fighting.

  The man stopped a body length away. "Lady."

  "Warlord."

  She saw a tremor of fear in his eyes before he masked it. That she could identify his caste so easily, despite his efforts to hide it, told him that she was strong enough to win any dispute with him.

  "That basket looks heavy," he said, still cautious.

  "A couple of novels and tonight's dinner."

  "I could carry it up for you ... in a few minutes."

  She understood the warning. Someone was waiting for her. If she survived the meeting, the Warlord would bring up the basket. If she didn't, he would divide the spoils among a select few in his building, thus buying a little help if he should need it in the future.

  Surreal set the basket on the sidewalk and stepped back. "Ten minutes." When he nodded, she swiftly climbed the building's front steps. Then she paused long enough to put two Gray protective shields around herself and a Green shield over them. Hopefully whoever was waiting for her would respond to the lesser Green shield first. She also called in her largest hunting knife. If the attack was physical, the knife's blade would give her a little extra reach.

  With her hand on the doorknob, she made a quick psychic probe of the entryway. No one. Nothing unusual.

  A fast twist of the knob and she was inside, turning toward the back of the door. She kicked the door shut, keeping her back against a wall pocked with rusty letter boxes. Her large, gold-green eyes adjusted quickly to the gloomy entryway and equally dim stairwell. No sounds. And no obvious feel of danger.

  Up the stairs quickly, keeping her mind open to eddies of mood or thought that might slip from an enemy's mind.

  Up to the third floor, the fourth. Finally to the fifth.

  Pressed in the opposite corner from her own door, Surreal probed once more—and finally felt it.

  A dark psychic scent. Muted, altered somehow, but familiar.

  Relieved—and a little annoyed—that there wouldn't be a fight, Surreal vanished the knife, unlocked her door, and went inside.

  She hadn't seen him since he'd left Deje's Red Moon house more than two years ago. It didn't look like they'd been easy years. His black hair was long and raggedly cut. His clothes were dirty and torn. When he didn't respond to her briskly closing the door and just continued to stare at the sketch she'd recently purchased, she began to feel uneasy.

  That lack of response was wrong. Very wrong. Reaching back, Surreal opened the door just enough not to have to fumble with locks.

  "Sadi?"

  He finally turned around. The golden eyes held no recognition, but they held something else that was familiar, if only she could remember where she'd seen that look before.

  "Daemon?"

  He continued to stare at her, as if he were struggling to remember. Then his expression cleared. "It's little Surreal." His voice—that beautiful, deep, seductive voice—was hoarse, rusty.

  Little Surreal?

  "You're not here alone, are you?" Daemon asked uneasily.

  Starting across the room, she said sharply, "Of course I'm here alone. Who else would be here?"

  "Where's your mother?"

  Surreal froze. "My mother?"

  "You're too young to be here alone."

  Titian had been dead for centuries. He knew that. It was centuries ago that he and Tersa . . .

  Tersa's eyes. Eyes that strained to make out the ghostly, gray shapes of reality through the mist of the Twisted Kingdom.

  Mother Night, what had happened to him?

  Keeping his distance, Daemon began edging toward the door. "I can't stay here. Not without your mother. I won't ... I can't . . ."

  "Daemon, wait." Surreal leaped between him and the door. Panic flashed in his eyes. "Mother had to go away for a few days with . . . with Tersa. I'd ... I'd feel safer if you stayed."

  Daemon tensed. "Has anyone tried to hurt you, Surreal?"

  Hell's fire, not that tone of voice. Not with that Warlord coming up the stairs any minute with the basket.

  "No," she said, hoping she sounded young but convincing. "But you and Tersa are as close as we have to family and I'm . . . lonely."

  Daemon stared at the carpet.

  "Besides," she added, wrinkling her nose, "you need a bath."

  His head snapped up. He stared at her with such transparent hope and hunger it scared her. "Lady?" he whispered, reaching for her. "Lady?" He studied the hair entwined around his fingers and shook his head. "Black. It's not supposed to be black."

  If she lied, would it help him? Would he know the difference? She closed her eyes, not sure she could stand the anguish she felt in him. "Daemon," she said gently, "I'm Surreal."

  He stepped away from her, keening softly.

  She led him to a chair, unable to think of anything else to do.

  "So. You're a friend."

  Surreal spun toward the door, feet braced in a fighting stance, the hunting knife back in her hand.

  The Warlord stood in the doorway, the carry-basket at his feet.

  "I'm a friend," Surreal said. "What are you?"

  "Not an enemy." The Warlord eyed the knife. "Don't suppose you could put that away."

  "Don't suppose I could."

  He sighed. "He healed me and helped me get here."

  "Are you going to complain about services rendered?"

  "Hell's fire, no," the Warlord snapped. "He told me before he started that he wasn't sure he knew enough healing Craft to mend the damage. But I wasn't going to survive without help, and a Healer would have turned me in." He ran a hand through his short brown hair. "And even if he killed me, it would have been better than what my Lady would have done to me for leaving her service so abruptly." He gestured toward Daemon, who was curled in the chair, still keening softly. "I didn't realize he was . . ."

  Surreal vanished the knife. The Warlord immediately picked up the basket, pressing his left hand to his side and grimacing.

  "Asshole," Surreal snapped, hurrying to take the basket. "You shouldn't carry something this heavy while you're still healing."

  She tugged. When he wouldn't let go of the basket, she snarled at him. "Idiot. Fool. At least use Craft to lighten the weight."

  "Don't be a bitch." Clenching his teeth, the Warlord carried the basket to the table in the kitchen area. He turned to leave, then hesitated. "The story going around is that he killed a child."

  Blood. So much blood. "He didn't."

  "He thinks he did."

  She couldn't see Daemon, but she could still hear him. "Damn."

  "Do you think he'll ever come out of the Twisted Kingdom?"

  Surreal stared at the basket. "No one ever has."

  "Daemon." When she got no response, Surreal chewed her lower lip. Maybe she should let him sleep, if he was actually sleeping. No, the potatoes were baking, the steaks ready to broil, the salad made. He needed food as much as rest. Touch him? There was no telling what he might be seeing in the Twisted Kingdom, how he might interpret a gentle shake. She tried again, putting some snap in her voice. "Daemon."

  Daemon opened his eyes. After a long minute, he reached for her. "Surreal," he said hoarsely.

  She gripped his hand, wishing she knew some way to help him. When his grip loosened, she tightened hers and tugged. "Up. You need a shower before dinner."

  He got to his feet with much of his fluid, feline grace, but when she led him into the bathroom, he stared at the fixtures as if he'd never seen them before. She lifted the toilet seat, hoping he remembered how to use that at least. When he still didn't move, she tugged him out of the jacket and shirt. It had never bothered her when Tersa displayed this childlike passivity. His lack of response frayed her temper. But when she reached for his belt, he snarled at her, his hand squeezing her wrist until she was sure the bones would break.

  She snarled back. "Do it yourself then."

  She saw the inward crumbling,
the despair.

  Loosening his hold on her wrist, he raised her hand and pressed his lips against it. "I'm sorry. I'm—" Releasing her, he looked beaten as he unbuckled the belt and began fumbling with his trousers.

  Surreal fled.

  A few minutes later the water pipes rattled and wheezed as he turned on the shower.

  As she set the table, she wondered if he'd actually removed all his clothes. How long had he been like this? If this was what was left of a once-brilliant mind, how had he been able to heal that man?

  Surreal paused, a plate half-resting on the table. Tersa had always had her islands of lucidity, usually around Craft. Once when the mad Black Widow had healed a deep gash in Surreal's leg, she'd responded to Titian's worry by saying, "One doesn't forget the basics." When the healing was done, however, Tersa couldn't even remember her own name.

  A few minutes later, she was hovering in the hallway when she heard the muffled yelp that indicated the hot water had run out. The pipes rattled and wheezed as he shut off the water.

  No other sound.

  Swearing under her breath, Surreal pushed the bathroom door open. Daemon just stood in the tub, his head down.

  "Dry yourself," Surreal said.

  Flinching, he reached for a towel.

  Struggling to keep her voice firm but quiet, she added, "I put out some clean clothes for you. When you've dried off, go put them on."

  She retreated to the kitchen and busied herself with cooking the steaks while listening to the movements in the bedroom. She was putting the meat on their plates when Daemon appeared, properly dressed.

  Surreal smiled her approval. "Now you look more like yourself."

  "Jaenelle is dead," he said, his voice hard and flat.

  She braced her hands on the table and absorbed the words that were worse than a physical blow. "How do you know?"

  "Lucivar told me."

  How could Lucivar, who was in Pruul, be sure of something she and Daemon couldn't be sure of? And who was there to ask? Cassandra had never returned to the Altar after that night, and Surreal didn't know who the Priest was, let alone where to start looking for him.

  She cut the potatoes and fluffed them open. "I don't believe him." She looked up in time to see a lucid, arrested look in his eyes. Then it faded. He shook his head.