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

by Heir to the Shadows [lit]

"Yes," Saetan said too softly. He used the equivalent strength of a White Jewel to obliterate the print again. When it came back just as quickly, he went to the Yellow, the next level of descent. Then he tried Tiger Eye, Rose, and Summer-sky. Finally, at the strength of the Purple Dusk Jewel, the print was barely discernible.

  With a vicious swipe of his hand, Saetan used the strength of his Birthright Red to eliminate the print.

  It didn't return.

  "Someone wanted to be very sure this print wasn't carelessly erased," Saetan said, wiping his hand on the grass.

  Andulvar rubbed his fist against his chin. "Keep the waif from wandering around by herself, even in these gardens. Prothvar and I aren't much help in the daylight, but we'll keep watch at night."

  "You think someone's foolish enough to penetrate the Hall?"

  "Looks like someone already has. That's not what's bothering me." Andulvar pointed to the now-smooth dirt. "That's not a dog, SaDiablo. It's a wolf. It's hard to believe

  a wolf would choose to get this close to humans, but even if it's being controlled by someone, what's the point of bringing it here?"

  "Bait," Saetan said, immediately sending out a psychic call to Jaenelle. Her distracted acknowledgment reassured him that she was sufficiently engrossed in her studies to remain indoors.

  "Bait for what?"

  Instead of answering, Saetan made a sweeping probe of the Hall and the surrounding land. There was that muzziness in the south tower, the fading effects of the shielding spells Helene and Beale had broken as they cleared out the tower and uncovered Hekatah's secret rooms. There was also that odd ripple in the north woods.

  Saetan probed a little longer and then stopped. Getting into the Hall had never been difficult. Getting out was another matter.

  "Bait for what, SaDiablo?" Andulvar asked again.

  "For a young girl who's lonely and loves animals."

  4 / Kaeleer

  Greer huddled in a corner of the secret cubbyhole, whimpering as that dark mind rolled through the very stones, probing, searching.

  He struggled to keep his mind carefully blank as the surge of dark power washed over him. He couldn't safely bolt before sunset, but if he were caught here, how would he explain his presence? Having lost one little darling, Greer doubted any explanation would appease the High Lord right now.

  When the psychic probe faded, Greer stretched out his legs and sighed. As much as he feared the High Lord, he didn't relish going back to Hekatah without any information. She would insist he try again.

  It would have to be tonight. He would find the girl's room, look her over, and return to Hell. If Hekatah wanted to get any closer and risk coming face-to-face with Saetan, she could do it herself.

  5 / Kaeleer

  Saetan headed for his suite, hoping a little rest would bring inspiration. Earlier that evening, he'd tried to convince Jaenelle to contact some of her friends. He'd failed miserably and, in the process, had learned a lot about an adolescent witch's emotional volatility.

  Wondering if he could enlist Sylvia as an ally in future emotional battles and still puzzling over the wolf print in the garden, he felt the warning signs a moment too late.

  A psychic tidal wave of fear and rage crashed against his mind and sent him reeling into the wall. He clutched his head as knife-edged pain stabbed at his temples, and tasted blood as his teeth cut his lip.

  Moaning at the merciless throbbing in his head, he sank to the floor and instinctively tried to strengthen his inner barriers against another mind-tearing assault.

  When no other psychic wave crashed against his inner barriers, Saetan raised his head and probed cautiously. He stared at the door across the hall from where he huddled. "Witch-child?"

  An agonized scream came from behind Jaenelle's door.

  Saetan pushed himself to his feet, stumbled across the hall, and plunged into a room consumed by the most violent psychic storm he'd ever encountered. Except for a strong, swirling wind which bent the plants and twisted the curtains, the physical room appeared untouched, but it felt like it was filled with strands of spun glass that snapped as he passed through it, cutting the mind instead of the body.

  Head down and shoulders hunched, Saetan gritted his teeth and forced himself, step by mind-slicing step, toward the bed, where Jaenelle thrashed and screamed.

  When he touched her arm, she flung herself away from him.

  Barely able to think, Saetan threw himself on top of her and wrapped his arms and legs around her. They rolled on the bed, tangled in the sheets she had shredded with her nails, while she fought and screamed. When she couldn't free her arms and legs, she half twisted in his arms, her teeth snapping a breath away from his throat.

  "Jaenelle!" Saetan roared in her ear. "Jaenelle! It's Saetan!"

  "Noooooo!"

  Drawing on the reserved power in the Black Jewels, Saetan rolled once more, pinning Jaenelle between the bed and his body. He opened his inner barriers and sent out the message that she was safe, that he was with her, knowing if she struck him now, she'd destroy him.

  Jaenelle brushed against his vulnerable mind and stopped moving.

  Shaking, Saetan rested his cheek against her head. "I'm with you, witch-child," he whispered. "You're safe."

  "Not safe," Jaenelle moaned. "Never safe."

  Saetan clamped his teeth together, sickened by the images that suddenly flowed into his mind. He saw them all as she had once seen them. Marjane, hanging from the tree. Myrol and Rebecca, handless. Dannie and Dannie's leg. And Rose.

  Tears rolled down his face as he held Jaenelle and made those agonizing memories his own. Now he finally understood what she'd endured as a child, what had been done to her, why she had never feared Hell or its citizens. As the memories flowed from her mind to his, he could see the building, the rooms, the garden, the tree.

  And he remembered Char coming to him, troubled by a bridge and the maimed children who were traveling over it to the cildru dyathe's island. A bridge Jaenelle had built once between Hell and . . . Briarwood.

  The moment he thought the name, he felt Jaenelle's eyes open.

  Suddenly there was impenetrable, swirling mist. It parted abruptly, and he looked down into the abyss. Every instinct urged him to flee, to get away from the cold rage and madness spiraling up from the depths.

  But woven into the madness and rage were gentleness and magic, too. So he waited at the edge of the abyss for whatever would happen. He wouldn't run from his Queen.

  The mist closed in again. He couldn't see her, but he felt her when Jaenelle rose from the abyss. And he shuddered as her sepulchral, midnight whisper rang through his mind.

  *Briarwood is the pretty poison. There is no cure for Briarwood.*

  Then she spiraled back down, and his mind was his own again.

  Jaenelle stirred against him. "Saetan?" She sounded so young, so frail, so uncertain.

  Saetan kissed her cheek. "I'm here, witch-child," he said hoarsely, cradling her to his chest. He gingerly probed the room, and quickly discovered using Craft wasn't going to be possible until the psychic storm completely faded.

  "What ..." Jaenelle said groggily.

  "You were having a nightmare. Do you remember?"

  A long silence. "No. What was it about?"

  Saetan hesitated . . . and said nothing.

  A boot scuffed on the balcony outside the open glass door. Someone hurried down the stairs.

  Saetan's head snapped up. Since probing for the intruder's identity was useless, he frantically tore at the sheets tangled around his legs and sprang toward the balcony door. "prothvar!" He tried to create a ball of witch light to spotlight the garden, but Jaenelle's psychic storm absorbed his power, and the flash of light he managed left him night-blind.

  On the far side of the garden, something snarled viciously. A man screamed. There was a brief, furious struggle, a blinding sizzle as the strength of two Jewels was unleashed and absorbed, the sound of odd-gaited footsteps, another snarl, and then a door slammi
ng.

  And then silence.

  The bedroom door burst open. Saetan pivoted, his teeth bared, as Andulvar sprang into the room, an Eyrien war blade in his hand.

  "Stay with her," Saetan snapped. He ran down the balcony stairs, reaching for the spells that would seal the Hall and prevent anyone from leaving. Then he swore. That tidal wave of power had shattered all of his spells—which meant the intruder could find a way out before they could hunt him down. And once he got away far enough from the effects of the storm, he could catch the Winds and just disappear.

  "But where were you hiding that I didn't feel your presence before?" Saetan snarled, grinding his teeth in frustration as Prothvar landed beside him in the garden.

  The Eyrien Warlord held out a torn black silk scarf. "I found this near the south tower."

  Saetan stared at the scarf Greer had worn the first time he came to the Hall. His golden eyes glittered as he turned toward the south tower. "I've been too complacent about Hekatah's games and Hekatah's pets. But this pet has made one mistake too many."

  "Hekatah!" Cursing, Prothvar dropped the scarf and wiped his hand on his trousers. Then he smiled. "I don't think her pet left as intact as he came. There are also wolf prints near the south tower."

  Wolf. Saetan stared at the south tower. A wolf and Greer. Bait and an abductor? But that snarl, that clash of Jewels.

  A movement on the balcony caught his eye.

  Jaenelle looked down at them. Andulvar's arm was around her shoulders, tucking her close to his left side. His right hand still held the large, wicked-looking war blade.

  "Papa, what's wrong?" Jaenelle called.

  With a nod to Saetan, Prothvar vanished the scarf and slipped into the shadows to stand guard.

  Saetan slowly crossed the garden and climbed the stairs, frustrated that the lingering effects of the witch storm made it impossible for him to use Craft to keep anyone else from reaching her rooms.

  Andulvar stepped back as Jaenelle flung herself into Saetan's arms. He kissed her head, and the three of them went into her bedroom.

  "What happened?" Jaenelle said, shivering as she watched Andulvar close the balcony doors and physically lock them.

  That she had to ask indicated too much about her state of mind. Saetan hesitated. "It was nothing, witch-child," he finally said, holding her close. "An unexplained noise." But was it something she had seen or felt that had triggered those memories?

  Andulvar and Saetan exchanged a look. The Eyrien Warlord Prince looked pointedly at the bed, then at the balcony doors.

  Saetan nodded slightly. "Witch-child, your bed's a bit... rumpled. Since it's so late, rather than waking a maid to change it, why don't you stay in my room tonight?"

  Jaenelle's head snapped up. There was shock, wariness, and fear in her eyes. "I could make up the bed."

  "I'd rather you didn't."

  Saetan felt her reach for his mind and waited. Unless she deliberately picked his thoughts, he could keep the reason for his concern from her but not the feeling of concern.

  Jaenelle withdrew from him and nodded.

  Relieved that she was still willing to trust him, Saetan led her to his suite across the hall and tucked her into his bed. After Andulvar left to check the south tower, he poured and warmed a glass of yarbarah, and settled into a chair nearby. A long time later, Jaenelle's breathing evened out, and he knew she was asleep.

  A wolf, he thought as he watched over her. A friend or an enemy?

  Saetan closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. The headache was subsiding, but the past hour had left him exhausted. Still, he kept seeing that print in the garden, a spelled message someone was supposed to understand.

  But that snarl, that clash of Jewels.

  Saetan snapped upright in the chair and. stared at Jaenelle.

  Not all the dreamers who had shaped this Witch had been human.

  It fit. If it was true, it all fit.

  Maybe, since Jaenelle hadn't gone to see her old friends, they were starting to come to her.

  6 / Hell

  Hekatah screamed at Greer, "What do you mean she's alive?"

  "Just what I said," Greer replied as he inspected his torn arm. "The girl he's keeping at the Hall is that pale bitch granddaughter of Alexandra Angelline."

  "But you destroyed her!"

  "Apparently she survived."

  Hekatah paced the small, dirty, sparsely furnished room. It couldn't be true. It just couldn't. She glanced at Greer, who was slumped in a chair. "You said it was dark, difficult to see. You never got into the room itself. It couldn't be the same girl. He told you she walked among the cildru dyathe."

  "He called her Jaenelle," Greer said, examining his foot.

  Hekatah's eyes widened. "He lied about it." Her face turned ugly with rage and hate. "That gutter son of a whore lied about it"

  Then she remembered that terrifying presence on the cildru dyathe's island. If the girl was really alive, she could still be shaped into the puppet Queen whom Hekatah needed to rule the Realms.

  Hekatah ran her fingers over a scarred table. "Even if she survived physically, she's of little use to me if she has no power."

  Cradling his torn arm, Greer took the bait. "She still has power. There was a fierce witch storm filling that room. It began before the High Lord entered. The Darkness only knows how he survived it."

  Hekatah frowned. "What was he doing in her room at that hour?"

  Greer shrugged. "It sounded like they were rolling around on the bed, and it wasn't a friendly tussle."

  Hekatah stared at Greer but didn't see him. She saw Saetan, hot-blooded and hungry, easing his appetites—all his appetites—with that young, dark-blooded witch who should have belonged to her. A Guardian was still capable of that kind of pleasure. A Guardian ... who valued honor. Oh, he could try to ignore the scandal and condemnation, but by the time she was done, she'd create such a firestorm around him even his most loyal servants would hate him.

  But it had to be done delicately so that, unlike that fool Menzar, Saetan wouldn't be able to trace it back to her.

  Hekatah studied Greer. The torn muscle in his forearm could be hidden by a coat, but that foot. . . . Whether it was snapped off and replaced with something artificial or left on and laced into a high boot, the dragging walk would be obvious—as were the maimed hands. A pity such a useful servant was so deformed and, therefore, so conspicuous. But he'd be able to perform this one last assignment. In fact, his deformities would work in her favor.

  Hekatah allowed herself a brief smile before putting on her saddest expression. She sank to her knees beside Greer's chair. "Poor darling," she cooed, stroking his cheek with her fingertips, "I've let that bastard's schemes distract me from more important concerns."

  "What concerns, Priestess?" Greer asked cautiously.

  "Why, you, darling, and those ferocious wounds his beast inflicted on you." She wiped at her eyes as if they could still hold tears. "You know there's no way to heal these wounds now, don't you, darling?"

  Greer looked away.

  Hekatah leaned forward and kissed his cheek. "But don't worry. I have a plan that will pay Saetan back for everything."

  "You wanted to see me, High Lord?"

  Saetan's eyes glittered. He leaned against the blackwood desk in his private study in the Dark Realm and smiled at the Dea al Mon Harpy. "Titian, my dear," he crooned in a voice like soft thunder, "I have an assignment for you that I think will be very much to your liking."

  chapter Six

  1 / Kaeleer

  Saetan, along with the rest of the family, lingered at the dinner table, reluctant to have the meal and the camaraderie end.

  At least some good had come from that unpleasant night last week. Jaenelle's nightmare had lanced the festering wound of those suppressed memories, easing a little of her emotional pain. He knew that soul wound wasn't healed, but for the first time since she'd returned from the abyss, she was more like the child they remembered than the haunted young woman s
he'd become.

  "I think Beale would like to clear the table," Jaenelle said quietly, glancing at the butler standing at the dining room door.

  "Then why don't we have coffee in the drawing room," Saetan suggested, pushing his chair back.

  When Jaenelle walked toward the door, followed by Mephis, Andulvar, and Prothvar, he lingered a moment longer. It was so good to hear her laugh, so good to—

  A movement at the window caught his attention. Immediately probing for the intruder, he took a step back when strangely scented, feral emotions pushed against his mind, challenging him, daring him to touch.

  Anger. Frustration. Fear. And then . . .

  The howl stopped conversations midword as Andulvar and Prothvar spun around, their hunting knives drawn. Saetan barely noticed them, too intent on Jaenelle's reaction.

  She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, tipped her head back, and howled. It wasn't an exact imitation of the wolf's howl. It was eerier somehow because it turned into witch-song. A wild song.

  And he realized, with a shivering sense of wonder, that she and the wolf had sung this song before, that they knew how to blend those two voices to create something alien and beautiful.

  The wolf stopped howling. Jaenelle finished the song and smiled.

  A large gray shape leaped through the window, passing through the glass. The wolf landed in the dining room, snarling at them.

  With a welcoming cry, Jaenelle rushed past Andulvar and Prothvar, dropped to her knees, and threw her arms around the wolf's neck.

  In that moment, Saetan caught the psychic scent he was searching for. The wolf was one of the legendary kindred. A Prince, but not, thank the Darkness, a Warlord Prince. He also caught a glimpse of the gold chain and the Purple Dusk Jewel hidden in the wolfs fur.

  Still snarling, the wolf pressed against Jaenelle, urging her toward the window while it kept its body between her and the Eyriens.

  Pushed off-balance, Jaenelle's arms tightened around the wolf's neck. "Smoke, you're being rude," she said in that quiet, firm Queen voice that no male in his right mind would defy.