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

by Heir to the Shadows [lit]

  Lucivar swung toward the door.

  "Lucivar, no!"

  Ignoring Mephis's command, Lucivar snapped the Gray lock his demon-dead elder brother had placed on the door.

  "Lucivar, don't go in there!"

  Lucivar threw the door open, stepped inside the room, and froze.

  In front of him, a finger lay on the carpet, its gold ring partially melted into the flesh, the Jewel shattered to a fine powder.

  It was the largest—and the only identifiable piece—of what must have been a full-grown man. The rest was splattered all over the room.

  The buzzing in his head warned him to take a normal breath before he passed out. If he took a normal breath while standing in this room, he'd heave for a week.

  But there was something wrong about the room, and he wasn't leaving until he figured it out.

  When he did, Lucivar's temper rose to the killing edge.

  One male body. One demolished bed. The rest of the furniture, although ruined by bone fragments and blood, was untouched.

  Lucivar backed out of the room and turned toward the man who had been babbling at Mephis. "What did you do to her?" he asked too calmly.

  "To her!' The Warlord pointed a shaking hand toward

  the room. "Look what that bitch did to my son. She's mad. Mad! She—"

  Roaring an Eyrien war cry, Lucivar slammed the Warlord against the wall. "what did you do to her?"

  The Warlord squealed. No one tried to help him.

  "Lucivar." Mephis held up a handful of papers. "It appears Jaenelle got married this afternoon to Lord—"

  Lucivar snarled. "She wouldn't marry willingly without the family present." He bared his teeth at the Warlord. "Would she?"

  "T-they were in Hove," the Warlord stammered. "A whirlwind r-romance. She didn't want you to know until it was done."

  "Someone didn't," Lucivar agreed. Smiling, he called in the Eyrien war blade and held it up where the Warlord could see it. "Do you want your face?" he asked mildly.

  "Lucivar," Mephis warned.

  "Stay out of this, Mephis," Lucivar snapped, his barely restrained fury freezing everyone in the hallway.

  Think. She'd been afraid, and very little frightened Jaenelle. She'd been afraid, but also angry enough to consider breaking the link between spirit and body, determined enough to abandon the husk rather than submit. Think. If this was Terreille . . .

  "What did you give her?" When the Warlord didn't answer, Lucivar set the edge of the war blade against the man's cheek. The skin sliced cleanly. The blood ran.

  "A m-mild brew. To calm her down. She was afraid. Afraid of all of them. Especially y-you."

  A stupid thing to say to a man holding a weapon large enough and sharp enough to cut through bone.

  They had drugged her. Something strong enough to scramble her wits while still leaving her capable of signing the marriage contract. That still didn't explain that room.

  "Afterward," Lucivar crooned. "What did you give her to prepare her for the marriage bed?" When the Warlord just stared at him, he shifted the war blade, cut a little deeper this time. "Where are the bottles?"

  Panting, the Warlord waved a hand toward a nearby door.

  Mephis went into the room, then returned with two small bottles.

  Lucivar vanished the war blade, took one bottle, and nicked the top off. Probed the drops in the bottom. If he'd been given a drink with this in it, he wouldn't have touched it. Under normal circumstances, Jaenelle wouldn't have either.

  He vanished that bottle, took the other one that was still half filled with a dark powder, and swore viciously. He knew—how well he knew!—what a large dose of safframate would do to someone of his build and weight. He could imagine the agony it would produce in Jaenelle.

  He held up the bottle. "You gave her this? Then you're responsible for what's in that room."

  The Warlord shook his head violently. "It's harmless. Harmless! Added to a glass of wine, it's just a variety of the Night of Fire brew. Always use a Night of Fire brew on the wedding night."

  Lucivar bared his teeth in a smile. "Since it's harmless, you won't mind drinking the other dose. Mephis, get him a glass of wine."

  Sweat popped out on the Warlord's forehead.

  Mephis disappeared for a minute, then returned with the wine.

  After pouring almost all of the dark powder into the wine, Lucivar handed the bottle to Mephis and took the wineglass. His other hand closed around the Warlord's throat. "Now, you can drink this, or I can tear your throat out. Your choice."

  "W-want a hearing before the Dark Council," the Warlord whimpered.

  "That's certainly within your rights," Mephis agreed quietly. He looked at Lucivar. "Are you going to tear his throat out or shall I?"

  Lucivar laughed maliciously. "Wouldn't do him much good to go to the Council then, would it?" His fingers dug into the Warlord's throat.

  "D-drink."

  "I knew you'd be reasonable," Lucivar crooned. He loosened his hold enough to let the Warlord swallow the wine.

  "Now." He threw the Warlord into the room where Mephis had found the bottles. "In order to give the Dark Council an accurate accounting, I think you should enjoy the same experience you intended for Lady Angelline." After sealing the room with an Ebon-gray shield and adding a timing spell, he turned to a man hovering nearby. "The shield will vanish in twenty-four hours."

  This time he didn't have to shove his way through the crowd. They pressed against the walls to let him pass.

  Mephis caught up with him before he got out of the manor house. Probing the area, he walked into the nearest empty room-—someone's study. He found it grimly appropriate, even if it wasn't Saetan's.

  Mephis locked the door. "That was quite a show you put on."

  "The show's just started." Lucivar prowled the room. "I didn't see you trying to stop me."

  "We can't afford to be publicly divided. Besides, there wasn't any point in trying to stop you. You outrank me, and I doubt you'd let brotherly feelings get in your way."

  "You got that right."

  Mephis swore. "Do you realize the trouble we're going to have with the Dark Council over this? We're not above the Law, Lucivar."

  Lucivar stopped in front of Mephis. "You play by your rules, and I'll play be mine."

  "She signed a marriage contract."

  "Not willingly."

  "You don't know that. And twenty witnesses say otherwise."

  "I wear her Ring. I can feel her, Mephis." Lucivar's voice shook. "She was ready to break the link rather than submit to being mounted."

  Mephis said nothing for a full minute. "Jaenelle has problems with physical intimacy. You know that."

  Lucivar slammed his fist into the door. "Damn you! Are you so blind or have your balls dried up so much you'll submit to anything rather than have someone bleat about the SaDiablo family misusing their power? Well, I'm not blind and there's nothing wrong with my balls. She's my

  Queen—mine!—and rules or not, Laws or not, Dark Council or not, if someone makes her suffer, I will pay them back in kind."

  They stared at each other, Lucivar breathing hard, Mephis unmoving.

  Finally, Mephis slumped against the door. "We can't go through this again, Lucivar. We can't go through the fear of losing her again."

  "Where is she?"

  "Father took her to the Keep)—with strict orders for the rest of the family to stay away."

  Lucivar pushed Mephis aside. "Well, we all know how well I follow orders, don't we?"

  3 / Kaeleer

  Saetan looked like a man who had barely survived a battlefield.

  Which wasn't far from the truth, Lucivar thought as he quietly closed the door of Jaenelle's sitting room at the Keep.

  "My instructions were explicit, Lucivar."

  The voice had no strength. The face looked gray and strained.

  Lucivar pointed casually to the Birthright Red Jewels Saetan wore. "You're not going to be able to toss me out wearing those."<
br />
  Saetan didn't call in the Black.

  Lucivar guessed, correctly, that getting Jaenelle to the Keep in her present physical and emotional condition had drained the Black.

  Saetan limped to a chair, swearing softly. He tried to lift a decanter of yarbarah from the side table. His hand shook violently.

  Crossing the room, Lucivar took the decanter, filled a glass, and warmed the blood wine. "Do you need fresh blood?" he asked quietly.

  Saetan stared at him coldly.

  Even after all these centuries, Luthvian's accusations

  were still deep wounds barely scabbed over. Guardians needed fresh blood from time to time to maintain their strength. At first, Lucivar had tried to understand Saetan's anger at being offered blood hot from the vein, tried not to feel insulted that the High Lord would accept that gift from anyone but him. Now he felt annoyed that someone else's words still hung between them. He wasn't a child. If the son willingly offered the gift, why couldn't the father graciously accept it?

  Saetan looked away. "Thank you, but no."

  Lucivar pressed the wineglass into Saetan's hand. "Drink this."

  "I want you away from here, Lucivar."

  Lucivar poured a large glass of brandy for himself, booted a footstool over to Saetan's chair, and sat down. "When I walk away from here, I'm taking her with me."

  "You can't," Saetan snapped. "She's . . ." He raked his fingers through his hair. "I don't think she's sane."

  "Not surprising since they dosed her with safframate."

  Saetan glared at him. "Don't be an ass. Safframate doesn't do that to a person."

  "How would you know? You've never been dosed with it." Lucivar struggled to keep the bitterness out of his voice. This wasn't the time to worry old hurts.

  "I've used safframate."

  Lucivar narrowed his eyes and studied his father. "Explain."

  Saetan drained his glass. "Safframate is a sexual stimulant that's used to prolong stamina, prolong one's ability to give pleasure. The seeds are the size of a snapdragon seed. You add one or two crushed seeds to a glass of wine."

  "One or two seeds." Lucivar snorted. "High Lord, in Terreille they crush it into a powder and use it by the spoonful."

  "That's madness! If you gave someone that much—" Saetan stared at the closed door that led into Jaenelle's , bedroom.

  "Exactly," Lucivar said softly. "Pleasure very quickly becomes pain. The body becomes so stimulated, so sensitive that contact with anything hurts. The sex drive obliterates

  everything else, but that much safframate also blocks the ability to achieve orgasm so there's no relief, just driving need and sensitivity that's constantly increased by the stimulation."

  "Mother Night," Saetan whispered, slumping in his chair.

  "But if, for whatever reason, a person doesn't submit to being used until the drug wears off ... well, the encounter can turn violent."

  Saetan blinked back tears. "You were used like that, weren't you?"

  "Yes. But not often. Most witches didn't think riding my cock was worth having my temper in the bed with it. And most of the ones who tried didn't walk away intact if they walked away at all. I had my own definition of violent passion."

  "And Daemon?"

  "He had his own way of dealing with it." Lucivar shuddered. "They didn't call him the Sadist for nothing."

  Saetan reached for the yarbarah. His hand still shook, but not as badly as before. "What do you suggest we do for Jaenelle?"

  "She doesn't deserve to endure this alone, and she'll never agree to sex for whatever small relief it might give her. So that leaves violence." Lucivar drained his brandy glass. "I'm taking her into Askavi. I'll keep us away from the villages. That way, if anything goes wrong, no one else will get caught in the backlash."

  Saetan lowered his glass. "What about you?"

  "I promised myself I'd take care of her. That's what I'm going to do."

  Not giving himself any more time to think, Lucivar set his glass on the table and crossed the room. He paused at the door, not sure how to approach a witch strong enough to tear his mind apart with a thought. Then he shrugged and opened the door, trusting instinct.

  The bedroom felt heavy with the growing psychic storm. He stepped into the room and braced himself.

  Jaenelle paced frantically, her hands gripping her upper arms tight enough to bruise. She glanced at him and bared

  her teeth. Her eyes held revulsion and no recognition. "Get out."

  Relief swept through him. Every second she resisted the desire to attack a male increased his chances of surviving the next few days.

  "Pack a bag," Lucivar said. "Casual clothes. A warm jacket for evenings. Walking boots."

  "I'm not going anywhere," Jaenelle snarled.

  "We're going hunting."

  "No. Get out."

  Lucivar braced his hands on his hips. "You can pack a bag or not, but we're going hunting. Now."

  "I don't want to go anywhere with you."

  He heard the desperation and fear in her voice. Desperation because she didn't want to leave the safety of this room. Fear because he was pushing her and, cornered, she might strike back and hurt him.

  It gave him hope.

  "You can leave this room on your own two feet or over my shoulder. Your choice, Cat."

  She grabbed a pillow and shredded it, swearing viciously in several languages. When his only response was to step toward her, she scrambled away from him, putting the bed between them.

  He wondered if she saw the irony of it.

  "You're running out of time, Cat," he said softly.

  She grabbed another pillow and threw it at him. "Bastard!"

  "Prick," he corrected. He started around the bed.

  She ran for the dressing room door.

  He got there ahead of her, his spread wings making him look huge.

  She backed away from him.

  Saetan stepped into the bedroom. "Go with him, witch-child."

  Trapped between father and brother, she stood there, shaking.

  "We'll get away from everyone," Lucivar coaxed. "Just the two of us. Lots of fresh air and open ground."

  The thoughts flashed through her eyes, over her face. Open ground. Room to maneuver. Room to run. Open

  ground, where she wouldn't be trapped in a room with all this maleness pulling at her, choking her.

  "You won't touch me." Not a question or a demand. A plea.

  "I won't touch you," Lucivar promised.

  Jaenelle's shoulders slumped. "All right. I'll pack."

  He folded his wings and stepped aside so that she could slip into the dressing room. The defeat in her voice made him want to weep.

  Saetan joined him. "Be careful, Lucivar," he said quietly.

  Lucivar nodded. He already felt tired. "It'll be better in the open, out on the land."

  "Experience?"

  "Yeah. We'll stop at the cabin first to pick up the sleeping bags and other gear. Ask Smoke to join us. I think she'll be able to tolerate him. And if anything goes wrong, he can send word."

  Saetan didn't need to ask what could go wrong. They both knew what a Black-Jeweled Black Widow Queen could do to a man.

  Saetan ran his hands over Lucivar's shoulders. He kissed his son's cheek. "May the Darkness embrace you," he said hoarsely, turning away. Lucivar pulled Saetan into a hard hug.

  "Be careful, Lucivar. I don't want anything to happen to you now that you're finally here. And I don't want you with me in Hell."

  Lucivar leaned back and smiled his lazy, arrogant smile. "I promise to stay out of trouble, Father."

  Saetan snorted. "You mean it as much now as you did when you were little," he said dryly.

  "Maybe even less."

  Left alone while Jaenelle finished packing, Lucivar wondered if he was doing the right thing. He already mourned the game they would hunt, the animals who would die so savagely. If the four-legged bloodletting wasn't enough, she would turn on him. He expected her to. When she did,
Saetan wouldn't find his son waiting for him in the Dark Realm. There wouldn't be anything left of him to wait.

  4 / Kaeleer

  "The Dark Council is quite distressed over the whole matter." Lord Magstrom shifted uneasily in his chair.

  Saetan held his temper through sheer force of will. The man sitting on the other side of his blackwood desk had done nothing to deserve his rage. "The Council isn't alone in its distress."

  "Yes, of course. But for Lady Angelline to . . ." Magstrom faltered.

  "Among the Blood, rape is punishable by execution. At least it is in the rest of Kaeleer," Saetan said too softly.

  "It's punishable by execution in Little Terreille as well," Magstrom replied stiffly.

  "Then the little bastard got what he deserved."

  "But. . . they were newly married," Magstrom protested.

  "Even if that were true, which I doubt despite the damn signatures, a marriage contract doesn't excuse rape. Drugging a woman so that she's incapable of refusing doesn't mean she's agreed to anything. I'd say Jaenelle expressed her refusal quite eloquently, wouldn't you?" Saetan steepled his fingers and leaned back in his chair. "I've analyzed the two 'harmless substances' Jaenelle was given. Being a Black Widow, I have the training to reproduce them. If you choose to insist they had nothing to do with Jaenelle's behavior, why don't I make up another batch? We can test them on your granddaughter. She's Jaenelle's age."

  Clutching the arms of the chair, Lord Magstrom said nothing.

  Saetan rounded the desk and poured two glasses of brandy. Handing one to Lord Magstrom, he rested his hip on the corner of his desk. "Relax. I wouldn't do that to a child. Besides," he added quietly, "I may lose two of my children within the next few days. I wouldn't wish that on another man."

  "Two?"

  Saetan looked away from the concern and sympathy in Magstrom's eyes. "The first brew they gave Jaenelle inhibits will. She would have said what she'd been told to say, done what she'd been told to do. Unfortunately, that particular brew also has the side effect of magnifying emotional distress. A large dose of safframate and a forced sexual