by Anne Bishop
Her heart jumped in her throat as the damn things scurried into cracks in the baseboard. She couldn’t tell if the beetles were real or illusion—and since seeing them made her skin crawl, she really didn’t want to know.
“Still a window,” Rainier said, peering through the glass. “At least, I seem to be looking out over the front lawn.”
She moved until she was just a little more than an arm’s length from the window.
Rainier studied the glass panes. “We could open the window and climb out.”
“Which might trigger a spell that will put more than glass in our way.”
“It might.”
The look in his eyes. Assessing. Considering. Weighing his desire as an escort to get her out of danger regardless of the cost against his responsibility for getting the children out safely, since they were here because of his invitation.
Just as he was here because of her invitation.
«We walked in together, Prince Rainier. We will leave together.»
Another assessment. Then he nodded.
“Stand to the side as much as you can, but hold what’s left of that curtain out of the way,” she said.
“Surreal, maybe I should…” He looked at the paperweight and didn’t say anything more.
“You wear Opal; I wear Gray.” And there was the simple fact that the Dea al Mon side of her heritage made her a lot stronger than she looked.
“You’ve already taken a hit,” Rainier said.
“Yeah.” And that was pissing her off because breathing still hurt like a wicked bitch.
Not that far from the house to the wrought-iron fence. Fifteen paces at the most. She could throw a stone that far.
She waited while Rainier fetched the poker from the brass stand on the hearth. Hooking some of the material, he pulled back the remains of the shredded curtain.
She stared at the window. Dark outside now. She couldn’t see the fence or the street. Just her reflection in the glass. If she broke the glass…
A sensation at the back of her neck, like delicate legs brushing, crawling.
Letting instinct decide, she channeled her Gray power into her hand and then wrapped it around the bundle before she cocked her arm back and threw, using Craft to pass the bundle through the glass.
Somewhere in the house, the gong sounded.
“Did it get out?” Surreal asked, stepping closer to the glass. “Can you see if the bundle got past the fence?”
Her reflection in the night-darkened glass. And then it wasn’t her reflection. Another woman’s face stared back at her and…
The woman’s arm shot out of the glass. Her nails, shaped like dagger points, slashed at Surreal’s face.
Surreal turned her face away and flung up an arm as an instinctive defense. And felt those nails tear through her jacket sleeve before Rainier yanked her out of reach.
“Should have gone through the window,” the woman said, her voice a malevolent singsong. “Should-a, could-a, too late now. Find an exit and don’t use it, it’s gone forever. Gone gone gone. Like you’ll be. You’ll join me soon enough. And your face won’t look so pretty when you do.”
“Who are you?” Surreal asked.
“He paid me. And then he killed me. And then he chained me to this house. But he’s letting me play with all the tricks and traps. Don’t die too soon, Lady Bitch. Not until you’ve seen my best surprises.”
“Who is he?”
“You’ll find out.” The woman’s face began to fade. “When you’re chained to the house too.”
Surreal stared at the window. Nothing in the glass now but her own reflection.
“We could have gotten out,” she said. “Could have opened the window and climbed out.”
“While trying to avoid the slashing nails?” Rainier countered. “I doubt she would have watched us leave.”
“Assuming she wasn’t lying about that being an exit.” Surreal fingered the tear in her jacket. “What was she? Demon-dead? Illusion?”
“Both?” Rainier released a breath in a grim sigh. “Did she cut you?”
She shook her head. “Came close, though. And that wasn’t meant as a bit of fun.”
“Agreed.” He hesitated. “Does this seem familiar?”
“How so?” she asked warily.
“Body in a closet. Clues.”
They looked at each other.
“Ah, shit,” Surreal said. “Someone set us up in a mystery? We’re the dumb characters who walk into the Bad Place?”
“Looks like it.” Then Rainier added on a psychic thread, «And we helped by bringing victims with us. Fodder for the game.»
«Then it’s time to stop thinking in terms of what we expected and really look at what we walked into.»
Dropping down from the Black Wind, Daemon guided the Coach as it coasted the rest of the way to the landen village. It wasn’t hard to figure out where the spooky house was located. It was the only source of power pulsing through the village.
He and Jaenelle hadn’t spoken since leaving their—her—bedroom. But as he settled the Coach gently on the opposite side of the street from the house, he’d had enough of her silence and her anger.
She surged out of her seat and headed for the Coach door—and then stared at it when it didn’t open.
Moving with lazy, predatory grace, he rose from the driver’s chair—and smiled at her. “Can’t get through a Black lock?” he asked, his voice laced with nasty pleasantness.
“Open the door.”
“Not until a few things get said.” He moved toward her but stopped out of arm’s reach. She was still a powerful Black Widow, and he had no desire to get pumped full of her venom by accident or otherwise. “I’m sorry I missed the viewing. I am, but—”
“You think that’s why I’m angry with you? Because you didn’t answer the invitation?”
His temper grew fangs. “If that isn’t the reason, then why don’t you tell me why you’re so pissed off at me?”
Her sapphire eyes blazed. “I’m pissed off, as you so elegantly put it, because you think I am so shallow and so selfish that I would issue that kind of finger-snap summons and expect you to drop everything and obey.”
“What?” Female was an alien language, but he usually could translate it well enough to understand what was being said. But this…
“You must think I’m completely unaware of what is required to rule a Territory or oversee the SaDiablo family. You must think I’m ignorant of how much work you do or the demands that are now made on your time since you became the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan. Or do you have another explanation for being so damn stupid?”
His temper strained against a fraying leash.
“When did that invitation arrive?” Jaenelle demanded.
“This afternoon. It was brought up to the room instead of being delivered to me.”
“And if it had been delivered to you, you would have dropped everything and run to obey.”
“I love you,” Daemon shouted. “What in the name of Hell is wrong with wanting to please you?”
“What’s wrong with it is that you never considered it odd that I would send such an invitation,” Jaenelle shouted back. “Instead of using your brain, you would have obeyed and walked into that house! Now open the damn door!”
Because he couldn’t think of anything else to do, he released the Black lock and opened the door. He was wrong. He still didn’t know why, but somehow he was wrong.
She barely waited for the door to open before she was out of the Coach—and he was barely a step behind her. He grabbed her arm, knowing full well another kind of woman would rip his face for touching her during a quarrel.
“Jaenelle…” He loosened his hold, making it easy for her to pull away from him if she chose. Angry and confused, he wasn’t sure if he should fight or surrender. And he wasn’t sure what either choice might cost him. “You’re angry because I would have answered the invitation?”
“Yes.”
The ice in
her voice chilled his heart. “Why? Please tell me why.”
She pointed at the house across the street from where they stood. “Because that’s not my spooky house.”
ELEVEN
Cloaked in a sight shield, he watched them from the peepholes in the portrait, secure in the knowledge that he would remain undetected. These hidden corridors and his little hidey-holes weren’t bound by the spells constricting the use of Craft in the rest of his “entertainment.” He’d made sure of that before he settled his account with the Black Widow who had added the final, deadly layer to his version of the spooky house. Of course, she hadn’t intended to become part of that final, deadly layer.
Now that he’d taken care of all his “partners,” there was no one to connect him to this place. Well, he’d taken care of almost all of them. That one hadn’t shown up for her payment. Just as well. He’d sweated through the whole business of dealing with the Hourglass Coven, but that one had been creepier than the others. Still, even if she did talk about making illusion spells for a spooky house, who would listen to her, let alone believe her?
“All right,” Surreal said, hooking her hair behind her ears. “Someone has cast us as the lead characters in a mystery about a house that’s trying to kill us. Does that about sum it up?”
“The house itself is wood, glass, and stone,” Rainier said. “It’s not trying to do anything. But based on the clue and the witch in the glass, it does seem like someone is trying to kill us. Hurt us at the very least. That same someone hired a Black Widow to create illusion spells—and probably other things—that we’ll assume will try to harm us while we look for a way out.”
More than one Black Widow, Surreal thought. That was something she was going to keep to herself a little while longer. After all, she could be wrong.
Sweet Darkness, please let her be wrong.
“We’ve got two lamps and the witchlight,” Rainier said.
“And one weapon,” Surreal said as Rainier handed her the poker. “I didn’t put much power into the witchlight when I made it, so it won’t last long.”
Rainier picked up a small box that had been next to one of the lamps. When he opened it, he frowned thoughtfully at the contents.
“Those are matches,” Kester said, rolling his eyes. “You scratch one on the rough side of the box to get a little fire to light the lamp or kindling.”
“I know what matches are,” Rainier said, slipping the box into his coat pocket. Then he looked at Surreal. «Do we shield?»
If they didn’t, they were vulnerable. If they did…
«Just us or the children?» she asked. The landens wouldn’t have any control over the shield or be able to replenish the power in it, but she and Rainier could place one around each child to protect them from the first few attacks. Except…
«If we shield everyone, that’s nine more uses of Craft. Counting the times we’ve already used Craft, that would eliminate more than half the possible exits from this place,» Rainier said, saying exactly what she had been thinking.
«And most likely, the easier exits to find are the ones that will close first.» Like the front door. And the window there in the sitting room. “How many rooms?” she asked. “I wasn’t paying a lot of attention, but the house looked like it was a good size without being that big. A dozen rooms in all?”
Rainier nodded. “Plus attic and cellar.”
Was there another exit in that room?
«If the intention is for us to face the traps, there won’t be more than one or two exits in the front rooms,» Rainier said. «And if this is based on a mystery story, we’ve already seen the clue and been shown a sample of the danger that will be triggered if we find an exit and try to use it.»
Unfortunately, she agreed with him. No one would have gone to this much trouble to create this place and then risk the possibility of their finding an exit quickly.
Surreal studied the room, looking for a potential exit or anything else that might be useful—and seeing nothing that would work to their advantage.
She had dressed casually in trousers, shirt, and jacket, and was wearing the boots Lucivar had given her at Winsol. Too bad she hadn’t called in her stiletto and the palm knife before going through the gate. The boots were designed with sheaths for both knives. She would have felt more comfortable if she had a couple of honed blades within reach. Well, they were still within reach, since she could call them in, but she wouldn’t be the only one penalized if she used Craft, so she would have to wait until she needed a blade.
«You know, we’d better get out of this place in one piece,» Rainier said.
«For other than the obvious reason that I don’t want to get stuck living here if I end up demon-dead?» Surreal asked, still turning slowly as she studied the room.
«Do you want to explain to Lucivar that you didn’t shield before walking into a strange house?»
Ah, shit. Maybe getting stuck in the house wouldn’t be so bad after all.
«Do we gamble and not create shields?» Rainier asked.
«For now. Let’s gather up our flock of idiot sheep and herd them over to the room across the hall.»
«They’re not idiot sheep; they’re children.»
«That’s what I said.» Her study of the room finally brought her back to the portrait over the fireplace.
Something wrong with the eyes. Then there was something wrong with the whole face as the illusion spell started. The portrait’s head shifted to look down at her. The mouth curved in a leer as the man said in a harsh whisper, “I know what you are.”
Something inside her stilled. Something that had gotten bruised when Falonar’s interest had waned in response to her wanting to hone her fighting skills. No. Not her fighting skills. Her killing skills. There was a difference, even to an Eyrien warrior. She had never been a warrior, but she had been a damn good assassin.
Now she felt as if she were drawing a blade from its sheath. Shining. Deadly. Her.
“I know what you are,” the portrait said again.
“No,” she told it. “You don’t.”
Just his luck to get the least interesting member of the SaDiablo family. An uneducated whore. That’s all she was. No flair, no drama.
Or were they using those psychic threads to say all the interesting things?
No matter. He hadn’t arranged this to collect dialogue. This was to observe the Blood and how they would deal with the little surprises.
And when his next book came out, no one would be able to say his character Landry Langston lacked authenticity.
That’s not my spooky house.
Daemon let the words seep into his mind like rain softening earth.
Not hers.
An invitation sent to bring him to this place, worded in such a way that he would respond without questioning. A gut-level reaction that didn’t take into account the personality of the woman. Jaenelle was right about that—if he had stopped to think for even a minute, he would have wondered why she had sent it.
Finger-snap summons, she’d called it. That was exactly what this had been. She was capable of issuing that kind of command and expecting it to be obeyed without question, but he had a feeling that if he asked any of the boyos in her First Circle how they had responded to that kind of summons, every one of them would have said they would have shown up fully shielded and ready for a fight.
Jaenelle Angelline had never been an inconsiderate or insensitive Queen. And she wasn’t an inconsiderate or insensitive wife.
He took a deep breath and blew it out in a sigh as he stared at the house across the street. “If I admit to being an ass, could we finish this disagreement after we figure out what’s going on here?”
“If there’s any disagreement left to finish.”
When she slipped her arms around his waist, he wrapped his arms around her—and felt the tight muscles in his chest and back begin to relax.
Until she smiled at him and added, “Just how guilty do you feel about being an ass?”
“I need your help to finish the last part of my spooky house.”
Hell’s fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful.
“Aren’t you going to ask what I want you to do?”
Everything has a price, old son. Just consider this the equivalent to a kick in the balls. “No.”
“I see.” She gave him a light kiss, then stepped back. “You really feel guilty.”
Don’t think about it, don’t think about it. “Shall we?” He tipped his head to indicate the house.
By the time they reached the other side of the street, he could feel the spells, like pins lightly scratching his skin. Tangled webs of dreams and visions. Illusion spells. Layers of them.
He’d been born a Black Widow—the only natural male Black Widow in the history of the Blood. The only other male to be made a Black Widow was his father. Whatever was around this house was the work of Sisters of the Hourglass—and that wasn’t good. The other thing that wasn’t good…
His heart jumped when he realized he recognized the feel of some of the spells.
“Three of them,” Jaenelle said, taking a step toward the wrought-iron fence.
“Shield,” Daemon snapped, creating a Black shield around himself. It was tempting to put a shield around her, but that would be like stuffing her into a sweater instead of letting her put it on by herself.
She blinked at him, then muttered something under her breath in a language he didn’t know as a defensive shield formed around her. Not a bubble; this was a full cloak of power that followed her shape a hand span above her skin.
He was still learning to read Twilight’s Dawn, the Jewel she now wore, but the shield seemed to have the equivalent strength of an Ebon-gray Jewel. That would do for now.
“How do you know there were three?” he asked, returning his attention to her earlier comment.
The look she gave him was Mentor to Student, since she was the one who was overseeing most of his formal training in the Hourglass’s Craft.
