by Anne Bishop
The High Lord of Hell was overseeing the rest of it—which was something neither he nor Saetan mentioned to anyone.
“There are three distinct feels to these spells, three distinct temperaments that went into their making. We haven’t reached the spot where the spells actually engage, but we’re close.” Jaenelle hesitated. “Daemon…”
“I know.” And it made him heartsick because the closer he got to the gate in the fence, the more this place felt wrong. “I know, Lady. I didn’t pick up that there were two more, but I recognized her.” Then he added, «We’ve got company.»
They continued to study the house, giving no sign they were aware of the person moving toward them.
A landen, which wasn’t surprising since they were in a landen village, but that’s all Daemon could sense because his Black-Jeweled power was too dark and potent for him to touch a landen mind without destroying it.
So they waited until a young voice hesitantly asked, “Are you going into the spooky house?”
Now they turned, but Daemon shifted just the little bit needed to place Jaenelle partially behind his left shoulder, still giving her a view of the boy while acting as another shield.
He felt resigned amusement coming from Jaenelle, but no protest, no attempt to brush off that instinctive defense.
The boy was at that awkward age of being no longer a child but not quite a youth. Between his age and the fact that he was landen, he was an unlikely threat to either of them. That didn’t make any difference.
“The other Lady and gentleman took some of the children with them,” the boy said, sounding hopeful.
Daemon crooked a finger and made a “come here” gesture. Better to let the boy come to them. Something shy about this one, something…
«He’s been hurt,» Jaenelle said.
Daemon clamped down on his temper. Coming from someone with Jaenelle’s past, “hurt” and “wounded” didn’t mean the same thing. Hell’s fire, someone coming from his past recognized the difference. «Abused physically?»
«Not sure. But there’s a feel to such children. Like recognizes like.»
He heard the pain under the words.
“What’s your name?” he asked the boy.
“Yuli.”
“You said a Lady and gentleman went into the house? How long ago?”
“Not long.”
“What did they look like?” Jaenelle asked.
“The Lady was pretty,” Yuli said. Then he lifted a hand and added hesitantly, “But I think her ears looked a little funny.”
“Pointed?”
“Uh-huh.”
“The gentleman,” Daemon said. “Did he have wings?”
Yuli shook his head. “He wasn’t from Dhemlan either, ’cause he had light skin.”
It sounded like Rainier had come with Surreal. Which meant Lucivar hadn’t arrived yet. Unless he’d come before the children had gathered to watch the house.
“If they took some other children, why didn’t you go with them?” Daemon asked.
He saw the flinch, felt the tremor of hurt.
“I live at the orphans’ home,” Yuli said. “The others don’t want…” The words faded into a pained silence.
“Well, then,” Jaenelle said, “that’s fortunate for us.”
Her voice was like a summer breeze washing over the boy, but Daemon heard the ice underneath the warmth.
“Someone threw a stone out the window,” Yuli said. “Just before your…” He frowned and looked across the street.
“Coach,” Daemon said.
“Your Coach appeared.” Yuli swung around and pointed to the lawn on the other side of the fence. “It’s over there.”
“Once we cross that line, the spells will engage,” Jaenelle said.
Daemon didn’t bother to argue about the “we” part of that sentence. He’d fight her into the ground before he let her cross that line and get tangled up in those spells.
“I’ll get it!” Yuli said. The boy slammed through the gate, sending it crashing back against the fence as he sprinted to a spot in the lawn.
Jaenelle hissed. “Power.”
“How…?” Daemon glanced at her. Her Jewel, which usually looked like Purple Dusk with streaks of the other colors of Jewels, now glowed Rose. She was at the lightest end of her range of power.
“There’s a hint of Blood in him,” she said. “He’s not pure landen.”
Damn it! “Does he have enough power to trap him in those spells?”
“Don’t know.” She paused, her attention focused on the boy.
“No. He’s not strong enough to do Craft, so he’s not strong enough to trigger the spells.”
Daemon held his breath anyway until the boy raced back through the gate, holding out a bundle tied with ribbons. Murmuring thanks, he took the bundle, then used Craft to put a knife-edge on his right index fingernail. As he cut the ribbons, Jaenelle created a globe of witchlight.
«That’s not the most practical light,» Daemon said, glancing at the globe that was a swirling rainbow of colors.
«It serves the purpose,» Jaenelle replied with a touch of tart sweetness.
A glance at the boy, whose eyes were wide with delight. Daemon offered no other comments as he unwrapped the handkerchief and vanished it. When he held a piece of paper in one hand and a paperweight in the other, the globe changed to a soft white light.
The three of them stared at the paperweight—and then watched the illusion spell change a dead, slightly squashed baby mouse trapped in solid glass into a creature pounding on a glass globe while squeaking for help.
Daemon stared at the globe. There was something grotesquely fascinating about the spell, something that appealed to a part of him he was sure was not appropriately adult.
Daemonar probably would love watching the mousie. So would the wolf pups who lived at the eyrie. Marian, on the other hand, would most likely grab a mop and try to beat him to a pulp with it if he gave this little grotesquerie to her boy.
“The illusion must be triggered by the warmth of a person’s hand,” Jaenelle said. “It stays dormant until someone picks it up.”
“The confused Lady must have made that,” Yuli said. “The others weren’t nice, but she was.”
The boy’s words were a verbal knife in the gut.
“She talked to you?” Jaenelle asked.
Yuli nodded. “She said the spooky house was an entertainment, like Jaenelle was making. Something fun for children. A surprise for the boy.”
“A surprise for the boy,” Daemon murmured. He handed the paperweight to Yuli, then held the paper up so he and Jaenelle could read it.
Then he swore softly, savagely.
“Mother Night,” Jaenelle said, looking at the house. “It sounds like this entertainment has a few teeth and claws.”
“My apologies, Yuli,” Daemon said. “I neglected to finish the introductions. I’m Daemon Sadi, Warlord Prince of Dhemlan. This is my Lady, Jaenelle Angelline.”
Yuli’s jaw dropped. “The Lady ?”
Well, that told him where he stood in the pecking order. “Yes, the Lady.” He paused. “I have a favor to ask of you. I have some urgent business and must leave immediately. Will you keep the Lady company until I return?”
“Yes, sir!”
«You’re leaving a boy here to protect me?» Jaenelle asked.
«I’m giving him an excuse to stay with you—and the hamper of food Beale placed in the Coach. I figure by the time I get back, you’ll know everything this village knows about that house.» And everything the villagers might not want you to know about that orphans’ home and this boy in particular. «Besides, if I can’t warn him off in time, someone has to be here to stop Lucivar from going into that house.» And if you use that Witch tone of voice on him like you did on me, you’ll stop him in his tracks.
“All right, I’ll stay,” Jaenelle said. “And I welcome Yuli’s company.” «You’re going to talk to her?»
He gave her a light but linger
ing kiss, needing the feel of her. «Yes, I’m going to talk to her.»
TWELVE
The only thing they found of interest in the parlor across the hall was another poker that Rainier now carried as a weapon. No tricks or traps. At least, none that they triggered. No exits either.
Using the poker to hook back the lace curtain hanging over the window, Rainier studied the bricks that replaced the window’s view. As he let the curtain fall back into place, he said, “Seems odd to waste a room.”
“Too close to the starting point of the game?” Surreal replied. She’d been standing behind him, ready to help if the woman with the dagger-point nails appeared in the window like she’d done in the sitting room.
“We’re bored,” Trist said.
“We want to go home,” Dayle said.
“We don’t like this place,” Henn said.
She turned and walked over to the flock of idiot sheep, ignoring Rainier’s quiet warning. She stared at each of them. They stared back. Even Sage and Trout just stared.
Did they think they were immune to harm because they were children? They weren’t immune to anything. Especially harm.
“We’re trapped in here,” she said. “Someone played a nasty trick on all of us, and we’re trapped in here until we find one of the secret ways out. Until we get out, you do as you’re told. If we tell you to stay away from something, you stay away from it.”
“Why can’t you do your witch stuff to get us out?” Kester asked belligerently.
“We can’t. That’s part of the trap.”
“I guess the Blood aren’t so special after all,” Ginger said, glancing at Kester.
“If that’s what you think, why were you so eager to see this place?”
No answer. She didn’t expect one.
She looked at Rainier. “Let’s try the back rooms before going upstairs.” Which would also give her a little more time to recover from the backlash. If Rainier heard her puffing after she’d climbed one set of stairs, he’d know she still wasn’t breathing properly.
He joined her. “It would be easier to get everyone out if we’re still on the first floor—providing the exits are actually doors and windows that are meant to let us out of the house.”
“What else would they be?” Surreal asked.
“Exits from the game. What if ‘exit’ simply means the game ends and the spells go dormant so that doors and windows do work?”
“Then any kind of opening that a person could walk through—”
“Or crawl through,” Rainier said.
Oh, she didn’t want to think about that, not when the odds were good that any space that required crawling would also have something nasty waiting for them. “—or crawl through might be an exit.”
“Yeah.”
She considered the possibilities in the parlor again and shook her head. Nothing there. At least, nothing she could sense. Too bad she wasn’t interested in training to be a Black Widow, despite her interest in poisons. Maybe she could have…
“Hey,” she said. “Do you think a Black Widow would be able to feel more than we can? Would someone else from the Hourglass be able to see these spells or sense them? Or eliminate them?”
The arrested look on Rainier’s face told her he hadn’t considered that. “Maybe,” he said slowly. “A Black Widow might have been able to recognize where the spells were to avoid triggering them.”
“Then why—” She stopped and switched to a psychic thread. «If that’s the case, why would anyone invite Sadi?»
«We don’t know he was invited.» He shrugged when she just looked at him. «I don’t think there is anyone beyond Jaenelle’s friends and the Dhemlan Queens who know he’s a Black Widow. But I don’t see your point.»
«I’m wondering if whoever created this game counted on one of us being a Black Widow—or if he’d counted on none of his guests being part of the Hourglass. Are we missing things we should be seeing?»
“Mystery books.” Rainier raked his fingers through his hair.
“Sometimes there are clues that aren’t recognized when they’re first seen.”
“And maybe we’re basing our assumptions on our own intelligence instead of considering the intelligence of whoever put this together.” Surreal grabbed one of the lamps and headed for the door. “Let’s take a look at the next room. Gather up the sheep.”
“Our enemy seems to be fairly intelligent,” Rainier said, raising his voice over the children’s baaing and snickers.
She stopped in the doorway and looked at him. “Do you think so? Would you want to give Yaslana and Sadi a reason to be coming after you?”
Bitch. She’d actually given him a shiver down his spine. But he’d covered his tracks. They wouldn’t find him. Even when his next book came out, they wouldn’t connect Jarvis Jenkell, renowned author from Little Terreille, with the tragedy that took place in a landen village in the middle of Dhemlan.
But because she’d given him that momentary shiver, he really hoped Lady Surreal was the person who found the first big surprise.
Power and temper blew the message-station door open, almost ripping it from its hinges, but the Station Master held his ground behind the counter as the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan strode across the room. The gold eyes were glazed—a warning to everyone that a Warlord Prince was riding the killing edge—and that beautiful face was a cold, cold mask.
The Prince placed a piece of paper on the counter, folded and sealed with the SaDiablo crest pressed into the bloodred wax. “Assign your fastest messenger to deliver this. Send him now.” He turned and walked away. As he reached the door, he added, “And may the Darkness have mercy on you if that message doesn’t reach my brother in time.”
The Station Master’s hand shook as he picked up the paper and read the name and location of delivery just to be sure. Not that he had any doubt about who was supposed to receive the message. Then he looked at the young men watching from the doorway of the room where they sorted through their messages or waited for an assignment.
The Station Master pointed to a messenger. The young Warlord came forward, shaking his head.
“Not me,” the messenger said. “I’ve already been there once today. I’ve completed my assigned runs. I’ve—”
“Do you want to tell the man who walked out of here that the message wasn’t delivered in time?” In time for what, none of them would ever ask—and most of them hoped they would never find out.
He watched, puzzled, as the messenger shielded himself before taking the message, then put a shield around the message before putting it into his carry bag as if it were a sack full of poisonous snakes instead of a piece of paper, and then put another shield around the carry bag.
The messenger looked at him and grimaced. “Youdidn’t deliver the last message.” Then he added under his breath, “And I don’t want him kicking my ass.”
The Station Master decided not to ask. He just patted the Warlord’s shoulder. “Good lad. Get moving.”
And may the Darkness have mercy on all of us.
A dining room. Table, chairs, and a rug that had swirls of colors that had been muddied by age and dirt—or had been like that in the first place. No tools by the fireplace. She was hoping for another poker to start arming the children. They might not have any skill, but she figured anyone could whack at something that was trying to hurt them.
Guess we only get two weapons, she thought as she set her lamp at one end of the table and began a slow counterclockwise circuit around the outside of the room while Rainier made the same circuit in the opposite direction.
Three windows. The two along the side of the house had been bricked over. The one in the back, if she could trust what she was seeing, looked out on some kind of veranda. A doorway that opened into a small storeroom and an entryway with a door that might work. And a closed door.
Surreal studied the door, then looked at the room again. A triangular hutch in one corner, but it held nothing but teapots and matching cups and sauce
rs. So behind the door was probably the storage cupboard for dishes and linens.
She reached for the knob. Any door might be an exit, right?
Her hand froze above the knob. Instinct? Or something less easy to define? Didn’t matter. If she’d been fully shielded, she might have opened the door just to find out what was making her skin crawl—and then kill it. As it was, she backed away from the door, raising the poker like a sword.
“Surreal?” Rainier asked, stopping his circuit to watch her.
“Something here,” she said.
“Is it something spooky?” Trist asked.
The children had been nicely huddled together when they got into the room. Now they were starting to spread out and explore.
She gave them all a hard look. “Stay away from this door.” She put enough bite in her voice so there wouldn’t be any question that this was a command and not a suggestion. Put enough snap in the words so that none of the children would think she was playing “spooky house” with them.
As she looked at them, she remembered another boy, a little Yellow-Jeweled Warlord who had been a killer’s intended prey. That boy had survived because he had obeyed her orders.
She felt some of the tension in her shoulders ease.
These children were old enough to understand they were in a dangerous situation. Despite the verbal pissing contests they seemed to want to engage in, and despite her calling them idiot sheep, they were smart enough to realize she and Rainier were trying to keep them safe.
And they would keep the children safe—at least as long as she and Rainier were both standing.
But there was something about the buzzy-buzz whispering between Dayle and Ginger that annoyed her. And the mumbles and snickers coming from Kester and Trist made her edgy.
Were the buzzy-buzz and the snickers something all children did, or just landens? She didn’t know, wasn’t sure how to ask. When she’d worked in the Red Moon houses as a whore, she’d refused to work in any house that used younger girls, and as an assassin, she had never accepted a contract to kill a child. So she’d had no reason to be around children and plenty of reasons to avoid them. If she’d had friends her own age when she was very young, she didn’t remember them—and by the time she was Ginger’s age, she’d been whoring on the streets in order to survive and had already killed her first man.
