by Anne Bishop
They floated her up the stairs to one of the Coach’s little bedrooms. As they settled her into the bed, she said, “Since this is the first time I was really stupid, do you think Lucivar will overlook the fact that I didn’t shield before walking into a strange place?”
Jaenelle looked at her and laughed. “Not a chance.”
TWENTY-SIX
Jarvis Jenkell picked himself up and brushed off his jacket with shaking hands.
This wasn’t good. This wasn’t good at all. He hadn’t anticipated the SaDiablo family linking him to the spooky house. He’d deliberately told a few people “in confidence” about the setting for his next Landry Langston story so that there would be independent confirmation that he’d begun writing his book before the tragic events that should have taken place here.
How had Lucivar known he was there? The passageways and observation posts had been carefully shielded. Had to be. Otherwise the demon-dead, chained to this house and craving fresh blood, would have been hunting him. But the protection spells hadn’t been good enough to fool the Eyrien. Not at the end.
No matter. He had seventy-two hours to get out of the house. He wouldn’t need an hour. The last two exits were actually in this first house. Not easy to find if you didn’t know what to look for, but easy enough to reach.
He turned toward the door at the back of the hall—the door he’d gone through in the guise of the caretaker in order to observe this game.
“Regrets?” a deep voice purred.
Jarvis spun around, his heart pounding.
Daemon Sadi leaned against the doorframe of the sitting room.
“I thought you had gone,” Jarvis said.
“We still have a few things to discuss.”
“What kind of things?” Jarvis asked as Daemon walked toward him. Such a beautiful man. It wasn’t just his face or the way his body was put together. It was the way he moved.
A temptation—even if a man wasn’t usually tempted by his own gender. A promise—but the sleepy gold eyes didn’t reveal all that was being offered.
“A seduction?” Daemon’s voice still purred, but it also held cold amusement.
When had Sadi circled around him, come up behind him?
He could feel the heat of the man pressed against his back, could feel the light prick of those black-tinted nails as a hand closed around his throat. Lips brushed his cheek as Sadi’s other hand slipped beneath his shirt and began a slow caress down his chest, down his belly, stopping when the fingers slipped just below his belt.
Delight? Shame? He wasn’t sure what to feel when his body responded, helpless to resist.
“Same game, Jarvis,” Daemon whispered. “But the rules have changed a little.”
No other warning before Sadi’s nails ripped his belly open, tearing through muscle, slicing his gut.
He screamed in pain and terror. Struggled to get away from the hand digging deeper into his gut.
He twisted, determined to land one blow before he died. His hands shoved at Daemon’s chest—and hit the wall.
He stared at his arms, which disappeared into Sadi’s chest. He felt the wall under his hands. He looked at those sleepy eyes.
Daemon smiled a cold, cruel smile.
“A sophisticated shadow,” Daemon said. “All part of the new game. You can’t touch me, but I”—a nail flicked, slicing Jarvis’s cheek—“can touch you.”
Jarvis backed away. One arm cradled his ruined belly, while the other hand touched his cheek. He looked at his fingers.
No blood.
He dared to look down.
No wound.
“Feels real enough, doesn’t it?” Daemon said pleasantly. “But it’s all illusion. Well, the pain is real. The wounds are not.”
“What’s the point of that?” Jarvis asked.
Daemon looked surprised. “I did guarantee that nothing in this house would kill you. The predators you brought into this place might hurt you if they catch you, but I’ll prevent them from killing you.”
“Lucivar killed them all.”
“Oh, no. Most likely, he ripped them up enough to take them out of that fight. Since his main interest was getting Surreal and Rainier out of the house, he wouldn’t have bothered to finish the kill.”
“But they’re all still…” In pieces, Jarvis finished silently.
Daemon sighed and gave him an amused smile. “Jarvis, darling, a demon-dead witch who was beheaded will have to use Craft to float on air, but as long as there is some power still burning within her, she can hunt. And she does have teeth.”
Jarvis shuddered. How was he supposed to survive something like that ? He’d hole up in the protected passageways. He had food and water, a mattress and blankets, even a few chamber pots. He could hold out for the seventy-two hours required, and then he would be free. Debt paid.
“About those things we need to discuss,” Daemon said. “Since most of the original webs were destroyed when Lucivar punched free of the house, I’ve replaced them with my own illusion spells. You won’t find my tangled webs, so don’t waste your time searching. But I will tell you that one of them feeds into the hidden passageways. Yes, Lucivar did tell me about the writer-mouse’s hidey-holes. So in our new game, those passageways will still keep you safe from your own predators, but not from mine. Not from me.”
“Yours won’t kill me?”
“I demonstrated what mine are going to do.”
Another shudder went through him. Would the pain be any less because he knew the wounds weren’t real? Or would it be worse when he knew that no attack would kill him, no matter how vicious?
“My darling, I think you’re beginning to understand.” Daemon drifted toward the sitting room door. “The next thing you should know is that using my tangled webs to fuel the game shuffled the exits. There are still thirty of them, although only two remain open, and they’re still where they were. But the order in which they open was shuffled.”
“But that means…”
“You’re going to have to check every one of them in order to find the two that are still open.”
He’d have to travel through the whole house—all three buildings—with the demon-dead hunting him, and Sadi…
“You wanted to dance with the Sadist,” Daemon said too softly. “Now you will.”
He’d wanted to observe the Sadist, which was altogether different.
“What else?” Daemon tapped a finger against his lips. “Ah, yes. My mother wanted me to tell you that she made some changes to her illusions. They’re connected to my webs, and her little surprises are now more in keeping with your intentions for this house.”
“And that means…?”
“They all have teeth.” Daemon smiled. “You wanted to play games with my family. Now we’ll play, you and me.” As the shadow Daemon faded, he added, “Watch out for the cat. He doesn’t like humans—except when he’s using them for a toy or having them for dinner.”
Jarvis stood in the hallway, uncertain what to do or where to go. If he went into the sitting room, would the shadow Daemon still be there, waiting to play another round of the game? There was an exit in the sitting room. Maybe he should check the exits at the back of the house first. Or…
A rumble on the stairs, a sound that vibrated in his bones.
The white cat filled the stairs, and Jarvis wondered which was going to be worse—the illusions that couldn’t physically hurt him or the predators that could.
Daemon stepped out of the Coach and felt some of the tension ease out of his muscles as he looked at SaDiablo Hall.
Jaenelle joined him, slipping her arm through his.
«How bad is it really?» He’d been busy with other things while they’d remained in the village, and then had to focus on driving the Coach home, so he hadn’t asked before. Hadn’t been ready to be told.
«They’ll both heal.»
«Rainier was a dancer.» He remembered Lucivar’s words before they parted. With help from a good Healer, severed muscle
will heal; a completely severed limb won’t, no matter how good the Healer is.
«He’s still a dancer,» Jaenelle said. «He’ll hobble for a while, but he’ll dance again. I’ll make sure of it.»
«And Surreal?»
After deciding that the four surviving children would be better off staying with their parents rather than being taken to another strange house, Jaenelle had quickly made up four packets of a mild sedative that would let the children sleep through the night. While Tersa looked after Surreal and Rainier, and Jaenelle dealt with the healings, Daemon and Lucivar had returned the children to their parents, and then went to the orphans’ home to pick up Yuli’s belongings.
A pathetically small bundle. A diminished life for a bright boy. Who was Yuli’s mother, his father? Had they hidden him away because he had the potential to be Blood or because he didn’t? Would he become a bitter man someday because his heritage hadn’t been acknowledged?
Daemon could have sympathized with Jarvis Jenkell. He might have enjoyed discussing stories with him if they had met at a party. Or he might have hated the man for being a pompous ass. Either way, he would have acknowledged Jenkell as Blood.
If the man hadn’t played out this game.
Even then, he might have been willing to overlook—to some degree—the man’s suicidal attempt to play games with some of the darkest Blood in the Realm.
If the man hadn’t killed children to do it.
If the man hadn’t hurt Surreal and Rainier.
«She’ll heal,» Jaenelle said.
«She sounds like a cranky child.» And that scared him because it made her sound weak and diminished. Once he was sure she would recover, she could bitch and whine as much as she wanted. Until then, the sound was going to scrape nerves already raw from worry.
«She has a fever, the poison is draining out of those wounds and hurts, and she’s feeling pretty miserable. On top of that, she thinks we’re treating her like a child by making her stay here instead of letting her go back to the town house in Amdarh. Of course she’s cranky. And she’s figuring that as soon as she’s feeling better, you and Lucivar are going to chew on her for getting hurt.»
For a woman with a fever, Surreal did have a good grasp of where things stood. Which made him feel better. If she understood that much, her brain was still working.
Beale opened the door. Footmen hurried out to bring Surreal and Rainier into the house.
Daemon stepped aside, bringing Jaenelle with him.
“They’re going to need me for the rest of the day,” she said.
He nodded. “I have tasks of my own to deal with.” Including figuring out what to do with a young boy.
Yuli followed Tersa out of the Coach. He looked so young, so scared, despite a fragile show of bravery.
“Boy,” Tersa said. She walked up to Daemon, pressed a hand against his cheek, and smiled. “You did well, boy.”
“Will you make some of your surprises for my spooky house?” Jaenelle asked.
Tersa looked at Jaenelle, then looked at him—and walked away without answering.
Jaenelle patted his arm and whispered, “If she answered, it wouldn’t be a surprise.” Then she held out her other hand to Yuli. “Let’s find you a room for a day or two.”
They’d barely gotten into the great hall when four Sceltie puppies came running up to greet them. Three bounced and yapped and wagged tails at everyone before running back to whatever puppy game they’d been playing.
The fourth one planted his little white feet on Yuli’s foot and said, «My boy!»
«I guess that settles that,» Jaenelle told Daemon.
«I guess it does,» he replied, watching the boy’s face bloom from shy smile to complete delight.
“Can I play with him while I’m here?” Yuli asked.
Oh, boyo, just try not playing with him. “Yes, you can. He still has some trouble on the stairs, so why don’t you pick him up while I show you to your room.”
«Up!» the puppy said. «Up!» When Yuli didn’t immediately respond, the puppy whined and looked at Jaenelle. «Boy has dead ears?»
“He hasn’t learned to hear kindred yet,” Jaenelle said, slanting a glance at Yuli. “But he’ll learn.”
“Huh?” Yuli said.
“Pick him up,” Daemon said. «This is going to be a learning experience.»
She pressed her lips together, fighting to keep a straight face. «For both of them.»
As Yuli followed them, silent and wide-eyed, and the puppy never shut up about what he would need to train his boy, Daemon thought, At least something good has come from all that pain.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Daemon filled time with paperwork while he waited for Jaenelle to return home.
He’d wondered if his father had been aware of the half-Bloods who were raised in orphans’ homes in Dhemlan. He should have known better. His only excuse for not picking up the clues was his own emotional turmoil the previous year.
One of the vast estates owned by the SaDiablo family contained a self-sufficient community, including a school. When he’d taken over handling the family’s property and wealth, Saetan had told him that community was required to support itself, but no income should be expected from it. Daemon hadn’t questioned it or looked at the place beyond reviewing the quarterly reports to make sure the community was still supporting itself.
So when he and Jaenelle sat down to review possible new homes for Yuli, it was embarrassing to discover that the community’s school was for half-Blood children who had the potential to become Blood when they reached maturity. Some of the children were there because their parents wanted them to have the dual landen-Blood education that matched their potential. Others were considered orphans—children who had lost their parents or children whose parents were nothing more than names that acknowledged family bloodlines. The children were educated and cared for, taught Protocol, and instructed in basic Craft if they developed the power to do simple spells. They were also given the opportunity to earn spending money by working within the community or on another part of the estate.
Two hundred children made their home at that school—and now Yuli was one of them.
Jaenelle walked into the study, gave him a look he couldn’t interpret, then slumped in a chair in front of the desk.
“I have been given the honor of being the Official Liaison between the school and the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan,” she said. “I was even given an official-looking piece of parchment, all signed and sealed, to acknowledge my new position.”
“I see,” Daemon said, working to keep his expression bland. “Didn’t want to talk to me themselves?”
“Not in this decade. So. Do you want to see an extra report from the school? Do you require copies of the reports sent—and approved by the High Lord—from previous years?”
Daemon sat back, steepled his fingers, and rested the forefingers against his chin. “Is this a ripple caused by my note to the Province Queens?”
“Apparently. And even though they would prefer not to talk to you directly, the school’s administrators seemed more puzzled than concerned by this sudden interest in the school.”
A good sign that he wouldn’t find anything wrong at the school when he paid them a surprise visit. And he would take the Official Liaison with him to avoid scaring the shit out of everyone.
“We discussed the necessity of Yuli receiving some individual tutoring, since I don’t think he has much of the Dhemlan race in his bloodline and he’ll mature faster than the other children,” Jaenelle said. “It may be that he’ll do better in a Territory like Scelt, but I’d prefer to keep him nearby for the time being.”
“Was Yuli comfortable with staying at the school?” Daemon asked.
“A little frightened. But after he saw his room—and after Socks declared that it smelled like a good place—boy and puppy adjusted quickly enough. More quickly than the administrators, who are smart enough to realize what having a kindred puppy at the school will mean.”
Daemon smiled. “That they’ll now receive regular visits from adult kindred?”
“And that not all of those adults will be small or canine,” Jaenelle said, returning the smile.
A small frown was added to his smile. “Socks? The puppy’s name is Socks?”
Jaenelle rolled her eyes. “Yuli said the puppy looked like he was wearing white socks, so the puppy announced that that was his name—Socks.”
“He’s a Warlord, yes?”
“Yes, and that one will definitely wear a Jewel of sufficient rank when he goes through the Birthright Ceremony—and that means he’ll most likely wear a dark Jewel at maturity.”
The frown deepened. “Lord Socks ? What was his name originally?”
A blush stained Jaenelle’s cheeks. “I couldn’t remember, and the puppy won’t say. When I asked Ladvarian, he said, ‘Socks is an easy name for humans to remember.’”
“The little prick,” Daemon muttered.
She laughed.
Then she looked at him in a way that filled his stomach with butterflies. Nervous butterflies.
Everything has a price, old son. You made a promise. It’s time to pay the debt. Time to pay off all the debts, actually.
“I have an appointment this evening,” Daemon said. “I was waiting for you to return home before I left.”
A subtle change in her eyes, in her psychic scent.
“An appointment,” Witch said.
Not a question. Seventy-two hours had passed since he’d set his little game in motion. He had no doubt the first half of the debt had been paid in full. Now it was time to end it.
And Witch knew it.
“I’ve already informed Mrs. Beale that I won’t be home for dinner.” Informed Beale, actually. He’d hadn’t wanted to be the one to tell Mrs. Beale—and her meat cleaver—just in case she’d already begun preparations for the evening meal. “After I return, I’m available for whatever help you want with your spooky house.”
Her smile was female. Feline. More than a little bit terrifying.
“I’ll look forward to it,” she said.
Hell’s fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful.
