by Anne Bishop
"Yes, I do," he said.
She pondered this. "Kaelas is annoyed with you."
It seemed like an abrupt shift in topic—and not a welcome one. "Why?" he asked cautiously.
"Because I haven't been sleeping well lately and I keep kicking him. He's decided it's your fault."
Oh, wonderful. "I haven't been sleeping well either."
She turned away, looking distressed.
Enough, Daemon thought. It was more his fault than hers that they had struggled through the past month. Saetan had told him she'd never had a lover, and yet he'd expected an open-armed welcome to her bed. He had acted as if she were an experienced woman who would take advantage of his availability.
That had been his biggest mistake. Jaenelle didn't have it in her to take advantage of anyone who served in her court. Well, she had made the first stumbling move. Now it was his turn.
He loosened the choke-hold control on his sexuality just enough to produce a subtle feel in the air, without it being strong enough for her to recognize it.
"Come here," he said quietly.
Looking baffled, she obeyed.
Setting his hands lightly on her waist, he drew her close to him. "Kiss me again. Like this." He brushed his lips against hers, softly, delicately. "And this." He kissed the corner of her mouth. "And this." He kissed her throat.
She imitated each move—until she kissed his throat. When the tip of her tongue licked his skin, he tilted her head up, lightly fastened his mouth on hers, and kissed her in earnest. Kissed her with all the hunger that had been building inside him during the past month, during a lifetime. Kissed her while his hands roamed over her back and hips and delicately explored her breasts. Kissed her until she moaned. Kissed her until she opened for him and let his tongue dance with hers. Kissed her until her hands slid up his back and clamped on his shoulders. Kissed her until the moan turned into a hungry snarl and he felt her nails prick his skin through the shirt and jacket.
And then realized he had taken them farther than he had meant to right now. Returning his hands to her waist, he eased back to the light, easy kisses.
Sensing his withdrawal, she snarled again—and there was anger as well as hunger in the sound. "You don't want me?" she asked in her midnight voice.
He nudged her hips toward him just enough to prove his answer. "Yes, I want you." He gave in for one more moment, fastened his mouth on her neck and sucked hard enough to leave a love bite. Tearing his mouth away, he gave her little butterfly kisses from jaw to temple. "But this is just playtime, just an appetizer."
"Playtime?" Witch said suspiciously.
"Mmm," he replied, licking the spot on her forehead where the tiny spiral horn would be if they were in the abyss. "This isn't the right place for more than playtime."
"Why?"
"Because I'd like my first time to be in a bed."
Her anger vanished instantly. "Oh. Yes, that would be more comfortable," Jaenelle said.
Will you invite me to your bed tonight?He knew better than to ask so bluntly, but he also knew he had to ask. "May I come to you tonight?" Feeling her tense, he quickly pressed a finger against her lips. "No words. Just a kiss will be answer enough."
Her answer was everything he had hoped it would be.
3 / Kaeleer
Daemon braced his hands on the dresser and closed his eyes.
Breathe, damn you, he thought fiercely. Just breathe.
How in the name of Hell did men do this the first time? Maybe, for a youth, the thrill was enough to push him past the doubts. Maybe it was easier the first time when the woman wasn't quite so special—or when the next hour wouldn't determine whether the woman you desperately wanted would have you.
He knew dozens upon dozens of ways to kiss, to caress, to arouse a woman and make her crave having him in her bed.
He couldn't remember a single one.
Daemon straightened up, retied the belt on the robe he wore over silk pajama bottoms... and swore with heartfelt intensity.
He should have just followed where those kisses had been leading them this afternoon, should have given in to the hunger he had awakened in Jaenelle, should have acted instead of stepping back and giving himself the past several hours to think himself into a panic.
But, wanting more than sex for his own sake as well as hers, he had stepped back—and now sincerely hoped that when he walked into her bedroom...
He smiled at the bitter irony of it, that the one thing he had never done with a woman, the one thing he had never wanted to do and now wanted more than anything, was the one thing he might not be able to do.
What got him moving was the concern that if he delayed much longer, Jaenelle might perceive it as a kind of rejection.
When he tapped on the door between their bedrooms, he took the muffled sound for an invitation and went in.
The only light in the room came from the fire burning in the hearth and scented candles grouped here and there throughout the room. The covers of the huge bed were turned down. Covered dishes, two glasses, and a bottle of sparkling wine filled a table near the hearth.
Jaenelle stood in the middle of the room, twisting her laced fingers. The edge of what looked like a sheer nightgown made of black spidersilk peeked beneath the hem of a thick, shabby robe—one he imagined she wore on rainy evenings when she snuggled up in her room to read. She looked like a lost waif rather than a sex-hungry woman.
She studied him a moment. "You look like I feel."
"Sick and terrified?" He winced, wished he hadn't said that.
She nodded. "I thought... some food..." She glanced at the covered dishes and turned pale. Then she glanced at the bed and turned paler. "What are we going to do?" she whispered.
He hadn't done either of them any favors by giving them time to think. "Basics," he said. "We'll start with something extremely simple." He took a step forward and opened his arms. "A hug."
She considered this a moment. "That sounds easy enough," she said, and stepped into his embrace.
He closed his eyes and held her lightly. Just held her. Breathed in the scent of her.
After a while, his fingers flexed. There was a comforting appeal to the texture of her shabby robe, to the way her hair brushed against his hand.
His arms tightened, drew her closer as his hand stroked up and down her back, just for the simple pleasure of it.
She sighed. The tension in her muscles eased a bit, and she rested against him more fully.
He wasn't thinking of seduction when his hands began to wander over her—or when her hands hesitantly stroked him.
He wasn't thinking of seduction when his body delighted in how different the silky skin of her neck felt under his mouth compared to the robe beneath his hands.
He wasn't thinking of sex when he opened his robe and then hers so that only that film of spidersilk separated skin from skin. Or when even the spidersilk no longer separated them.
He wasn't thinking of sex when his mouth settled over hers and he sent them both sliding into dark, hot desire.
And by the time he found himself in bed, listening to her purr with pleasure while he moved inside her, he wasn't able to think at all.
4 / Terreille
Dorothea held up a letter. "It seems Kartane has become acquainted with Lord Jorval and Lord Hobart."
Hekatah's lips curved in an awful grin. "Such useful males. One gathers Kartane got no satisfaction from the High Lord."
"It appears not," Dorothea replied, striving to sound indifferent while the fury of Kartane's betrayal singed her blood. "He suggests that Lord Hobart would welcome any assistance Hayll can provide to wrest Glacia away from the bitch-Queen niece. He will remain in Little Terreille to act as a liaison."
"It sounds as if your son finally understands to whom he owes his loyalty."
Dorothea crushed the letter. "He's not my son. Not anymore. He's just a tool like any other."
5 / Kaeleer
Lucivar walked to the far end of the low-wal
led garden that bordered one side of his home. Marian was reading a bedtime story to Daemonar, and the wolves had gathered in the room to listen, too, so he knew whatever Prothvar wanted to tell him wouldn't be overheard.
Two weeks ago, Saetan had sent Surreal back to Ebon Rih with a terse—and oddly harried—note, bluntly telling him to stay away from the Hall. The only reason he had obeyed was because Saetan had signed it as the Steward of the Court. After two weeks of silence, Andulvar, as Master of the Guard, had sent Prothvar to the Hall to request more information from the Steward. Now Prothvar was here, wanting to see him away from anyone. "Problem?" Lucivar asked quietly.
Prothvar's teeth gleamed as his mouth curved in a feral smile. "Not as long as you stay away from the Hall. I gathered it's rather uncomfortable living there right now if you wear Jewels darker than the Red."
"Mother Night," Lucivar muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. What in the name of Hell had happened? "Maybe the High Lord should send Daemon here for a while."
"Oh, I don't think it would be wise to try to shift Daemon away from the Hall."
Lucivar just stared at Prothvar for a moment. Then he grinned. "Well, it's about time."
"For both of them."
"So why does Saetan have his back up?"
"Because, despite Daemon's efforts to shield the bedroom, the... um... revelry tends to leak through the shields and makes the darker-Jeweled residents itchy. And neither of them wants to broach the subject with Jaenelle to ask her to create the shields since she's happily oblivious to anything but her Consort at the moment—and Saetan, not to mention Daemon, wants to keep it that way."
"Well," Lucivar said blandly, "if Saetan needs a respite from the frolic going on in the Hall, he could always spend an evening—or two—with Sylvia."
"Now, Lucivar," Prothvar scolded, "you know they're just friends."
"Of course they are." Noticing the moon, Lucivar did a quick mental tally, then gave Prothvar a sharp look. "Has anyone talked to Daemon about drinking a contraceptive brew?"
"That was taken care of. I had the impression that Daemon would welcome a child in the future, but, right now, he wants to enjoy his Lady's bed."
"In that case, Saetan should have a few days' reprieve fairly soon." Lucivar glanced back at the lights shining from the windows of his home and thought about enjoying his own Lady's bed as soon as Daemonar was asleep. But he asked politely, "Do you want to come in? I have some yarbarah."
"Thanks, but no," Prothvar replied. "I still have to report to Andulvar." He said good night, spread his dark wings, and vaulted into the night sky.
As Lucivar walked back to his home, a lone wolf howled. He grinned. Since the sound was coming from the direction of Falonar's eyrie, he didn't have to ask where Surreal was spending the night.
So Surreal was snuggled up with Falonar, Jaenelle was snuggled up with Daemon, and Marian...
When he entered the eyrie, she was standing in the kitchen doorway. She smiled in that quiet way that always excited his body and thrilled his heart.
"I was going to make some tea," she said. "It's cold tonight."
He returned the smile, then gave her a long, very thorough kiss. "I have a better way to warm you up."
6 / Kaeleer
The Arachnian Queen floated in the air in front of her tangled web of dreams and visions—the web she had linked to the web Witch had spun. The cold season was almost upon them. It was time for the Dream Weavers to settle into the caves and burrows, but she needed to see this web once more... just to be sure.
She studied Witch's tangled web first.
One small thread was dark, dark, dark. The first death.
There would be more. Many more.
Then she studied her own tangled web.
But not until the warming earth season. Even humans tended to remain in their lairs during the cold season.
So then. She could settle into her own lair in the sacred cave where she would rest and dream the soft dreams. When the seasons turned again, she would speak to the brown dog, Ladvarian. He was the link between kindred and human Blood. The kindred obeyed him and humans listened to him. And she needed him for what had to be done.
Because when the earth warmed next time, she would need all her strength and skill—and all the strength and skill the brown dog would gather for her—in order to save Kaeleer's Heart.
PART 2
Chapter Eleven
1 / Kaeleer
After tucking the note in the center drawer, Morton locked his desk and frowned. It troubled him that the Sanctuary Priestess hinted at deep concerns but said nothing to the point—especially since that Sanctuary contained a Dark Altar, one of the thirteen Gates that linked the Realms of Terreille, Kaeleer, and Hell.
There had been several troubled—and troubling—messages from the Priestess over the winter months. Supplies missing. Voices late at night. Indications that the Gate had been opened without the Priestess's knowledge or consent.
Of course, the woman had reached an age where insignificant memories might slip away without being noticed. There were reasonable explanations for all the concerns. The supplies might have simply gotten used up but weren't replaced. The young Priestess-in-training might have taken a lover and the late-night voices were an assignation. The Gates ...
That was the item that troubled him—and troubled Karla, too. Were some Terreilleans using the Gate in Glacia to slip into Kaeleer instead of enduring the service fairs? There had always been a few who, by luck or some instinct, had managed to light the black candles in the right order and speak the right spell to open a Gate between the Realms. It was even said in stories that the power contained in those ancient places would sometimes recognize a spirit's need to go home and open the Gate into the right Realm whether the person knew the spell or not. More likely, that person had found the key in some old Craft text. But the other made a better story for the telling during the long winter nights.
So he would go to that little village near the Arcerian border and talk to the Priestess.
Morton checked his pockets to make sure he had a clean handkerchief and a few silver marks so that he could buy a bit of dinner and a round at the tavern. Last, he used the lightest touch of Craft to make sure his Opal Jewel was linked to the Ring of Honor around his organ.
He smiled. Ever since Jaenelle had given the coven similar Rings, the males in the First Circle, by unspoken consensus, had begun wearing theirs all the time. That extra way of being able to decipher feminine moods had annoyed the witches as much as it had pleased the males.
Morton paused at his door, then shook his head. There was no reason to bother Karla. He would go to the village, talk to the Priestess, and then report to his cousin.
Besides, he thought as he left the mansion that was the Queen's residence, Karla's moontime was giving her more discomfort than usual this month. And she'd had minor illnesses on and off all winter—sniffles, a "weather ache" in her joints, light touches of flu. The two Healers who served in Karla's court couldn't find anything wrong that would account for this sudden vulnerability. They had suggested that, perhaps, she had been working too hard and was just worn down. She had dismissed that, saying caustically that she, too, was a Healer, and a Gray-Jeweled one at that. If something was wrong, wouldn't she know it?
Of course she would. But ruling a Territory that had people who still supported Lord Hobart and his ideas of how Blood society should be, Karla might ignore a great deal in order to appear invulnerable. But if it was a more serious illness, she would tell him, wouldn't she? She wouldn't use Craft to hide an illness from other Healers instead of getting help, would she?
Knowing the answer to that, Morton swore. Well, Jaenelle was making her spring tour of the Territories and would be in Scelt in a couple of days. He would send a message to her through Khardeen, formally requesting her services as a Healer on Karla's behalf.
Having made that decision, he caught one of the Winds and rode that psychic path through the Darkn
ess to the Priestess's village.
2 / Kaeleer
Despite his kitten's grumble-growl impatience, Kaelas kept to an easy trot. After all, the kitten was only half his size and had half the stride. Even at this easy pace, KaeAskavi had to run every few steps in order to keep up with him.
This journey pleased him because he had never known his own sire. That had not been the Arcerian way. A small coven of Arcerian witches might den near each other for protection and for the different Craft skills each one knew. But the males had been on the outside, viewed as a threat once the kittens were born.
It was true that the Arcerian males who weren't kindred had been known to kill their own kittens, and being kindred didn't eliminate feline instinct or behavior. But the kindred males had resented this exclusion—especially the Warlord Princes. They were allowed to leave meat near their mates' dens, and they could watch their kittens from a distance, but they had never been allowed to play with them or even be the ones to teach them about hunting and Craft.
Having been raised by the Lady and having lived among her human kin, he had resented the exclusion even more. Other kindred males weren't excluded. And human males certainly weren't. They were allowed to play with their kittens and groom them and teach them.
So he had brought his mate to the Hall shortly after Lucivar's kitten had been born. She had recognized another predator, even if he did have wings and only two legs. She had watched Lucivar handle his young one. She had watched the High Lord. And she had observed the human she-cat's—and the Lady's—approval of having the human kitten handled by these full-grown males.
Because of that visit, and because she had felt honored that the Lady had done the naming of her kitten—a name that, in the Old Tongue, meant White Mountain—his mate had warily allowed him into the den soon after KaeAskavi had been born.
