by Anne Bishop
She smiled at him. He was asleep before she slipped out the door.
4—Terreille
Surreal tried to shift her hips to a more comfortable position, but the arm around her tightened and the hand resting on her arm gripped with bruising force.
Philip Alexander had arranged for this evening with her early that morning. That was the only predictable thing he'd done. There was no leisurely dinner, no conversation, no turning out the lights, no light lovemaking before he covered her. He took her, hard, with the candlelights glaring at full intensity so there could be no illusion about who was under him. When he was through, he rolled off her, ate the cold dinner, drank most of the wine, and took her again. Now he stared at the canopy above the bed, grinding his fingers into her bruised arm.
She could have stopped him, Gray against Gray. Her Green Jewel had shielded her a little, but not enough to keep her from getting hurt. The Gray was her surprise weapon, and she didn't want to give up that edge until she absolutely had to. After the second time, he'd done nothing but hold her tight against him, but she felt the anger in him, watched his Jewels flash as they absorbed the energy.
"I'd kill that bastard if I could," Philip said through clenched teeth. "He acts as if nothing's happening while she . . ."
"Who?" Surreal tried to lift her head. "Who's a bastard?" If she had some idea what had made him act this way, she might be able to get through the rest of the night.
"That 'gift' Dorothea SaDiablo sent to Alexandra. There's more warmth in a glacier than there is in him, and yet Leland . . ."
Surreal smelled blood. She turned her head just a little. Philip, in his rage, had bitten his lip.
She'd already guessed that Philip's attachment to the Angelline court had more to do with the daughter than the mother. Wasn't that what the completely dark room was all about, being able to pretend he was leisurely making love to Leland? Were there hurried couplings when Robert Benedict wasn't there, couplings so tainted with the fear of being found out that there was no pleasure in them? Now Sadi was there, and Leland could be physically gratified by another male under Robert's watchful and approving eye.
Surreal shivered, remembering all too well what it felt like to be gratified by the Sadist.
"Cold?" Philip asked, his voice a little gentler.
Surreal let him tuck the quilt up around them. Now that she knew where to look, it wouldn't be difficult to reach Sadi—if she wanted to. Still, there was that red-haired witch at Cassandra's Altar who was asking about him, and she did owe him.
Surreal pushed herself up on one elbow, fighting Philip's restraining hand. She smoothed her hair away from her face, letting it fall in a long black curtain across her back and shoulder. "Philip, why do you believe Sadi is serving Lady Benedict?"
"She publicly summons him to her room so that the whole family and most of the staff knows he's with her," Philip snarled. His anger made his gray eyes look flat and cold. "And at the breakfast table, she chatters on about how entertaining he was."
"She actually says he was entertaining?" Surreal flung herself backward and laughed. Damn. Leland was smarter than she'd thought.
Philip threw himself on her, pinning her to the bed. "You find this amusing?" he spat at her. "You think this is funny?"
"Ah, sugar," Surreal said, gulping back her laughter. "From what I know about Sadi, he can be very entertaining out of bed, but he's seldom entertaining in bed."
Philip's grip eased a little. He frowned, puzzled.
"She's not the first, you know," Surreal said with a smile.
"First what?"
"The first woman to so blatantly call attention to the use of a pleasure slave." She stifled her laughter. He still didn't get it.
"Why—"
"So that after people come to expect it and the maids aren't going to gossip about rumpled linen because the story's already stale, the slave can be dismissed quietly and the lady's lover can spend a couple of leisurely hours with her without anyone suspecting." Surreal looked him in the eye. "And Lady Benedict does have a lover, doesn't she?"
Philip stared at her for a moment. He started to smile and winced when it pulled his cut lip.
Surreal playfully pushed him away, rolled off the bed, and casually walked into the bathroom. She turned on the light and studied her reflection. There were bruises on her arms and shoulders from his hands, bruises on her neck from his teeth. She winced at the raw ache between her legs. Deje was going to lose her for a few days.
By the time she returned to the bedroom, Philip had straightened the bed and was lying back comfortably, his hands under his head. The Gray Jewel glowed softly as he pulled the covers back to let her in. He studied the bruises, brushing them gently with his fingers.
"I hurt you. I'm sorry."
"Professional hazard," Surreal replied with sweet venom. He deserved a short knife in the ribs.
Philip settled her head on his shoulder and tucked the covers around them once again. She knew he was looking for a way to get back on familiar ground, to take back the pain he'd caused. She let the silence stretch and strain, making no effort to help him. She was a whore now because it was the easiest way to get close to males, learn their habits, and make a kill. Since Philip was in only one of her two books, and unlikely to be in the other, she didn't care if he ever came back.
Sadi was a different problem. She had to find a way to meet him that wouldn't arouse suspicion. That, however, was something she would consider after some sleep.
"You didn't get anything to eat," Philip said quietly.
Surreal waited for a couple of heartbeats before accepting the peace offering. "True, and I'm ravenous." She sent an order to the kitchen for two prime ribs with the works and another bottle of wine. The hefty tab Deje was going to hand him would disconcert him, but it would also alleviate some of his guilt for hurting her.
"I wouldn't worry about Sadi," Surreal said as she slipped out of bed and wrapped a dressing gown around her slim body. "Although"—how nice to see that immediate flicker of worry in his eyes—"a lover who requires his silent participation and discretion would do well to understand that Sadi remembers courtesies just as he remembers slights."
She smiled as the obelisk on the table chimed and the two meals appeared on the table. Let him chew on that, she thought, as she cut into the prime rib.
5—Terreille
Daemon glided into the breakfast room but stopped just inside the door when he saw Leland and Philip engrossed in quiet conversation. Philip's back was to the door, and as he talked, his hand moved gently up and down Leland's arm. Leland's eyes, as she listened to him, were lit with the fire of a woman in love.
She was dressed in riding clothes, her hair pulled back from her face in a simple, becoming style. Yes, underneath the frills and fripperies she wore for the society ladies beat the heart of a witch.
As Leland smiled at something Philip said, she looked over his shoulder and saw Daemon. Her eyes became chilly. Stepping away from Philip, she went to the buffet table and began to fill her plate.
Philip's eyes became hard when he noticed Daemon, but he managed a smile and a courteous greeting.
Well, well, well, Daemon thought as he filled his own plate. Something was in the wind. He was supposed to go riding with Leland that morning, but he noticed Philip was also dressed to ride.
Breakfast was over and Leland had left for the stables before Philip spoke directly to Daemon. He sounded like a polite host dealing with a not-quite-welcome guest. "There's no reason for you to go out, unless you want to, of course. Since I'd planned to ride this morning, Lady Benedict doesn't require another escort."
Or a chaperon, Daemon thought as he sipped his coffee. Overnight Philip's attitude had changed from terse and jealous to this attempt at courtesy. Why? Not that it mattered. He knew exactly what he would do with a free morning—and it would be free with Leland and Philip out of the house. Alexandra was visiting a friend and wouldn't be back until after lunch, and Robert, a
lways so occupied with his all-consuming "business," spent as little time as possible at the estate.
In fact, as that delicious dark scent once again permeated the walls of the Angelline mansion, Robert seemed more and more uncomfortable about staying there. It had reached the point that Daemon always knew when Robert came back even if he didn't see him because, in the front hallway and on the stairs leading up to the family's living quarters, there was always the slight stink of fear.
Daemon poured another cup of coffee and shrugged in response to Philip's suggestion. "I don't mind not riding this morning," he said in his bored court voice. "Most likely you're a more enthusiastic rider and would therefore be a more suitable companion."
Philip's eyes narrowed, but there was nothing in Daemon's silky, bored voice that gave any indication of an intended double meaning.
Daemon smiled and reached for another piece of toast. "You shouldn't keep the lady waiting, Prince Alexander."
Philip hesitated at the doorway. Daemon buttered his toast with slow, sensuous strokes, knowing that Philip was watching him and uneasily imagining something other than toast beneath his hand. Well, if Philip actually believed someone like Leland could make a Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince pant, the fool deserved to sweat.
The moment Philip was gone, Daemon went to his room and swiftly changed his clothes. Wilhelmina was with Graff having her lessons; Cook was in the kitchen, sipping a cup of tea and starting to plan the lunch menu; and the servants were bustling about doing their various chores. There was only one person left.
Daemon whistled a cheery little tune as he headed for the private alcove to spend a pleasant morning with his Lady.
He had prowled the gardens, prowled the house, slipped in and out of the stable yard, checked the Craft library, and finally stood in the nursery wing feeling frustrated and concerned. He simply couldn't find her. He had even checked her room, tapping quietly on the door in case she was resting or wanted some privacy. When there'd been no answer, he had slipped into the room for a cursory look.
Daemon caught his lower lip between his teeth and listened to Graff scolding Wilhelmina. He'd wondered why that harsh and not terribly educated woman was teaching Craft to a young witch from such a powerful family until he'd learned that Robert Benedict had hired her. Since Wilhelmina wasn't directly related to Leland and Alexandra, Robert's preference had overruled their objections. Daemon conceded that Graff was a good choice if a man's intention was to have a girl's sensibilities about what she was and the power she contained mangled to such an extent that she would never find any joy in the Craft or in herself. Yes, Graff was an excellent choice to bruise a young girl's ego and make her susceptible to more intimate brutality when she got a little older.
Daemon approached the classroom to see if Jaenelle might possibly be there at the same time Graff yelled, "You're worthless this morning. Absolutely worthless. You call that Craft? Go on. The lesson's over. Go do something useless. That you can manage.GO!"
Wilhelmina flew out the door and barreled into him. Daemon caught her by the shoulders, planting his feet to keep them both upright. She gave him a shaky smile of thanks.
"So, you're free," Daemon said, smiling in return. "Where's—"
"Oh, good, you're here," Wilhelmina said in a loud, commanding voice. "Help me practice my duet." She turned toward the music room.
"First tell me where—"
Wilhelmina stepped back and planted her heel squarely on Daemon's toes. Hard. He grunted from the pain but said nothing because Graff was now standing in the doorway, watching them closely.
Wilhelmina stepped aside. "Oh, I'm sorry. Did I hurt you?" Without waiting for an answer, she hauled him toward the music room. "Come on, I want to practice."
Once they reached the music room, she went to the piano and started digging through the music for the duet she was learning. "You can play the bass part," she said as she placed her hands on the keys.
Daemon limped to the bench and sat down. "Miss Wil—"
Wilhelmina hit the keys, drowning him out. She continued for a few bars and then turned to him and said accusingly, "You're not playing."
It was such a perfect imitation of Graff's scolding voice that Daemon's lips curled in a snarl as he twisted around to face her, but the look on her face was a plea for understanding and her eyes were glazed with fear. Grinding his teeth, he placed his hands on the keys. "One, two, three, four." They began to play.
She was badly frightened, and it had something to do with him. As they stumbled through the duet, he noticed Graff standing in the music room doorway, listening, observing, spying. They finished the duet and started again. The longer they played and the longer Graff watched them the more Wilhelmina mangled the music until Daemon wondered if they were playing the same piece. Certainly the sheet music he was reading had nothing to do with what he was hearing, and he winced more than once at the sounds being produced.
When Wilhelmina doggedly began the duet for the third time, Graff turned away with a grimace, and Daemon felt sourly envious of her ability to leave. As soon as she left, however, Wilhelmina began to play more smoothly, more quietly.
"You must never ask about Jaenelle," she said so quietly Daemon had to lean toward her to hear. "If you can't find her, you must never ask anyone where she is."
"Why?"
Wilhelmina stared straight ahead. Her throat worked convulsively as if she were choking on the words. "Because if they find out, she might get into trouble, and I don't want her to get into trouble. I don't want her to go back to Briarwood." She stopped playing and turned toward him, her eyes misty. "Do you?"
He smoothed her hair away from her face and lightly caressed her cheek. "No, I don't want her to go back. Wilhelmina . . . Where is she?"
Wilhelmina started playing again, but quietly. "She goes for lessons in the mornings now. Sometimes she goes and sees friends."
Daemon frowned, puzzled. "If she goes for lessons, surely your father or Alexandra or Leland had arranged—"
"No."
"But a maid must accompany her and would—"
"No."
As Daemon considered this, his hands slowly closed into fists. "She goes alone?" he finally said, keeping his voice carefully neutral.
"Yes."
"And your family doesn't know she goes at all?"
"No, they mustn't know."
"And you don't know where she goes or who gives her these lessons?"
"No."
"But if your family found out about the lessons or who's giving her lessons, they might put her back in the hospital?"
Wilhelmina's chin quivered. "Yes."
"I see." Oh, yes, he did see. Beware of the Priest. She belongs to the Priest. It was careless of him to forget so formidable a rival. But she did have an innocent way of dazzling a man. He'd forgotten about the Priest. Was she with him now? What could Saetan, one of the living dead, have to offer that was preferable to what he, a living man, could offer her? But then, she wasn't ready for what a man could offer. Would Saetan try to keep her away from him? If her family ever found out about the High Lord . . .
There were too many undercurrents in this family, too many secrets. Alexandra balanced on a political knife's edge, trying to remain the ruling power of Chaillot while Robert's position in the male council that opposed her constantly undermined the trust she needed from the other Chaillot Queens. The rivalry between Robert and Philip was an open secret among the aristo Blood in Beldon Mor, and Alexandra's inability to control her own family was causing doubts about her ability to rule the Territory. Add to that the social embarrassment of having a granddaughter who had been going in and out of a hospital for emotionally disturbed children since she was five years old.
And add to that having that same child admit that the High Lord of Hell, the Prince of the Darkness, the most powerful and dangerous Warlord Prince in the history of the Blood, was teaching her Craft.
Even if they thought it was just another story, they would lock
her away for good to keep her from telling anyone who might listen. But if, for once, they did believe her, what else might they do to her to end the High Lord's interest in her and keep themselves safe? And Daemon felt sure that there were things going on in Beldon Mor that Saetan wouldn't be willing to overlook or forgive.
Daemon looked up and breathed a sigh of relief.
Jaenelle stood in the doorway wearing riding clothes. Her golden hair was braided and a riding hat perched on top of her head at a rakish angle. "I'm going riding. Want to come?"
"Oh, yes!" Wilhelmina said happily. "I'm done practicing."
As he watched Wilhelmina dash out of the room, there was a bitter taste in Daemon's mouth. The ashes of dreams. After all, he was Hayll's Whore, a pleasure slave, an amusement for the ladies no matter what their age, a way to pass the time. He closed the music and made a pretense of straightening the stack. Why should he hope Jaenelle felt anything for him? Why should he hurt now like a child who's not picked for a game?
Daemon turned. Jaenelle stood by the piano, studying him, a puzzled frown wrinkling her forehead.
"Don't you ride, Prince?"
"Yes, I ride."
"Oh." She considered this. "Don't you want to come?"
Daemon blinked. He looked at her beautiful, clear sapphire eyes. It had never occurred to her to exclude him. He smiled at her and gave her braid a gentle, playful tug. "Yes, I would like to come."
She studied him again. "Don't you have any other clothes?"
Daemon choked. "I beg your pardon?"
"You're always dressed like that."
Daemon looked at his perfectly tailored black suit and white silk shirt, completely taken aback. "What's wrong with the way I dress?"
"Nothing. But if you wear those clothes, you're going to get wrinkled."
Daemon started coughing and thumped his chest to give himself time to swallow the laughter. "I have some riding clothes," he wheezed.
"Oh, good." Her eyes sparkled with amusement.
Little imp. You know why I'm choking, don't you? You're a merciless little creature to mock a man's vanity.
