by Anne Bishop
"Oh, Daemon," Jaenelle whispered. She took the hammered silver cuff bracelet from the box and placed it on her left wrist. "It will be perfect with my dress." She reached up to hug him and froze.
He watched her emotions swirl in her eyes, too fast for him to identify. Instead of hugging him, she lowered her hands to his shoulders, leaned forward, and kissed him lightly on the mouth, a girl child testing the waters of womanhood. His hands closed on her arms with just enough pressure to keep her close to him. When she pulled back, he saw in her eyes a whisper of the woman she would become.
Seeing that, he couldn't let it finish there.
Gently cupping her face in his hands, Daemon leaned forward and returned her kiss. His kiss was as light and close-lipped as hers had been, but it wasn't innocent and it wasn't chaste. When he finally raised his head, he knew he was playing a dangerous game.
Jaenelle swayed, bracing her hands on his thighs for support. She licked her lips and looked at him with slightly glazed eyes. "Do . . . do all boys kiss like that?"
"Boys don't kiss like that at all, Lady," he said quietly, seriously. "Neither do most men. But I'm not like most men." He slowly pulled in his seduction tendrils. He had done more than he should have already tonight; anything else would harm her. Tomorrow he would be the companion he'd been yesterday, and the day before that. But she would remember that kiss and compare every kiss from every weak-willed Chaillot boy against it.
He didn't care how many boys kissed her. They were, after all, boys. But the bed . . . When the time came, the bed would be his.
He removed the bracelet from her wrist and put it back in its box. "Vanish that," he said quietly while he disposed of the ribbon and paper. When the box was gone, he unwound his legs and led her back to the drawing room, where Graff immediately hurried the girls off to bed.
Philip glared at him. Robert smirked. Leland was fluttery and pale. It was Alexandra's jealous, accusing look that unsheathed his temper. She rose to confront him, but at that moment the guests began arriving for the night-long festivities.
That night Daemon didn't wait for Alexandra to "ask" him to accommodate a female guest. He seduced every woman in the house—beginning with Leland—teasing them into climaxes while he danced with them, watching them shudder while they bit their lips until they bled, trying not to cry out with so many people crowded around them. Or slipping away with one of the women to a little alcove, and after the first ice-fire kiss, standing primly against the wall, his hands in his trouser pockets, while his phantom touch played mercilessly with her body until she was sprawled on the floor, pleading for the caress of a real hand—and then his merest touch, the tickling slide of his nails along her inner thigh, the briefest touch to the undergarments in the right place, and she would be glutted—and starved.
Still, Daemon wasn't done.
He had deliberately avoided Alexandra, taunting her with his open seduction of all the other women, frustrating her beyond endurance. Before the door shut on the last guest, he swept her into his arms, climbed the stairs, and locked them into her bedroom. He made up for everything. He showed her the kind of pleasure he could give a woman when inspired. He showed her why he was called the Sadist.
When he stumbled into his own room long after dawn, the first thing he noticed was that his bed had been fussed with. One swift, angry probe located the package beneath his pillow. Cautiously pulling back the covers and tossing the pillow aside, Daemon looked at the clumsily wrapped package and the folded note tucked under the ribbon. He smiled tenderly, sinking gratefully onto the bed.
She must have put it there as soon as he'd left the room.
The note said: "I couldn't give you the gift I wanted to because the others wouldn't understand. Happy Winsol, Daemon. Love, Jaenelle."
Daemon unwrapped the package and opened the swivel frame. The left side was empty, waiting for Lucivar's picture. On the right . . .
"It's funny," Daemon said quietly to the picture. "I'd always thought you'd look more formal, more . . . distant. But for all your splendor, all your Craft and power, you really wouldn't mind putting your feet up and downing a tankard of ale, would you? I'd never guessed how much of you is in Lucivar. Or how much of you is in me. Ah, Priest." Daemon gently closed the frame. "Happy Winsol, Father."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
1—Terreille
"We should have brought the others," Cassandra said as she clenched Saetan's arm.
He laid his hand over hers and gave it a gentle squeeze. "He didn't ask to see the others. He asked to see me."
"He didn't ask," Cassandra snapped. She glanced nervously at the Sanctuary and lowered her voice. "He didn't ask, High Lord, he demanded to see you."
"And I'm here."
"Yes," she said with an undercurrent of anger, "you're here."
Sometimes you make it hard for me to remember why I loved you so much for so long. "He's my son, Cassandra." He smiled grimly. "Are you offended by his manners on my behalf or because your vanity's pricked that he wasn't sufficiently obsequious?"
Cassandra snatched her hand from his arm. "He's charming when he wants to be," she said nastily. "And I've no doubt his bedroom manners are flawless, since he's had so much practice perfecting . . ." Her words faded when she noticed Saetan's glacial stare.
"If his manners leave something to be desired, Lady, I'll thank you to remember whose court trained him."
Cassandra lifted her chin. "You blame me, don't you?"
"No," Saetan said softly, bitterly. "I knew the price for what I became. The responsibility for him rests solely with me. But I'll allow no one, no one, to condemn him for what he's become because of it." Saetan breathed deeply, trying to gather his frayed temper. "Why don't you go to your room? It's better that I meet him alone."
"No," Cassandra said quickly. "We both wear the Black. Together we can—"
"I didn't come here to fight him."
"But he's come to fight you!"
"You don't know that."
"You weren't the one he pinned to the wall while he made his demands!"
"I'll give him a slap. Will that appease you?" Saetan snarled as he marched into the ruins of the Sanctuary, heading toward the kitchen and another confrontation.
Halfway to the kitchen, Saetan slowed down. He'd kept his promise to Draca. On Winsol he had danced for the glory of Witch. Thanks to the blood Jaenelle insisted on giving him, he no longer needed a cane or walked with a limp, but the dancing had stiffened his bad leg, had shortened his fluid stride. He regretted that he might appear old or infirm for this first meeting with Daemon after so many, many years.
Fury poured out the kitchen doorway as Saetan approached. So. Cassandra hadn't exaggerated about that. At least the rage was hot. They might still be able to talk.
Daemon prowled the kitchen with panther grace, his hands in his trouser pockets, his body coiled with barely restrained rage. When he sent a dagger glance toward the doorway and noticed Saetan, he didn't alter his stride; he simply pivoted on the ball of his foot and came straight toward the High Lord.
That picture told only half the truth, Saetan thought as he watched Daemon's swift approach and waited to see if blood would be drawn.
Daemon stopped an arm's length away, nostrils flaring, eyes stabbing, silent.
"Prince," Saetan said calmly. He watched Daemon fight for control, fight the searing rage in order to return the greeting.
"High Lord," Daemon said through clenched teeth.
Slowly approaching the table, aware of Daemon watching his every move, Saetan took off his cape, laying it across a chair. "Let's have a glass of wine, and then we'll talk."
"I don't want any wine."
"I do." Saetan got the wine and glasses. Settling into a chair, he opened the wine, poured two glasses, and waited.
Daemon stepped forward, carefully placing his hands on the table.
Dorothea was blind not to know what Daemon was, Saetan thought as he sipped the wine. Having expected to see them
, Saetan found Daemon's long nails less disconcerting than his ringless fingers. If he could be this formidable without wearing a Jewel to help focus his strength . . .
No wonder Cassandra had been terrified. Black Jewels or no, she was no match for this son of his.
"Do you know where she is?" Daemon asked, obviously straining not to scream.
Saetan's eyes narrowed. Fear. All that fury was covering an avalanche of fear. "Who?"
Daemon sprang away from the table, swearing.
When the torrent of expletives showed no sign of abating, Saetan said dryly, "Namesake, do you realize you're making this room quite uninhabitable?"
"What?" Daemon pivoted and sprang back to the table.
"Leash your rage, Prince," Saetan said quietly. "You sent for me, and I'm here." He looked over his shoulder toward the window. "However, the dawn is a few short hours away, and you can't afford to be here beyond that, can you?"
As Daemon dropped into the chair across from him, Saetan handed him a glass of wine. Daemon drained it. Saetan refilled it. After refilling it for the third time, he said dryly, "From experience I can tell you that getting drunk doesn't lessen the fear. However, the agony of the hangover can do wonders for a man's perception."
There was dismayed amusement in Daemon's eyes.
"Bluntly put, my fine young Prince, this is obviously the first time our fair-haired Lady has scared the shit out of you."
Daemon frowned at the empty wine bottle, found a full one in the cupboard, and refilled both glasses. "Not the first time," he growled.
Saetan chuckled. "But it is a matter of degree, yes?"
There was a hint of warmth in Daemon's reluctant smile. "Yes."
"And this time is bad."
Daemon closed his eyes. "Yes."
Saetan sighed. "Start at the beginning and let's see if we can untangle this."
"She's not at her family's estate."
"It is the Winsol season. Could her . . . family"—Saetan choked on the word—"have left her with friends to visit?"
Daemon shook his head. "Something'sthere, but it isn't Jaenelle. It looks like her, talks like her, plays the obedient daughter." Daemon looked at Saetan, his eyes haunted. "But what makes Jaenelle Jaenelle isn't there." He laughed scornfully. "Her family has been most gratified that she's been behaving so well and not embarrassing them when the girls are presented to guests." He played with his wineglass. "I'm afraid something has happened to her."
"Unlikely." Fascinated, Saetan watched the anger melt from Daemon's face. He liked the man he saw beneath it.
"How can you be sure?" Daemon asked hopefully. "Have you seen something like that before?"
"Not quite like that, no."
"Then how—"
"Because, namesake, what you're describing is called a shadow, but there's no one in any of the Realms, including me, who has the Craft to create a shadow that's so lifelike—except Jaenelle."
Daemon sipped his wine and brooded for a minute. "What, exactly, is a shadow?"
"Basically, a shadow is an illusion, a recreation of an object's physical form." Saetan looked pointedly at Daemon, who shrank in his chair just a little. "Some children have been known to create a shadow in order to appear to be asleep in their beds while they are really off having adventures that, if discovered, would prevent them from comfortably sitting down for a week." He saw the briefest flicker of memory in Daemon's eyes and the beginning of a wry smile. "That's a first-stage shadow and is stationary. A second-stage shadow can move around, but it has to be manipulated like a puppet. That kind of shadow looks solid but can't be felt, doesn't have tactile capabilities. The third-stage shadow, which is the strongest I've ever heard of being achieved, has one-way tactile ability. It can touch but can't be touched. However, it, too, must be manipulated."
Daemon thought this over and shook his head. "This is more."
"Yes, this is much, much more. This is a shadow so skillfully created that it can act independently through expected routines. I don't imagine the conversation's stimulating"—that made Daemon snort—"but it does mean the originator can be doing something entirely different."
"Such as?"
"Ah," Saetan said as he refilled their glasses, "thatis the interesting question."
Daemon's eyes flashed with relieved anger. "Why would she create one?"
"As I said, that is the interesting question."
"Is that it? We just wait?"
"For now. But whoever gets to her first gets to go up one side of her and down the other. Twice."
A slow smile curled Daemon's lips. "You're worried."
"You're damn right I'm worried," Saetan snapped. Now that he didn't have to rein in Daemon's temper, he felt free to unleash his own. "Who in the name of Hell knows what she's up to this time?" He slumped in his chair, snarling.
Daemon leaned back in his chair and laughed.
"Don't be so amused, boy. You deserve a good kick in the ass."
Daemon blinked. "Me?"
Saetan leaned forward. "You. The next time you suggest she get proper instruction before trying something, you'd damn well better remember to add that I'm the one to give the proper instruction."
"What—"
"Dream weaving. Do you remember dream weaving, namesake?"
Daemon paled. "I remember. But I—"
"Told her to be instructed by the best. Which she did."
"Then what—"
"Have you ever heard of Arachna?"
Daemon got paler. "That's a legend," he whispered.
"Most of Kaeleer's a legend, boy," Saetan roared. "That hasn't stopped her from meeting some very interesting individuals."
They glared at one another. Finally Daemon said with menacing quiet, "Like you?"
Damn, this boy was fun! Saetan took a deep breath and sighed dramatically. "I used to be interesting," he said mournfully. "I used to be respected, even feared. My study was a private sanctuary no one willingly entered. But I've gotten long in the tooth"—Daemon flicked a startled glance at his mouth—"and now I have demons pounding on my door, some upset because she hasn't visited with them, some upset because she has. My cook backs me into corners, wanting to know if the Lady will be coming today so her favorite meat pie can be prepared. And I have merchants cluttering up my doorstep, cringingly seeking an audience, actually relieved to be in my presence while they wring their hands and pour out their tales of woe."
Daemon, who had become more and more amused, frowned slightly. "The demons and the cook I understand. Why the merchants?"
Saetan let out another dramatic sigh, but his eyes glowed with dark amusement. "I opened a blanket account for her in Kaeleer."
Daemon sucked in his breath. "You mean . . ."
"Yes."
"Mother Night."
"That's the kindest thing that's been said to me on that score." Enjoying the drama, Saetan continued, "And it's going to get worse. You do realize that?"
"Worse?" Daemon said suspiciously. "Why will it get worse?"
"She's only twelve, namesake."
"I know," Daemon almost moaned.
"Just consider what sort of mischief she'll have the capacity to get into when she's seventeen and has her own court."
Daemon groaned, but there was a sharp, hopeful look in his eyes. "She can have her own court at seventeen? And fill it?"
Ah, namesake. Saetan sat quietly for a moment, thinking of a politic way to explain. "Most positions can be filled then." Daemon's instant bitterness stunned him.
"Of course you'll want better for her than a whore who's serviced almost every Queen in Terreille," Daemon said, refilling his wineglass.
"That isn't what I meant," Saetan said, despairing that any explanation now might seem a poor bone.
"Then what did you mean?" Daemon snapped.
"What if, at seventeen, she isn't ready for a consort?" Saetan countered softly. "What if it takes a few more years before she's ready for the bed? Will you hold an empty office, becoming comfortabl
e and familiar while lesser men intrigue her because they're strangers? Time has great magic, namesake, if you know how to play the game."
"You talk as though it's decided," Daemon said quietly, with only an aftertaste of bitterness.
"It is . . . as far as I'm concerned."
Daemon's naked, grateful look was agony.
They sat quietly, companionably, for a few minutes. Then Daemon said, "Why do you keep calling me namesake?"
"Because you are." Saetan looked away, uncomfortable. "I never intended to give any of my sons that name. I knew what I was. It was difficult enough for them to have me as a father. But the first time I held you, I knew no other name would suit you. So I named you Saetan Daemon SaDiablo."
Daemon's eyes were tear bright. "Then you really did acknowledge paternity? Manny said the Blood register in Hayll had been changed, but I had wondered."
"I'm not responsible for Dorothea's lies, Prince," Saetan said bitterly. "Or for what the Hayllian register does or doesn't say. But in the register kept at Ebon Askavi, you—and Lucivar—are named and acknowledged."
"So you called me Daemon?"
Saetan knew there was much, much more Daemon would have liked to ask, but he was grateful his son chose to step back, to try for lighter conversation in the short time left to them.
"No," Saetan said dryly, "Inever called you anything but Saetan. It was Manny and Tersa"—he hesitated, wondering if Daemon knew about Tersa, but there was no surprise—"who called you Daemon. Manny informed me one day, when I pointed out her error, that if I thought she was going to stand at the back door bellowing that name to get a boy to come in for supper I had better think again."
Daemon laughed. "Come now, Manny's a sweetheart."
"To you. "Saetan chuckled. "Personally I always thought she just wanted to avoid having both of us answer that summons."
"Would you have?" Daemon asked warmly.
"Considering the tone of voice used, I wouldn't have dared not to."
They both laughed.
The parting was awkward. Saetan wanted to embrace him, but Daemon became tense, almost skittish. Saetan wondered if, after all those years in Dorothea's court, Daemon had an aversion to being touched.
