by Anne Bishop
Surreal thought she had dealt with the Sadist during the times when Daemon’s temper turned cold, but she’d seen only a glimpse, had only brushed against that side of Daemon’s nature. No one who truly danced with the Sadist in all his raging glory survived.
With one exception.
The Sadist had been in love with Witch, and she had looked at the truth of all that Daemon Sadi was without fear. On the rare occasions when the Sadist had played the lover with Witch, Daemon and Jaenelle Angelline had looked exhausted and dazed for a day or so afterward—and content to just be together, quietly cuddling.
The Sadist had looked at him out of pain-glazed eyes, but the headaches could be a sign of something else. There had been no sign of trouble after Witch had repaired the shattered chalice a second time, no sign that something that had been healed might be breaking again.
Until now.
Sweet Darkness, please let this be something a Healer like Nurian can fix.
Lucivar listened to Nurian asking questions and Daemon answering.
“Did the headaches start after the Birthright Ceremony?” Nurian asked.
“Before,” Daemon replied. “More of an annoyance than anything. And not as persistent.”
“But a few bad ones since then?”
“Yes.”
“Bad as this one?”
“Yes. Several bad ones this past week, but this is the worst.”
Not good, Lucivar thought. Daemon had mentioned having headaches, but he hadn’t given any indication they were this bad.
“Drink this,” Nurian said. “Healing brew with a sedative to help you sleep for a couple of hours. While you’re drinking that, I’m going to rub some warm liniment into your neck and shoulders. That should help relieve some of the pain. You have a choice of this liniment . . .” She called in a bottle and held it close enough for Sadi to take a sniff.
“Smells like a Lady’s boudoir,” Daemon complained.
“Or this one.” Nurian called in another bottle and held it out.
“Hell’s fire! Who would want to smell like that?”
“Eyrien warriors,” Nurian said dryly.
“Figures.” Daemon huffed out a breath. “I’ll take the boudoir.”
“Good choice. The stink of the other one would probably keep you awake.”
Daemon’s reluctant laugh had Lucivar’s shoulders relaxing enough for him to appreciate how tense he’d been since seeing Daemon on the stairs leading up to his home.
Murmurs. Movement. The sound of someone settling into bed. Then Nurian came out of the room, shutting the door partway.
Lucivar followed her to the end of the corridor, where he could keep an eye on the guest room. Just in case.
“Well?” he asked quietly.
“There is nothing physically wrong with Prince Sadi,” Nurian said just as quietly. “There is enough tension in the shoulders, neck, and jaw to make someone’s head hurt, but there is nothing wrong. Not that I can detect. No signs of damage to the brain or bleeding or anything else. No signs of trouble with his heart or lungs or any other organ. Your brother is a vigorous, healthy man in his prime.”
“Who is suddenly suffering from debilitating headaches.”
“Yes.” Nurian looked troubled. “Whatever is causing the headaches, it isn’t physical. Yet. But I’m concerned that if something isn’t done, what’s bothering him could manifest as more than headaches.” She hesitated. “Is there a Black Widow he would trust enough to allow her to look for a cause that isn’t physical?”
Lucivar hesitated. “Maybe. But it might not be easy to find her.”
“Talk to him when he’s feeling better.” Nurian held up a jar. “I have to go back to my eyrie for a bit.”
“Is that a healing brew for him?”
She shook her head. “This is the mixture the Healer in Halaway gave him. He asked me to test it.”
“For . . . ?”
“Anything that shouldn’t be in the mixture.”
That explained why Daemon was here instead of at home. “Let me know what you find. Marian’s in the kitchen, warming up some soup.”
“I doubt he’ll stay awake long enough to eat it, but he’ll need something once he wakes up.”
Returning to the guest room, Lucivar used Craft to move the padded bench closer to the bed before sitting down and studying Daemon, who lay on his back with his hands resting on his belly.
“What did she say?” Daemon asked, the words slurred enough that Lucivar wondered just how much of a sedative Nurian had added to the healing brew.
“You have tight muscles and a bad headache.”
Daemon snorted. “Already knew that.”
“Yeah.” Lucivar hesitated. “Will you let me help you?”
The gold eyes that looked at him still held pain, but behind the pain . . . Cold. Brittle. Predatory. “How?” the Sadist asked too softly.
“I could drain some of the reservoir in the Black, give the power a place to go so that your body can rest.” Lucivar waited. His Ebon-gray was as dark and deep as that Jewel could get, but Daemon stood deep enough into the Black that there was no chance of surviving an attack by that Black strength.
“You can’t spare that much Ebon-gray,” Daemon finally said.
Lucivar gave his brother that lazy, arrogant smile. “I can spare enough.”
Daemon moved his hands, resting his arms at his sides—unspoken permission. The pendant holding the Black lay on his chest.
Watching Daemon’s eyes, Lucivar laid his right hand on his brother’s chest, his fingers resting next to the Black as the power in his Ebon-gray ring gently brushed against the power inside the Black. Brushed against it—and was absorbed by it, using up both. An easy draining. Nothing that challenged. Nothing that might provoke an aggressive response.
When he’d drained most of the Ebon-gray reservoir in the ring, Lucivar lifted his hand. “Better?”
“Some,” Daemon murmured. “Thank you.”
Lucivar stood and used Craft to put the bench back in its place under the window. “Get some sleep. I’m going to put a shield at the end of the corridor to keep my offspring from checking on you every five minutes.”
“Good idea.” With a sigh, Daemon turned on his side . . . and slept.
By the time Lucivar put the shield at the end of the corridor and made his way to the front of the eyrie, Nurian had returned—and she was pissed.
“Anything?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
Not the answer he’d expected. “Nothing?”
“Nothing. Including what should have been in a healing brew to help a man in pain.” Nurian blew out a breath. “I can understand being stupid and targeting Prince Sadi. Hell’s fire, the man is walking temptation.”
“Trying to play him is a messy way to commit suicide.”
“I’m more concerned that this Healer might be targeting other men in the village to create dependence, or to acquire a lover, or . . . I don’t know. But a Healer has to be trusted, and if she’s caught doing something like this, it smears the reputation of all of us.”
“I’ll have a word with the Queen of Halaway. This Healer wouldn’t be the first idiot to try to ensnare Sadi, but it’s a reason for the Queen to look closer at any disturbance in her court or around the village. One thing is sure—this will be the last time that bitch tends to anyone in the SaDiablo household. I imagine the Hall will have its own Healer very soon.”
“I’ll make up more of the healing brew that the Prince can take with him,” Nurian said.
“How much sedative did you put in that?” Lucivar asked.
She hesitated. “I wasn’t sure how much to use for the Black, so I used the amount I would have used for you if you were in his place. Should be sufficient to help him relax enough to sleep for a while.”
&nb
sp; Lucivar nodded. “It was enough.” And wasn’t too much.
He saw Nurian out and watched her fly to her eyrie. Then he checked on Daemonar and Titian, who were playing hawks and hares, a children’s card game. Crouching, he balanced on the balls of his feet, his wings tucked tight. “Your uncle Daemon isn’t feeling well and needs to sleep awhile.”
“We’ll be quiet,” Titian said.
“I know you will.” He kissed their foreheads before going to the kitchen to talk to Marian.
“Are you going to tell Surreal about this?” Marian asked, taking the soup off the stove.
“Don’t you think she already knows?” he countered.
“Did you know he was feeling this bad?”
“Shit.” He liked Surreal. Loved her as a sister. Would throw everything he was into protecting her and Jaenelle Saetien. Had been willing to stand against Daemon when Surreal learned she was pregnant and wasn’t sure she wanted to marry the man who had become the High Lord of Hell when Saetan became a whisper in the Darkness. But he wasn’t blind to the fact that Surreal could be a prickly bitch at times and had her own emotional scars. And he wasn’t blind to the fact that, while Daemon and Surreal loved each other, they weren’t, and never had been, in love with each other.
The Birthright Ceremony and acknowledging paternity didn’t always make things easier between a man and a woman, but he hadn’t sensed any serious trouble between them. Just the opposite, in fact. He’d just have to visit the Hall more often over the next few weeks and consider if he’d been wrong about that.
“If it looks like I need to talk to her, I will,” he finally said.
He kept an eye on the children and set the table for dinner while Marian fed and changed baby Andulvar. And he wondered what it might mean to all of them if Surreal didn’t know about Daemon’s headaches.
* * *
* * *
Tersa followed a path only she could see as she wandered the courtyards and corridors inside the massive structure known as the Keep. Built inside the mountain called Ebon Askavi, the Keep was the repository of the Blood’s history—and the lair of Witch, the living myth, dreams made flesh.
She was aware of the watchers—the Seneschal, some of the demon-dead, and the shadowy beings that guarded the Keep—but no one tried to stop her as she looked for the place she needed to reach before she said what she’d come to say.
Finally, she found the garden sleeping under a thin layer of snow, in a part of the Keep that was usually inaccessible without an invitation.
Shivering, she closed her eyes and reached out with everything in her—power, mind, and heart—and sent her plea as deep into the abyss as she could.
“I’m here about the boy. My boy. Daemon.” Her shattered mind wanted to wander the paths of memory, but she fought hard to stay in the present, fought to find the words that would convey the message she needed to deliver. “He’s not well, but he doesn’t recognize the signs, doesn’t understand the warning. He’ll try to chain the reason he isn’t well, and the shattered chalice you mended will crack more and more and more, and the High Lord will not be here when he’s most needed. And he will be needed. I saw it in a web. He will be needed. Please help him. The cracks have already started, but the girl doesn’t see the signs, doesn’t understand the warnings, won’t be able to help. Please.”
Exhausted, empty, Tersa opened her eyes and noticed the witch who stood in the doorway, watching her. An old woman. A Gray-Jeweled Queen. Demon-dead.
“It’s time for you to go, Tersa,” the witch said.
An old woman. And then not old as the shards of Tersa’s mind formed a new pattern, veiling the old woman with the memory of a younger one with spiky white-blond hair and ice-blue eyes—and legs that had been damaged by poison and the desperate healing that had followed.
“Time to go,” the witch said again—gently, because she, too, was a Sister of the Hourglass and understood about dreams and visions.
As Tersa shuffled her feet to take the first step away from her chosen spot, she heard a whisper rising from deep, deep, deep in the abyss.
If he asks for help, I will answer. But only if he asks.
“Thank you,” Tersa whispered as she walked toward the Gray-Jeweled witch. “Thank you.”
The Keep’s Seneschal and the witch gave her food and hot drinks before arranging for a Coach and driver who could ride the Winds and quietly return her to her cottage in Halaway.
“Thank you,” she whispered again once she was home and tucked in her own bed. “He’ll ask. Perhaps not soon enough to mend all that gets broken, but he will ask.”
NINE
Dillon riffled the stack of silver marks and eyed the red-faced, Purple Dusk–Jeweled Warlord who stood on the other side of the desk. If pushed, he could win a fight, since his Opal outranked Purple Dusk. But he’d spent just enough time around the man’s daughter to realize winning wouldn’t be in his favor. That was no reason to let the man off easy. He had expenses, after all.
Dillon riffled the stack of silver marks again. “Looks like your daughter has played this game so often her value is going down.”
“How dare you . . . ?” the Warlord blustered.
“There was a promise of a handfast, which is a binding one-year contract of marriage.” Dillon pitched his voice to carry anger and disappointment he didn’t feel. “There were two witnesses who heard your daughter invite me to her bed and her subsequent agreement to a handfast when I refused, and we had a Priestess ready to perform the ceremony before you intervened.”
“Someone pretending to be a Priestess,” the man countered, making a slashing motion with one hand. “The whole thing was a poor jest, nothing more.”
“Then I’m the injured party, played by a jade who enjoys compromising men’s honor.”
“I’ve heard about you, Lord Dillon. You don’t have any honor.” The man looked triumphant when he said the words.
The words cut deep, which only made Dillon more determined to walk away with a full purse.
“If I take this to the District Queen, your daughter will have to explain the ‘jest’ that was intended to lure me into her bed, and you know how a formal complaint can fuel gossip—especially when it’s not the first time a girl has been accused of this ‘jest,’” Dillon said.
The man looked at Dillon with equal measures of fear and hate, confirming the accusation. Then he called in another stack of silver marks and threw them on the desk.
So. The girl’s father had been hoping to bluff him into taking less to make all the unpleasantness go away.
Dillon picked up the second stack of silver marks and vanished both stacks.
“You got your payment, Lord Dillon. If I hear anything that smears my daughter’s reputation . . .”
“No one will hear anything from me.” And may the Darkness help the next fool who falls for your daughter’s game. “But I will say, sir, that I’ve heard you’re hoping your daughter marries into another aristo family of equal standing to yours. If that’s the case and is one of the reasons you’re trying to smear my reputation, I hope your daughter ends up with exactly the kind of man she deserves.”
The flicker of distress in the man’s eyes told Dillon he’d slipped the verbal knife into the right spot. If the daughter married the kind of man she deserved, her life would be a misery.
He walked out of the man’s study, walked out of the house, walked several blocks before hailing a horse-drawn cab to take him to the modest hotel that had been home for the past few weeks.
He kept his anger and his growing despair tightly reined during the ride to the hotel and for the few minutes when he was in view of other people. He bade acquaintances a good day, helped an elderly Lady and her granddaughter into the cab he’d just left, smiled at the clerk at the desk.
By this evening it would be all over town, although whispered behind hands,
that the handfast had been a jest that he had taken seriously. There would be sympathy for someone who had fallen for the ruse, but every young man from a minor aristo family would breathe a sigh of relief when Dillon and his tarnished reputation left town.
No one wanted to sit at a table with a moral lesson.
Once he reached his room, Dillon locked the door and put an Opal shield around the room to assure he wouldn’t be disturbed.
He opened a bottle of brandy, settled in the room’s small sitting area, and drank straight from the bottle. Drank until he needed to breathe.
After making careful inquiries in a place that aristos didn’t frequent for honorable reasons, he had found a witch who could teach him the “if you loved me” spell—and didn’t want to know who he was or where he came from. It had cost him almost every mark he had, which made him wonder if the spell had become some kind of fashionable game among the wealthy Blood families because no one else could afford it, and bored aristos might think it amusing to see whom they could coerce into doing something otherwise unpalatable.
For a moment, as the brandy gave him a fuzzy kind of clarity, he wondered if he should report the use of this spell. He had the names of some of the men who had been damaged by Blyte’s use of it, but whom could he tell? If this was some fashionable aristo game, how could he be sure that whatever Queen granted him an audience wasn’t also playing? And if she was playing and didn’t want anyone to know—because, fashionable or not, it was a sordid game—would he live to see another sunrise?
The only thing he could do right now was use the spell on a girl before she used it on him. He’d been one step ahead this time. The girl had known what he’d done, but his Jewel was sufficiently darker than hers that she couldn’t resist him. Besides, if she’d said anything, he would have countered that she had tried the spell on him and it backfired. That would have opened up questions about her previous liaisons—something her father preferred to hide beneath substantial payoffs.
He could continue targeting aristo bitches whose fathers would pay him to disappear, but he was already tired of pretense, tired of lies. He wanted the chance at a real future, not a continuation of these games. He wanted honest work. He wanted a real handfast as a first step to proving he could be a good and faithful husband. He needed both those things to restore his reputation and remove the stain on his honor.
