by Anne Bishop
When he’d received the book, he’d thought Jenkell was being pretentious—or a complete fool—to send a message like that to a Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince. Had the man really believed they were equals just because Jenkell was Blood? Since he hadn’t found the first book about the Langston character as amusing as other people did, he’d dropped the copy into the bottom desk drawer. Even after Jaenelle had wondered about the sanity of the character—or writer—he hadn’t done more than skim a few chapters because the story was even less to his taste than the first Landry Langston novel.
Now he opened the book and stared at the inscription as Khary huffed out a breath and said, “Putting the pieces together, Fiona thinks—and I agree—that Jenkell is building a real haunted house somewhere and intends to pit some of the Blood against his creation.”
“Is that what this is?” Daemon said as he put the book back in the drawer. “A pissing contest?”
Khary frowned. “What do you mean?”
He called in the invitation he’d been sent and the paper that had been wrapped around the mouse grotesquerie. Then he used Craft to float them over to Khary. While he waited for Khary to read them, he considered all the information he had—and didn’t like the way any of it was adding up.
“Mother Night,” Khary said. He leaned forward and tossed the paper and invitation back on the desk. “You’re lucky you figured out it was a trap—although considering who the invitation was supposed to be coming from, the wording was sufficient warning that something wasn’t right.”
“I didn’t figure it out,” Daemon admitted. “I just didn’t find the invitation in time.”
“You can destroy that place.”
It wasn’t a question.
Daemon nodded. “If I unleash the Black, I’ll burn out all the spells and destroy everything within the boundary of those spells. However, unless Jaenelle has discovered something she didn’t notice about those spells initially—”
Khary made a soft snort of disbelief.
“—it’s a good bet there isn’t a way of breaking those spells from the outside without destroying everything in the building.”
“Why would you even consider trying to break them when you can take the whole thing down?”
Daemon took a gulp of brandy. “Because Surreal and Rainier are trapped in that house.”
FIFTEEN
Daemon knocked on the cottage door, thoughts and information swirling through his mind.
Jarvis Jenkell was Blood. That explained how he’d gotten two of the Black Widows to create the dangerous spells and the trap spell that would ensnare a person more and more with each use of Craft. A landen asking Sisters of the Hourglass to create those kinds of spells? The fool would be lucky if he left that meeting with his mind and body intact. But another member of the Blood, no matter how weak his own power, offering a substantial payment as the lure…Oh, yes, he’d find someone to help him play his game.
Jaenelle had cleansed the Realms of the Blood who had been tainted by Dorothea and Hekatah, but there would always be that kind of witch. Apparently Jenkell had found two of them.
By itself, the idea of a mystery story in a “haunted house” fueled by the illusion spells of a Black Widow was intriguing. If the witch had the skill, there would be no sure way outside of touch to know if something was illusion or real. And, of course, touching anything could be costly if not deadly.
Clues. Wasn’t that what the mystery stories were about? Finding clues? If Jarvis Jenkell was behind this game and was playing it out like a story, there were some elements that should be part of the game. The stories began with a death—and usually ended with a death. The main character survived, but there were always more deaths before the enemy was defeated.
But it didn’t sound like Jenkell had intended for anyone to survive his little game. Which meant Jenkell had intended to kill Surreal, Lucivar, and him. It didn’t matter if this was meant as revenge against the Blood for not recognizing Jenkell as one of them, or a slap at Jaenelle for coming up with a similar idea at the same time and creating a spooky house as a harvest entertainment, or that Jenkell had wanted to indulge in a pissing contest with the SaDiablo family.
At the moment, only one thing mattered: Jenkell had used Tersa in order to harm her own family.
He was about to knock again when Allista opened the door. “Prince Sadi.”
“Good evening, Lady Allista. I need to speak with Tersa.”
Allista hesitated. “We were just about to have dinner. It’s easier for her if I serve it at the same time each evening. Can this wait?”
Daemon stepped inside the cottage, forcing Allista to yield. “No, it can’t. Ask her—”
“It’s the boy.” Tersa hurried toward him, her voice and face full of her pleasure at seeing him.
He was about to kill that pleasure. But he kissed her cheek and said, “Darling, we have to talk.”
“It’s time for dinner. No nutcakes until after dinner. Although…I think there is something chocolate for the sweet tonight.” A distant look came into her eyes, as if she were about to follow a path only she could find.
“Tersa.” He put enough bite in his voice to pull her attention back to him. “We need to talk. It’s important.” He took her arm and tried to lead her into the parlor.
“But…” Tersa pulled back, resisting. “Dinner is ready. We should eat dinner now.”
“Prince,” Allista protested. “Can’t this—”
“Tersa!” Daemon snapped. “Surreal is in trouble. I need your help.”
She cringed in response to his anger. Then she changed, and he saw a chilling lucidity in her eyes. He’d seen that look before. It never lasted more than a few minutes, and the effort to touch that place inside herself usually left her even more confused afterward, but in those minutes she was formidable. Whenever he’d seen that look, he’d wondered who she had been before she was broken—and before her mind had shattered into such confusion.
He released her arm and followed her into the parlor.
Allista hesitated, then shut the door, giving them privacy.
Tersa sat on the sofa. Daemon knelt in front of her.
Her mouth thinned in disapproval. “You’re a Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince. You kneel to no one but your Queen.”
He took her hands in his, a physical connection that would keep her grounded as long as she was able to hold on. “I kneel before my mother as a son pleading for her help.”
She frowned, and a little of that lucidity faded. Too little time to find out what he needed to know.
“You helped a man build a spooky house,” he said.
She nodded. “The Langston man. He was building a house like Jaenelle’s and said I could help. It’s going to be a surprise for the boy. And other children, too, but a surprise for the boy.”
He was losing her too fast. “Who else was helping the Langston man? Do you remember?”
Confusion. “I made surprises. One of them…” That lucidity was gone. She looked at him through the clarity of madness. “No. If I tell you, it won’t be a surprise.”
“Can you remember what the surprises are? Can’t you give me a hint?”
“No. You’ll spoil the surprise for the boy.” Now there was hurt in her voice.
He pressed his forehead against her knees, fighting to chain the frustration. “Tersa.” She’d worked to create those illusion spells and that bastard Jenkell had used her.
He raised his head and looked at her. “Tersa, the Langston man is a bad man. He lied to you. He used your spells for his spooky house, but he also had two other Black Widows making spells for him, and their spells are meant to hurt whoever goes into his house. He wasn’t making an entertainment for us like Jaenelle is making. He wants to kill us.” He rubbed his thumbs over her knuckles, trying to hold her to this room and his words. “Tersa, Surreal is caught in that house. I need your help to get her out before she gets hurt.”
He lost her. He’d told her too much—or not
enough. No way to know with Tersa.
“Darling, is there anything you can tell me? Please.”
“They giggle,” she said, her voice barely audible. “They’re big and hairy and they giggle.”
What giggles? Daemon wondered, but he didn’t dare ask. She was pulling out whatever information she could. It would be up to him to figure out what it meant.
“Tippy-tap,” Tersa said. She pressed her lips together and made a popping sound. Then she said, “The Mikal boy knows. He’ll tell the boy about the surprises.”
She looked crushed, defeated. Even if Jenkell did no other harm, he was going after that son of a whoring bitch for the pain he’d just caused Tersa.
“Thank you, darling.” Daemon kissed her hands and rose. “Thank you.”
As he left the cottage and headed for the Queen of Halaway’s home, he wondered just how much damage he’d caused.
“Here, Tersa,” Allista said as she guided her Sister into a chair at the kitchen table. “Sit down and we’ll have our dinner. Manny made a lovely soup for us this evening and a chicken casserole. Sit down, and I’ll fetch the soup.”
No response. Just silent tears. Tersa hadn’t said anything since Prince Sadi left.
He was usually so careful with Tersa, so understanding about the fragile nature of sanity once a mind was shattered. So it was doubly cruel of him to rip Tersa up like this.
She would mention this in her weekly report to the Hourglass Coven, since caring for Tersa was part of her training, but what could they do? Daemon Sadi was the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan and a Black Widow. Who could reprimand someone like Sadi? Well, his father could. But she wasn’t feeling quite brave enough to send a complaint to the High Priest of the Hourglass about his own son. Maybe…
“He spoiled the surprise,” Tersa whispered sadly. “There won’t be any surprises for the boy.”
The surprises. Tersa had been working on these “surprises” for weeks.
“It doesn’t matter now,” Allista said. She put a bowl in front of Tersa. “Here, darling. Eat your soup.”
Tersa didn’t reply—and Allista watched a chilling lucidity fill the other woman’s eyes.
“He wanted to hurt the boy,” Tersa said softly. “The Langston man. He tried to use me to hurt the boy.”
The moment came and went. But as they ate the evening meal, Allista was sure there was a storm brewing behind Tersa’s quiet stillness.
Puffing from the effort to go up a few stairs, Surreal stood in the dark upstairs hallway and swore. This back hallway didn’t feel big enough to hold six other people, let alone keep her from running into them. And a single lamp or candle should blaze in this dark.
“Rainier?”
No answer. No sound of body or breath. No sense of his presence.
«Rainier?» she called again, switching to a psychic thread.
«Surreal! Where in the name of Hell are you?»
«I’m standing in the upstairs hallway.»
«No, you are not.»
Shit. He really sounded pissy about it.
On the other hand, he might be right. She couldn’t actually see where she was, and the stairs had seemed to go on too long and in a peculiar direction. «The candle went out, and I don’t have any matches. I’m going to have to use Craft to light it.» And close another exit when she did. She wanted his agreement, since she wouldn’t be closing another exit just for herself.
«Put a tongue of witchfire on the candle,» Rainier said. «Give it enough power when you make it to burn for several hours. You can light other candles with it when you find them, but at least you’ll know nothing can snuff it out.»
«Nothing but getting doused with more power than I give it,» Surreal replied. But he had a valid point. Witchfire was created with power and didn’t need fuel or air. A draft wouldn’t put it out. Neither would water. In fact, Marian sometimes shaped witchfire into a flower and floated it inside a glass vase filled with water. It was beautiful—and a little eerie—to see fire floating in the middle of water.
«All right,» she said. «I’ll—»
Something there. A soft scuffle and a new, faint scent competing with the hallway’s musty air.
She sidestepped to her right, away from the sound—and away from the possibility of someone shoving her down the stairs.
«Something’s here,» she said.
«What is it?»
«Don’t know. Haven’t made the witchfire yet.»
She raised the poker like a shield in front of her, took another step to the side, and banged her hip on a table. She pivoted to bring herself around the table, extending her left arm to set the candle down. In that moment she felt the rush of air as something lunged at her, felt the swipe of knife or claws aiming for her exposed left side.
And she hesitated a moment too long before she created a protective shield tight enough to be a second skin.
A double slice through shirt and skin in that moment before the shield formed around her. A shiver along nerves that were uncertain if they should send a message of pleasure or pain. Then…pain.
She swung the poker, a backhanded blow that connected with someone hard enough to send the person slamming into the opposite wall.
A ball of witchlight floated above the table before she consciously decided to make one. But she saw her adversary—and silently swore when the light glinted off the hourglass that hung from a tarnished silver chain around the witch’s neck.
A Black Widow who was very much one of the demon-dead, judging by how badly misshapen the head and face were from the blows that must have killed her. And not the same Black Widow who had attacked her downstairs.
“You want to tangle with me, you come ahead,” Surreal said. “I’m in the mood to kill something.”
The Black Widow laughed. “You think you can kill me? Look again.”
“All right, maybe I’m too late to kill you, and maybe I won’t even be able to finish the kill. But if you don’t back off, I can arrange for you to become a permanent resident of a part of Hell that will make this place look like a high-class indulgence.”
“Even when you become demon-dead you won’t have that much power.”
“Actually, sugar, since my uncle is the High Lord, I’ll be able to send you anywhere I damn well please. He’ll make sure of it.”
The Black Widow hesitated, then smiled as much as her misshapen face allowed. “You won’t be going anywhere, not even to Hell. I can wait to finish you, bitch.” She passed through the wall and vanished.
“Shit,” Surreal muttered. “Guess there’s no penalty for using Craft once you’re dead.” Or part of the spells woven into the house.
She huffed out a breath and winced. First she needed to take care of the wound, figure out how bad it was—and whether she’d just been poisoned. Then she would deal with whatever came next. Right now she was certain of two things: she was in the upstairs back hallway and Rainier wasn’t.
«Rainier?»
No answer. Nothing but a strange, gray blankness.
«Rainier!»
An aural shield must have been triggered, one that not only blocked out ordinary sounds but also prevented communication along psychic threads.
Had the gong sounded? She’d been too preoccupied to notice. Had Rainier heard it, or was that sound also blocked by the aural shield?
Leaving the unlit candle on the table, she took the poker and the ball of witchlight. The first door on her right was a bathroom. A narrow space with no room to maneuver if she had to fight. But it might have clean water, and that was something she needed right now.
“Wounded because I didn’t shield and got separated from my escort,” she said as she warily entered the bathroom. “Lucivar is going to be so pissed.”
Interesting. Why was the witch so concerned about the opinion of a male who wasn’t there? It wasn’t like she was ever going to hear what he thought of her mistakes.
Yes. That was a thought. Those pointed ears would make a fine trophy.
Something to remember her by when she was absorbed into the spells of this house.
And then she wouldn’t have to worry about hearing anything.
Somewhere in the house, a gong sounded twice.
«Surreal?»
No answer. Nothing but a strange, gray blankness.
«Surreal!»
Rainier held his position. Waiting. Listening. Then he wove between the children and stopped at one of the hallway’s openings and held out the lamp, trying to get a better look at the room.
Not a room. It was the front hallway.
He looked at Kester, then tipped his head to indicate the other children. “Stay here. Keep them together.”
No sass from the boy. No arguments. No comments. Maybe it was finally sinking in that the children needed to do what they were told in order to survive.
He moved toward the front staircase. Could Surreal still be downstairs?
“Surreal?”
He peered over the banister. No sign of light down below.
The gong had sounded twice. One time would have been for the witchfire she needed to create in order to light the candle. The other?
She’d sensed something. Or someone. The second time the gong had sounded. Was that for a weapon or a shield?
Should have shielded when they first realized something was wrong. They had gambled on the degree of danger they were facing—and had underestimated their enemy.
She’d been coming up last, watching their backs. Should have been the safer position, since they’d already checked the kitchen.
Should have been.
What had changed in that moment between the last girl’s starting up the stairs and Surreal’s following her?
The last girl.
Rainier turned toward the opening leading to the back hall. Seven children had come up the stairs with him. But there shouldn’t be seven anymore. The fourth girl. The last one to come up the stairs. She wasn’t one of the children who had come into the house with them.