by Anne Bishop
“And then I’m going to Dhemlan to have a chat with my brother.”
“If you need to go, I can take Daemonar to the Keep as soon as we’re—”
“No.”
She looked into his eyes and saw the agony that still haunted him from the memories of what happened in Terreille last year. She was supposed to go to the Keep then too. Instead she and Daemonar had been abducted and taken to Terreille as hostages. Daemon had managed to keep them safe by playing out some savage games, but the emotional price for both Daemon and Lucivar had been brutally high.
She wouldn’t risk her son again by thinking she was far enough removed from danger. And she couldn’t risk the heart of either man.
“Give me ten minutes,” she said.
He turned aside to let her pass. He didn’t touch her. She didn’t dare touch him. He understood something about that invitation that she didn’t. Whatever he was facing, whatever he had to do, she wasn’t going to be used as a knife held to Lucivar’s throat.
Not again.
Surreal stirred, winced, swore softly. She didn’t snarl at him when Rainier braced a hand on her shoulder and pushed until she sat up straight.
“How does your side feel?” he asked.
“Like I got ripped by some bitch with razor-sharp nails,” she replied.
He slipped a hand under her shirt. She did snarl at him for that.
He ignored her, which was ballsy of him, since even without using Craft, she could do a considerable amount of damage to him before he could get out of reach.
Then she sucked in a breath as his fingers delicately brushed over the shield above the wound.
“Feels hot,” he said, his green eyes filling with worry. “Might be infected.”
“I cleaned it out,” she replied, feeling defensive.
“You’ll need to see a Healer when you get out of here.”
A statement. One of those simple sentences that summed up the Blood in Kaeleer. Witches ruled. Males served. And somehow those two facts could add up to an escort hauling a witch to a Healer just because he decided she needed one.
And you couldn’t even argue with him about it without having all the other males gang up on you.
She couldn’t even argue with the other half of that statement—the assumption that he was going to die getting her out of the house.
“Fine,” she grumbled. “I’ll see a Healer.”
Rainier looked around. They had snuffed out all the candles except the one with the witchfire and had turned down the lamps to conserve the oil. The light didn’t seem to illuminate as much now that it was competing with a room made up of shades of gray instead of true darkness.
“If we can trust the light coming from the windows, it’s almost dawn,” Rainier said.
“I wonder if we were supposed to survive this long.”
“Probably not, but we had incentive.”
“Yeah.” When your uncle was the High Lord of Hell, becoming demon-dead for a stupid reason was not something you wanted to do. The lectures about it would go on for decades.
“There’s water left in the jug,” he said. “We should hold on to what’s left of the food.”
“And we need to make a decision.” Surreal got to her feet and swore silently. She felt stiffer than she should, and her side hurt more than it should. At least her lungs seemed to be all right now.
“We either need to go upstairs to use the bathroom or we need to pick a corner and pee on a carpet.”
The children were waking up, so they would have to make that decision soon. Hell’s fire, she needed to make that decision soon.
“Could the window be an exit?” Rainier asked. Taking one of the pokers, he approached the window. Then he gave her a considering look. “Your Gray shield will let things out but not in?”
She nodded. “Whatever goes out stays out.”
He retreated, set the poker down, then selected a fork from the hamper.
“Doesn’t give you much distance,” Surreal said.
“No, but I’ll still be behind the shield,” Rainier replied. “Besides, we can’t take the hamper or chill box with us, so losing the fork doesn’t matter.”
No, they wouldn’t use Craft to vanish the hamper or chill box, and they couldn’t carry it with them. While Rainier approached the window again, she selected the sharp knife and two forks. Any weapon was better than none.
Rainier hooked a bit of material in the fork’s tines and pulled aside the curtain. “Surreal, look at this.”
The window should have been facing the front of the house. She should have seen the wrought-iron fence and the street beyond. Instead, there were stone markers and, in three spots, freshly mounded earth.
“Graveyard,” she said.
“Do those markers indicate how many people have died in this house and become fodder of one kind or another? Or are six of those markers reserved for us?”
She didn’t know and didn’t care. “If it’s an illusion spell, we could try getting out through the window. If it’s not…”
“We may not be in the same house anymore. Or even the same village.”
She blinked. “You think someone shifted this whole house without us noticing? Without so much as one of those awful little statues falling off a table and breaking?”
He shrugged. “Jaenelle could have done it. She could pick up a house this size and turn it around without causing so much as a rattle. She could vanish something this size and set it down in a different village. Or in a finger-snap moment of the lights going out, she could swap a room right out from under your feet.”
“You’ve never seen her do that.”
Rainier released the fork, letting the curtain fall back into place. “Actually, I have. There’s an odd sensation of the floor dropping out from under your feet in that moment when the lights go out. Then the lights come back on and you’re standing in a different room—or sitting on a different sofa, which is actually more unnerving. We never could figure out if she shifted the people or shifted the room.”
Surreal felt her jaw drop. Then she shook her head. Why was she surprised? Before she had shattered herself and her Jewels to save Kaeleer, there had been almost nothing Jaenelle couldn’t do.
Except basic Craft.
“Which do we try?” Rainier asked. “Door or window?”
Sage’s voice piped up behind them. “Lady Surreal? I need to pee.”
“Well,” Surreal said to Rainier, “unless you want to try holding her out the window, I guess we find out what’s behind the door.”
“He flinched.” Marian glanced at Daemonar to reassure herself that he was still more interested in the plate of food Draca had brought in for him than the adults in the room. Then she focused on the High Lord. “Lucivar flinched.”
Saetan looked solemn and serious—if she could ignore the laughter lighting his gold eyes. “Darling, I heard you the first time. It’s the significance of the words that puzzles me.”
“He flinched.” Why couldn’t she get through to him?
“And this upsets you. Why?”
“Because…” Flustered, she pushed her hair back. How could she explain if he didn’t—or wouldn’t—understand?
A twitch of his lips. A hint of a smile.
“It’s a bit unnerving to realize you have power over such a powerful man, isn’t it?” Saetan asked.
Thank the Darkness, he did understand. “Yes. I wear the Purple Dusk. I shouldn’t have that kind of power over him.”
“Marian, you’re the woman he loves. There are very few things that can match that kind of power. Not even these.” He tapped the Black Jewel he wore over the tunic jacket.
“Would you have reacted like that?” Marian asked. “If you had missed an engagement your wife had wanted you to attend, would you have flinched?”
She bit her lip when she saw the look in his eyes and wished she could take back the words. Considering who his wife had been, it was a bad question.
“No,” h
e said. “I wouldn’t have. Not for her.” He took her face in his hands and kissed her forehead, a fatherly kiss washed in the sensuality that was inherent to the man. Then he added, “But if I had disappointed Sylvia by not remembering an engagement that I believed was important to her, then, yes, Marian, I would have flinched.”
Draca,
The High Lord must not leave the Keep. Do whatever is necessary to keep him there.
Sadi
Saetan handed the message back to Draca, then looked out the window and watched Marian playing with Daemonar in one of the Keep’s courtyards.
After a while he raised his left hand. Most days he didn’t think about that lost finger, but there were other days when he could still feel the moment when Hekatah put the blade against his skin.
“It’s one thing for a man to say he’s gotten old and has reached an age when it’s time to step aside for those who are younger and better able to stand on a battlefield. But it humbles a man to realize his sons think he’s too old.”
“You were harmed the lasst time, Ssaetan,” Draca said.
“Yes.” And it wasn’t just a finger that had been lost to Hekatah’s torture. Oh, he hadn’t lost anything else physically, but the damage to his body had been irreparable—and had weighed in his decision to step back from the living Realms.
Just because he couldn’t use his balls didn’t mean he didn’t still have them when it came to temper and Craft.
“I am not without skills,” he growled.
“They know that.”
He snorted. “Do they? One son sends a message to you, asking you to lock me in the Keep—and sends the message with Khardeen, who latched on to me last night like a Sceltie who had found a meaty, unguarded soup bone. The other son shows up this morning and tells me to my face that he’ll break my legs if I don’t promise to stay here.”
Draca made a soft sound that might have been laughter. “Lucivar hass alwayss been more direct.”
You’re amused. How delightful.
Draca reached out and touched his arm, a rare gesture for her. “Lucivar brought hiss wife and sson here becausse you are here. He dependss on you to protect what he holdss dear.”
“And Daemon?” Saetan asked. “What is he protecting?”
“More than Lucivar, Daemon needss a father who undersstandss him. By keeping you here, he iss protecting hiss own heart.”
Daemon put away the spider silk and the rest of his supplies, then vanished the debris, leaving no trace of his night’s work.
Three tangled webs sat on a table, carefully protected by shields. These webs offered no visions. Nor were they simple dreams.
They were nightmare illusions combined with shadows. They were alluring and lethal—and exquisitely brutal. They would extract the debt owed to the SaDiablo family down to the last drop of blood and the last heartbeat of fear.
Now all he needed to do was find Jarvis Jenkell.
He vanished the tangled webs and went downstairs. They could all use some breakfast, and it would be better for the boy if Jaenelle was working on her second cup of coffee before Yuli woke up.
Then he felt the thunder rolling through the abyss.
He looked at Jaenelle.
She said, “Lucivar is here.”
EIGHTEEN
The only thing behind the door was a dining room that wasn’t the same as the one they’d seen last night. Nothing in the back passage, nothing on the stairs. No shadow illusions of dead boys. No Black Widows trying to take another slice out of her.
No damn beetles in the bathroom.
Surreal would have felt better if a hairy, giggling spider had been climbing up a wall or a skeleton mouse had been scurrying in the hallway.
The lack of small surprises could mean they were getting close to something big—and a lot more dangerous.
Daemon rushed out of the Coach and saw Lucivar walking along the outside of the wrought-iron fence, looking at the house and the land around it.
Looking relaxed, unconcerned, even friendly.
And underneath a surface that gave no warning, the man was so furious, he was capable of ripping a person’s arm off before anyone realized his smile was feral and not friendly.
The fact that that particular flavor of Lucivar’s temper seemed to be aimed right at him wasn’t a good way to start the morning.
“Hell’s fire,” Jaenelle muttered as she joined Daemon outside. “He’s really feeling pissy this morning.”
Lucivar stopped at the gate and waited for them.
The lazy, arrogant smile. The glazed eyes. The explosive temper dancing one step away from the killing edge.
“Lucivar,” Daemon said.
“Because you’re my brother and I love you, I’m going to let you tell me why I shouldn’t break your face.”
“Lucivar,” Jaenelle said.
He snapped his fingers, pointed at her, and snarled, “Stay out of this, Cat.”
She blinked and actually took a step back in surprise. Then her eyes changed, the blue becoming a deeper sapphire. And suddenly Daemon could see his breath as the air around them turned cold.
“And put a warmer coat on,” Lucivar snapped, still glaring at her. “It’s cold out here.”
«The cold has nothing to do with the weather, Prick,» Daemon said on a spear thread.
«I don’t give a damn. Cold is cold, and she’s not dressed warmly enough to be standing out here.»
“Prince Yaslana,” Jaenelle growled.
“Don’t get bitchy with me, or I’ll knock you on your ass.”
«Have you forgotten that I’m standing here?» Daemon asked.
«No, it just means I’ll have to knock you down first.»
Yes, he knew that flavor of Lucivar’s temper, and he knew the man. Lucivar was primed for a fight—and right now, the opponent didn’t much matter.
“Lady,” Daemon said, never taking his eyes off Lucivar. “Prince Yaslana and I need a few minutes alone.”
She studied both of them for a long moment, then walked away, muttering something about snarly males that he couldn’t quite hear. She stopped halfway between them and the Coach—out of earshot but close enough to quickly rejoin the discussion.
“Who’s in that house?” Lucivar asked.
“What makes you think anyone is in there?”
“You’re here, and it’s still standing.”
Daemon tipped his head to acknowledge the accuracy of that assessment. “Surreal and Rainier—and seven landen children.”
Lucivar stared at him. “You knew it was a trap. Last night when you sent the message, you knew.”
“Yes, I knew,” Daemon replied, letting his own temper sharpen. “Jaenelle figured it out before I did, but I knew it was a trap when I told you to stay home. I was afraid you’d just march in there if you found out Surreal and Rainier were caught in the spells that had been spun around this place.”
“I am going in,” Lucivar said.
“You can’t.” He called in the paper that had the spooky house rules and waved it at his brother. “Damn you, Lucivar, according to the rules of this place—”
“Since when do we play by anyone else’s rules?”
The words felt like a bucket of ice water thrown in his face.
Lucivar moved closer, until there was no distance between them. “Tell me, Bastard. Since when do we play by anyone else’s rules?”
He floundered. Felt like he’d lost his footing, but he couldn’t quite figure out why.
“This place was built as a trap to kill the three of us,” he said, sure of at least that much. “You, me, and Surreal.”
“Understood. What else?”
“We’ve figured out—or are almost certain, anyway—that Jarvis Jenkell is behind the creation of this place. He’s recently discovered that he’s Blood, and it seems he wants to test his newfound skills against the SaDiablo family.”
“Which only proves he’s a clever idiot. What else?”
Daemon held out the p
aper. “Read this.”
Lucivar glanced at the paper, then looked at the house. “You read it.”
“Lucivar…”
“Read it.”
Daemon took a breath, ready to argue that Lucivar was perfectly capable of reading the rules by himself. Then he paused. Considered. This wasn’t about Lucivar’s resistance to anything “bookish.” This was about what he absorbed from words when he heard them.
THERE ARE THIRTY EXITS FROM THE SPOOKY HOUSE, BUT YOU WILL NEED TO LOOK CAREFULLY TO FIND THEM, FOR THEY ARE WRAPPED IN DANGER. EVERY TIME CRAFT IS USED, AN EXIT IS SEALED, AND THAT WAY OUT IS LOST. WHEN THE LAST EXIT IS SEALED, YOU WILL BECOME PART OF THE HOUSE—AND STAY WITH US FOREVER.
Lucivar looked at the house, at the land, at the sky.
“Again,” Lucivar said.
Daemon read it again—and watched his brother. That look. That stance. What was Lucivar looking at when he considered that house as a battleground? More to the point, what was Lucivar seeing ?
Lucivar took a couple of steps away from him. “Read it again.”
He read it a third time, then waited.
Lucivar took a deep breath and let it out in a gusty, annoyed sigh. Frustration filled his eyes, and Daemon recognized the feeling washing the air between them—their mutual desire to grab each other and shake some understanding into the other one’s head.
“He hamstrung you, Bastard,” Lucivar said. “He used words instead of a blade, but he hamstrung you. He counted on you doing exactly what you did—play by his rules. Surreal and Rainier, too, since they’re still in there.”
Jaenelle joined them. “There are three Black Widows who spun the illusions around this place. Every time Craft is used, the people in the house become more ensnared in the webs. And there are death spells tangled in with the rest. If you take a step over the boundary, you’ll be caught in the spells.”
“If you play by the rules,” Lucivar said. “The sun’s going to shine in Hell before I play by someone else’s rules—especially some landen prick who wants one of us to help him commit suicide.”
“He’s Blood, not landen,” Daemon said. “I don’t think he expected anyone to know he was behind this game, so I doubt he anticipated experiencing a slow execution firsthand as fodder for one of his stories.”