by Anne Bishop
Daemon tightened the leash on his temper. “What does he look like?”
A light brush against the first of his inner barriers. When he opened that first level of his mind to his father, he saw the man. The same green eyes. The same sun-kissed skin. The same dark hair.
“Jared,” Daemon whispered.
Saetan shook his head. “He said his name was Theran.”
“The man I knew. Jared. This one has the look of him.”
He could feel Saetan reevaluating, making an effort to rein in his own formidable temper. “Do you owe them a favor?”
“Not exactly.”
Jared had left a written account of his journey with Lia while being pursued by Dorothea’s Master of the Guard. Within that account, which Jared had left at the Keep for Daemon, Jaenelle had found the answer to cleansing the taint from the Blood without destroying all of the Blood.
So, in a way, he did owe Jared. Whether he owed anything to Jared’s bloodline . . .
“I liked Jared,” Daemon said. “He was a good man. So for his sake, I would be willing to talk to this Prince Theran and find out what he wants.” He paused and considered. “But not here. I’d like Jaenelle to meet him.”
“Why?”
“Because I would trust her instincts about him better than I’d trust mine.”
Saetan considered that and nodded. “Then we’ll arrange to have him brought to the Hall. How soon do you want me to discover your whereabouts?”
Daemon huffed out a laugh. “Since you’re my father, you’d know where to find me.”
“Oh, he doesn’t know I’m your father. As far as Prince Theran is concerned, I’m just the assistant historian/librarian. Just a ‘pissy old cock.’ ” Saetan’s smile turned feral and sharp. “The boy doesn’t shield his thoughts as well as he should.”
Oh, shit. “Arrange to have him arrive at the Hall late this afternoon.”
“Done.” As if trying to shake off the mood—and the temper—Saetan looked at the table and raised an eyebrow. “I see you enjoyed the sweet-cheese confection.”
Damn. He must not have vanished the bowls fast enough.
“Even so,” Saetan continued, “you should eat some of the beef and vegetables.”
An undercurrent of amusement. A fatherly kind of amusement.
Feeling like a boy wasn’t as much fun when he didn’t choose to feel like a boy. And feeling like an erring son was downright uncomfortable. “I just meant to taste it.”
“Hmm.” Saetan pulled out a chair and sat down. He took a spoonful of vegetable casserole and a slice of roast beef, and warmed his customary goblet of yarbarah, the blood wine that was all the sustenance the demon-dead—and Guardians—needed.
Not seeing any options, Daemon sat across from his father and filled his own plate.
“There’s been very little of interest in those piles of papers,” Saetan said. “Even with the preservation spells that were put on them, most are illegible or the parchment crumbles when it’s touched. But I did find a few things—like the recipe for that sweet-cheese confection. Well, the basic idea for it at any rate. I had to fiddle with it a bit and embellished it after that.”
Daemon chewed a mouthful of beef and swallowed carefully. “You made that?”
“Yes. Like you, I enjoy puttering in the kitchen on occasion.”
“And you’re the only one who has the recipe?”
“Yes.”
They stared at each other.
Finally Daemon asked, “What are the chances of you sharing that recipe?”
His father, the too-knowing bastard, just smiled.
CHAPTER 4
Ebon ASKAVI
A room within the Keep held one of the thirteen Gates that connected the three Realms of Terreille, Kaeleer, and Hell. On the Dark Altar stood a four-branched candelabra. When the black candles were lit and the spell was invoked, a stone wall turned to mist and became a Gate between the Realms.
Following the assistant historian/librarian, Theran stepped out of that mist into a room that looked almost the same as the one he’d just left, but it felt different. It felt darker.
He had reached Kaeleer, the Shadow Realm. He was really here.
And home had never felt so far away.
KAELEER
Stepping out of the Coach that had brought him from the Keep to this place, Theran stared at the massive structure of dark gray stone that rose up in front of him. It sprawled over the land, and its towers speared the sky. Its size intimidated, and the feel of age and dark power that surrounded it was sufficient warning to any visitor that a smart man walked softly around anything that lived behind those walls.
“Is that an enclosed community?” he asked. He could understand the feeling of that much power if several hundred Blood had lived in a place for many generations. There had been a few places “ruled” by covens in the Shalador reserves that had a similar feel. Or so he’d been told. Most of those places—and the strong witches who had lived in them—hadn’t survived the purges that had been ordered a few years ago by Dorothea’s pet Queens.
“Like a village, you mean?” the Coach driver said. Then he made a sound that might have been an effort not to laugh. “No. The village is that way.” He pointed in the opposite direction. “This here is a private drive until you reach the bridge. After that, it becomes a public road to Halaway.”
“Private . . .” He was looking at a residence? That feeling of dark power came from one family?
“That’s SaDiablo Hall,” the driver said. “Family seat of the SaDiablo family and home of the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan. I was told to bring you here.”
SaDiablo. SaDiablo. Hell’s fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful.
But Dorothea SaDiablo was dead, wasn’t she? Completely destroyed, body, mind, and Jewels. Wasn’t she?
“Daemon Sadi lives here?” Theran asked.
“He does.”
Was Sadi still controlled by the SaDiablo family? Was he still a slave? Was this branch of the SaDiablo family any better than the ones who had tried to destroy Terreille?
Have I just handed myself to the enemy? Damn that Hayllian bastard for sending me here.
“I’ll take the Coach around to the stables, then wait around a bit to see if I’m needed,” the driver said. “You should go on up to the Hall and state your business. Won’t attract any atten—”
A solitary howl rose from the trees off to the right. Then another howl rose up from the left. The third came from behind him.
Theran turned in a circle, his heart hammering against his chest. Nothing he could see, but something was out there. He was picking up psychic scents, a feeling of power moving toward him from several directions. But those scents were just enough off-kilter that he couldn’t identify what was out there.
“Well,” the driver said, scratching his head. “Now that you’ve got their attention, you’ve got everyone’s attention. So you might as well go on up.”
“What are they?” Theran asked. “Guard dogs?”
“Wolves. The pack lives in the north woods that are part of this estate. They’re protected by the Hall—and they protect the Hall.”
Hell’s fire. “Could be worse,” Theran said.
“Could be,” the driver agreed. He paused and gave Theran a considering look. “Don’t know if any are here right now, but you don’t want to be upsetting the cats. They’re big, and they’re mean.”
Theran forced a smile. “It’s not like they would eat me.”
The driver just looked at him.
“Mother Night.” Could it be any worse? He didn’t ask because he didn’t want the driver to tell him about whatever was worse than man-eating cats someone kept as pets.
The driver touched two fingers to his temple as a salute and went back into the Coach.
Theran quickly stepped off the landing web and hurried to the front door, which opened before he could knock, and showed him what could be worse than man-eating cats—a large, ster
n-faced man who was wearing a butler’s uniform and was also a Red-Jeweled Warlord.
Outranked by a servant, Theran thought as he obeyed the silent invitation to step inside.
“Good afternoon,” the butler said. “How may I be of service?”
“I’m looking for Daemon Sadi. I was told I could find him here.” Of course, the Hayllian prick at the Keep hadn’t mentioned he’d be looking for Sadi inside a SaDiablo fortress.
As the butler turned one hand, he suddenly held a small silver tray. The use of Craft was so smooth, Theran stared at the tray for a moment, feeling envious of the subtle training the butler must have received. Oh, Talon had given him the best training available, but their rough-and-ready life didn’t require subtlety in anything except fighting.
“Your card?” the butler said.
Hell’s fire. Did people still use such fussy things? Would the court he hoped to create have to use them?
“I don’t have a card,” Theran said, feeling like an awkward child who’d been caught out pretending to be an adult.
The butler’s hand turned. The tray vanished. “Your name?”
Theran hesitated. His family had survived by hiding. But would anyone here in Kaeleer understand the significance of the name?
“Theran Grayhaven,” he said reluctantly.
“Territory?” the butler prodded after a moment’s silence.
“Dena Nehele.”
The butler tipped his head in a tiny bow of acknowledgment. “I will inquire if the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan is available to receive you.”
“I don’t need to talk to . . .” He was talking to the butler’s back, so there was no point continuing. Besides, the man didn’t go far—just to the back of the great hall.
After a quick knock on the door, the butler stepped into an adjoining room and stepped back out a few moments later.
Nothing subtle about the snub if the butler now informed him that the Prince wasn’t available.
“This way,” the butler said.
Theran followed the man back to the half-open door. The butler stepped in and announced, “Prince Theran Grayhaven of the Territory of Dena Nehele.”
“Thank you, Beale,” a deep, cultured voice replied. “Show him in.”
Beale stepped aside, allowing Theran to enter, then retreated, closing the door behind him.
The room was shaped like a reversed L. The long side was an informal sitting room, complete with tables, chairs, bookcases, and a leather sofa large enough for a full-grown man to sleep on. The short side of the room had floor-to-ceiling bookcases filling the back wall, red velvet covering the side walls, and a large blackwood desk with two chairs in front of it for visitors.
From behind the desk rose the most beautiful man Theran had ever seen. Hayllian coloring—the thick black hair, golden eyes, and light brown skin. But the man moved like something too graceful to be completely human, and as he came around the desk, Theran felt the punch of sexual heat.
“Prince Grayhaven.”
The voice caressed him, a warm syrup over his skin, producing an unwelcome arousal.
“I’m Daemon Sadi.”
Of course this was Sadi. Who else could it be?
He’d heard stories. Who hadn’t heard stories? But now he had a glimpse of why Sadi had been called the Sadist. All Warlord Princes had that sexual heat to some degree, but he’d never met another Warlord Prince who could halfway seduce a normally uninterested man just by speaking, just by walking toward that person.
Then the door opened, Sadi looked around, and Theran felt the ground crumbling right out from under him.
He’d thought the sexual heat had been a deliberate ploy to throw him off-balance. It wasn’t. The punch he’d experienced when he’d walked into the room was Sadi with his sexuality chained. One look at the woman who walked into the room, and Sadi . . .
Theran froze. Warlord Princes were territorial at the best of times, and lethally so when it came to a lover. A woman could end a relationship with a Warlord Prince without fear, but the only kind of male who could survive an attempt at poaching was a stronger Warlord Prince.
Based on what he was picking up from Sadi’s psychic scent, this woman was definitely the lover, and since he was a stranger, just being in the same room with her might be enough to provoke Sadi into a kill.
Not pretty, Theran decided. Attractive in an uncommon way, but definitely not what he would call pretty. The golden hair looked shaggy and was too short for him to find personally appealing. And she looked too thin to have the kind of curves a man would find interesting.
And all those things that would have made Theran dismiss her as a potential partner didn’t seem to matter to Sadi at all. The hunger in those gold eyes when he looked at her, the hunger that had sharpened his psychic scent . . .
She stopped, narrowed her blue eyes, and rocked back on her heels.
“Nighthawk and I are going for a ride,” she said. “Beale said you wanted to see me before I went out.”
“Wear a hat,” Daemon said.
Her mouth primmed. “I don’t like hats.”
Daemon moved toward her.
Theran adjusted his coat to hide his reaction to the heat pouring off the other man.
The woman just narrowed her eyes a little more and seemed immune to the feel of seduction blanketing the room.
Daemon cupped her face in his hands. “You need to wear a hat when you go out in the sun,” he purred.
“You don’t wear a hat.”
“My nose doesn’t turn bright pink and peel.”
She frowned at Daemon.
“And since I adore that nose,” Daemon said, kissing the tip of the adored nose, “and the rest of your face, and the rest of you . . .”
Daemon’s hands caressed her lightly but thoroughly as they traveled along her shoulders and down her back, his arms wrapping her tight against him as his mouth covered hers in a kiss that . . .
Theran felt his legs go weak. He should avert his eyes, give Sadi and the woman some token of privacy. But he couldn’t look away.
He wanted that kind of heat and hunger. Hoped he’d find it with the new Queen who would rule Dena Nehele.
And hoped he could get out of this room very, very soon.
How in the name of Hell did anyone else manage to live here?
Sadi finally ended the kiss and loosened his hold. His lover braced her hands against his chest as if to push away but didn’t move.
“Mother Night,” she muttered. On her second try, she managed to push away from Sadi and stand on her own. Then she studied the warm golden eyes that were watching her. “Fine. I’ll wear the damn hat.”
“Thank you,” Daemon purred.
“Pleased with yourself, aren’t you?”
A flashing grin was her answer.
As she headed for the door, Daemon caught her and turned her around.
“There’s someone I want you to meet,” Daemon said.
Theran felt those blue eyes lock on to his face, and would have sworn they changed to a darker blue, a sapphire blue that became a doorway to something dangerous, something feral. Something he couldn’t name but knew he didn’t want to see.
“This is the Warlord Prince Theran Grayhaven, from Dena Nehele,” Daemon said. “He hasn’t said, but I believe he can trace his bloodline back to Jared, a Warlord I knew a few centuries ago.”
“Jared,” she said in a voice that made Theran shiver. “And Lia?”
Afraid to answer—and more afraid not to—Theran nodded.
He couldn’t look away from those sapphire eyes.
Then her eyes were simply blue again. “Welcome to the Hall, Prince Grayhaven.”
Maybe it was because he was getting used to the feel of being in a room with Sadi that he was finally getting some sense of the woman.
A Queen. He felt certain she was a Queen. That caste had a distinctive psychic scent. But he couldn’t figure out if she wore a lighter Jewel or a dark one. She seemed to circle arou
nd his own Green, feeling lighter one moment and darker the next.
Your wits must still be addled, he thought. The Blood had a Birthright Jewel and a Jewel of rank, and each had a clear, separate feel. Since surviving could sometimes depend on knowing if the person you were facing wore a darker Jewel than your own, conflicting information like he was picking up from the woman could prove deadly.
“Prince Grayhaven,” Daemon said, “this is my wife, the Lady Jaenelle Angelline.”
“It is a pleasure, Lady.”
A horse bugled, a sound full of annoyance, followed a moment later by hooves thundering down on a hard surface.
Jaenelle hitched a thumb over her shoulder. “My ride is getting impatient.”
Theran wondered why anyone would bring a horse into the great hall—and wondered why the animal had sounded so loud—but he didn’t get a chance to ask.
“Have a seat,” Daemon said. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
Grateful to be alone, Theran scrubbed his hands over his face. After the past few minutes, he needed a long walk or a cold shower—or both.
As Daemon escorted Jaenelle into the great hall, he lightly touched the stallion’s mind. *I need to talk to the Lady before you go riding.*
The stallion, wearing a hackamore and barely enough leather to be called a saddle, tossed his head, revealing the Gray Jewel that was usually hidden under his forelock.
Nighthawk was kindred—the name given to the Blood who were not human. A different body and a different race, but a Warlord Prince was still a Warlord Prince, and those who had chosen Jaenelle as their Queen had learned to work together and share their Lady. In most ways.
*Theran Grayhaven,* Daemon said on a psychic thread aimed exclusively at Jaenelle. *What do you think of him?*
*Why does it matter?*
*He’s come here to ask a favor. I can hear him out or show him the door.*
When she looked at him, he saw who she was beneath the surface: Witch. The living myth. Dreams made flesh. The Queen, even though she no longer ruled.
*I spun a tangled web this afternoon,* she said. *That’s why I want to go riding—to let my mind rest while I focus on something physical.* She paused. *He’s part of it, Daemon. So is his connection to Jared and Lia. Hopefully a good gallop will clear my head and help me understand the vision.*