FIVE
Daemon had known for three years that this day was
coming, but he still wasn’t ready. Week by week, he’d watched his
father’s gentle decline—the body getting more frail, the power
fading. But the mind was still sharp and strong. That was why
Saetan had chosen this day to say his good-byes.
Why is Grandfather going to leave us?
How were they
supposed to answer Daemonar’s question? What were they supposed to
say to Mikal and Beron about the man who had loved their mother and
protected them after her physical death—and had had the strength to
let Sylvia go when she was ready to become a whisper in the
Darkness?
Daemon knew what
Saetan would say: They were supposed to answer the questions and
take care of the living just like every other man who faced this
day and all the tomorrows that would come after.
He looked at Lucivar.
They were the last ones left in Saetan’s bedroom at the
Keep.
Lucivar looked at
him. Resistance, denial, and then acceptance flashed in those gold
eyes.
“Tell your brother
what you know about me,” Saetan told Lucivar.
Lucivar hesitated,
then nodded. “I will.” Then to Daemon, “I’ll be
nearby.”
Daemon waited until
Lucivar left the room before sitting on the edge of the
bed.
“You have the letters
I wrote to Mikal and Beron?” Saetan asked.
“And the ones for
Daemonar and Titian. I also have the ones Sylvia wrote to her sons.
I’ll abide by the instructions she gave you and see that the boys
get the letters at the appropriate times.”
“Good.” Saetan
shifted against the pillows. Then he smiled. “We’ve said our
good-byes. I want you to go now and not come back until it’s
done.”
“Your
body?”
“Most often, the
husks of the demon-dead end up nourishing the Dark Realm, but Draca
and Geoffrey—and even Lorn—didn’t think that was appropriate for
me. So the empty vessel will go to the fire, and the ashes will be
mixed with the soil in one of the courtyard gardens here at the
Keep.”
“In the same garden
as Jaenelle’s ashes?”
“Yes. Sylvia chose a
garden at the Hall in Hell, but ...”
“Your place is here,
with the daughter of your soul.”
“Yes.”
Show some balls, old son, and do this for him.
“We’re not going to let you linger here alone for a few more
days.”
“I don’t want you
here, Daemon. I want a clean break from the family.”
“I know.” He held out
his right hand, his Black Jewel glowing with its reservoir of
power. “You’re the one who taught me that the High Lord is
sometimes merciful.” And that there can be a
price for that mercy.
Saetan looked at
Daemon’s hand, then looked into his eyes. “Can you live with
this?”
He needed a moment to
be sure his voice would be steady. “Yes, Father, I
can.”
Saetan closed his
eyes and held out his hand.
Daemon closed his
hands around his father’s. So little power left sustaining that
flesh, that mind. So little holding the Self to this
life.
The Black absorbed
that power between one breath and the next, and Saetan Daemon
SaDiablo, Prince of the Darkness and High Lord of Hell, became a
whisper in the Darkness.
After tucking
Saetan’s hand under the covers, Daemon left the bedroom and went to
the sitting room where the others waited.
Daemonar was cuddled
up with Surreal. Little Titian was dozing on Marian’s lap. Lucivar
stood close to them.
He’d told Saetan the
truth. He could live with that particular duty, but he would deal
with the grief of that choice in private. The family patriarch took
care of his family first and his own heart second.
Lucivar shifted, just
enough to catch Surreal’s attention and then Marian’s.
Daemon looked at the
women and children, but it was his brother’s eyes that he met and
held. “He’s gone.”
Alone in the
passenger compartment of the small Coach, Surreal shifted
restlessly in her seat. Part of her wished that Sadi had stayed in
the compartment with her, distracting her from the grief she wanted
to keep at bay a little while longer; the other part was glad he’d
chosen to drive the Coach, since riding the Black Winds would get
them back to the Hall faster.
It also meant she
needed to make some decisions faster.
There was something
wrong with Sadi, something more than the grief they were all
feeling. That something had begun three
years ago, shortly after they’d learned that Saetan had stopped
drinking yarbarah and was allowing his power to fade—and, with it,
the body that had been sustained by that power for more than fifty
thousand years. Since then, Daemon had become increasingly
withdrawn. Not from the family. He played with Daemonar and Titian,
responded to Marian with warmth and love, and seemed the same as
he’d always been with Lucivar. But she’d noticed he’d become colder
and more calculating when he escorted a woman to a social event—and
more often than not, the woman didn’t get as much as a good-night
kiss, let alone anything more intimate.
At first she’d
worried that the coldness was her fault. After some internal
debate, and with Marian’s encouragement, she’d told Sadi why she’d
been so pissed off with him about the bitch he’d bedded shortly
before Titian was born. He’d accepted her explanation, even said he
understood. But he began withdrawing from physical contact with
everyone but the family.
She had been
available whenever he needed a companion for a social obligation,
and that had kept the bitches who lusted for ambition away from
him. Had her presence also kept away the women who lusted for
him?
Sadi hadn’t had sex
in three years? Well, neither had she. That wasn’t the point. The
point was he’d begun building a wall between himself and everyone
else since the day he knew his father was leaving them, and she was
worried about what would happen to him if that wall became so thick
that no one could reach him.
But right now, there
wasn’t anything she could do. Daemon was closed off with the
Warlord who was supposed to be their driver, and she didn’t want to
think about anything except her own aching heart and the man who
had been a wonderful father to all of them.
He had managed the
SaDiablo family’s wealth and estates for close to a century. He had
been the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan for almost as long. And he had
explored a Realm that few among the living had seen—and fewer still
could survive. But until a few hours ago, he had still been a son,
had still been the heir, had still had the illusion that he could
hand all the duties and responsibilities back to the man who had
shouldered them for a very, very long time.
Now the illusion was
gone and it was time to officially shoulder two other titles:
patriarch of the SaDiablo family—and High Lord of
Hell.
Daemon escorted
Surreal to the large sitting room in the family wing of the Hall.
He thought she’d been steady enough when they’d left the Keep, but
maybe he shouldn’t have left her alone in the Coach. Maybe she’d
been pushing grief away as fiercely as he’d been.
This sitting room had
a lived-in shabbiness seen nowhere else in the Hall, a kind of
broken-in comfort. Only family and close friends were invited to
this room. Bookshelves held the books of immediate interest,
cupboards held toys for Titian and games for Daemonar and Mikal,
and there were separate cupboards for the Scelties’ toys and
chewies. There was a hodgepodge of sofas, chairs, lamps, and
tables, and a round table that served as a game table as well as a
place to have a light meal.
It was a private room
that wasn’t meant to be seen by any but the most
trusted.
“Beale is bringing up
something to eat,” Daemon said, watching Surreal weave around the
room, barely avoiding the furniture. The last time he’d seen her
this way, the last time he’d spent time with her in this room while
she’d cried and sworn and ripped a chair to pieces before she’d
fallen into an exhausted sleep, was the night after Rainier died
and was taken to the Keep to make the transition to
demon-dead.
“I’m not hungry.” Her
voice was stripped of emotion.
“I’m not either, but
we should both try to eat.”
She moved as if she
were drunk, but that lack of grace was caused by exhaustion and the
grief finally breaking through her control.
“Do you remember the
first time the High Lord kicked you out of his study?” Daemon
asked.
“He kicked you out
too,” she grumbled as tears slid down her face.
“Because of
you.”
“It wasn’t my fault
Kaelas helped Graysfang get past the shields I’d put around my
bedroom.”
“You didn’t see
Saetan’s face when you said you’d rather have a wolf in your bed
than a man because a wolf could lick his own balls.”
She laughed a little
and wiped at the tears, but they kept flowing. “He let me be
family. I wasn’t, not by birth or blood, but he didn’t care about
that. He treated me like family, hugging and scolding and . .
.”
The effort to hold
back a sob seemed to break her completely.
“Surreal.” Daemon
gathered her up and held her close. Not a child who needed
protection. Not anymore. If he’d protected her at times in her
life, she had also protected him. And Jaenelle. They had circled
around it for a lot of years, but he recognized that he and Surreal
had developed a partnership committed to Jaenelle.
“That stupid
bastard!” Surreal cried. “I want to kick his ass for dying on
us!”
“So do I,” he said,
holding her tighter as his eyes filled with tears. “So do I. But it
was time for him to go.”
“That’s not the
point.”
That little bit of
snarl helped her regain some emotional balance. When she eased
back, he let her go—and felt strangely hollow.
“Surreal . .
.”
She scooted around
him, heading for the bathroom adjoining the sitting room. “I’m
going to wash my face. If Beale hears me sniffling, he’ll have ten
Healers up here trying to listen to my chest. My lungs healed
decades ago, but if I so much as sneeze, he’s there with sweaters
and blankets. And Helton is even worse about . . .”
Whatever else she
said was lost when she closed the bathroom door.
Calling in a
handkerchief, Daemon wiped his own face and was sufficiently tidy
when Beale brought in the tray.
“It’s done?” Beale
asked.
“Yes, it’s done.
Saetan is a whisper in the Darkness.”
“Then please accept
our condolences.”
“Thank you, Beale.
And please tell Mrs. Beale that I appreciate her preparing
something for Lady Surreal and me so late in the
evening.”
“I’ll tell her. Holt
is staying with your mother and Mikal tonight. Lady Tersa has been
. . . distracted . . . today, and since there is no journeymaid
staying with her at the moment, we thought it best if someone was
at the cottage.”
“I agree. I should
have thought of it myself when Tersa decided not to come with us.”
Daemon glanced at the clock on the mantel. “There’s no point
disturbing them tonight. I’ll talk to Tersa and Mikal tomorrow. And
Manny.” He’d have to walk carefully around his chat with Manny.
She’d been feeling her years lately and had begun fussing about
what would happen to the Blood who became demon-dead when Saetan no
longer ruled Hell. “Do you agree?”
If Beale was
surprised to be asked the question, he didn’t show it. “Yes . . .
Prince. I agree.”
High Lord. The title hung in the air between them,
proving that Beale had been aware of a great many things these past
years and had kept his own counsel.
“For now, it will
remain Prince Sadi,” Daemon said, then added silently, At least in public and in this Realm.
“Understood.”
Surreal emerged from
the bathroom a moment after Beale left the sitting room, making
Daemon suspect that she’d waited in order to avoid the
butler.
“Any better?” he
asked gently.
She shook her head.
“Sadi? Could I stay here with you tonight?”
He’d been reaching
for one of the covers on the dishes. He stopped and looked at her.
“Of course you can stay. Your suite is always ready for
you.”
She swallowed hard.
“No. Could I stay with you tonight?”
He stared at her,
sure he’d misunderstood.
“I don’t want to be
alone.” She let out a watery laugh as the tears started again.
“There are probably a hundred people in this house, so it’s not
like being alone . . .”
Yes, it is, he thought. He’d been surrounded by
those people too, but he’d still felt painfully alone after
Jaenelle died. And still felt alone most of the time—and still
sometimes had the dream where he looked in a mirror and saw the
hole in his chest where his heart had been.
“Surreal.” He put his
arms around her, wanting to give her some measure of the comfort
she was seeking—and found some comfort when she wrapped her arms
around him.
My father is dead.
The two people who
had truly understood him in ways no one else ever could were
gone.
He brushed his lips
over her temple and felt something inside him stir. It had been so
long since he’d held someone, and even longer since he’d dared hold
someone when he was feeling vulnerable.
His lips traveled
down her cheek, and he tasted tears. When he started to pull back,
she kissed his jaw, then his mouth. A soft kiss, asking for nothing
but contact.
Then her mouth
warmed, moved, asked for more. And he gave her more because it felt
so good to hold someone again.
With each brush of
their bodies, something in him stirred, wanted, needed,
yearned. But he started to pull away
because she’d asked for comfort and not . . .
“Daemon.” Surreal
took his face in her hands. “Freely given, freely taken. Just for
tonight. So neither of us will be alone tonight. All
right?”
She wasn’t a child,
and the dream he’d waited for had come and gone.
My father is dead.
He allowed himself a
moment to consider nothing except what he needed
tonight.
“Come with me.”
Clasping her hand, he led her out of the sitting room, not sure
where he was going, not caring where he was going as long as they
ended up in a room with a bed.
Except when he
reached the first available room, he hesitated, and then bared his
teeth in a snarl before he moved on, searching for something
because now it was more than a desire for comfort and sex driving
him, and that something was tangled
around this particular woman.
By the time he found
the room that felt right, he didn’t know where he was in the Hall
and he didn’t care. It had a bed, and it had her. Heat pulsed in
his veins, but it burned in her too because she tore at his shirt
in order to touch skin, and her purr of satisfaction as she ran her
hands over his chest and shoulders tripped something inside him. A
moment before, he’d been pulling at her clothes too. Now he became
savagely gentle, letting her strip him down before he used Craft to
cuff her hands behind her back.
“Sadi,” she
snarled.
Using Craft, he
pulled back the covers and plumped up the pillows.
“Want me?” he
purred.
Aroused past
prudence, she tried to bite him.
He laughed, but he
said, “Do that again, and the only thing you’ll get is a cold
shower.”
She swore at him but
let him coax her into bed. Then she swore some more while he played
with her, stroking, petting, kissing, and licking until she was too
caught up in sensation to form words. He gave her small climaxes
that eased the need without eliminating the need, and enjoyed the
slow emergence of her skin as he removed her clothing piece by
piece.
Finally he released
her hands and slid into her, relishing each moan and plea for more.
So he gave her more. And then, when he couldn’t hold back his own
need for release, he gave her everything.
Surreal drifted up to
awareness. For the first time in weeks, maybe longer, she felt
relaxed, easy. There was some soreness, but that was to be expected
since she hadn’t had a man inside her for three years. She
suspected she would find a few bruises from the times when Sadi had
edged into rough play, but nothing she hadn’t asked for—and he
probably had a few bruises of his own from her hands and
teeth.
She hoped he wasn’t
going to get pissy when he saw them.
She wanted to float a
while longer, keeping her thoughts confined to the delicious feel
of the bed and Daemon’s hand resting on her belly, warm and heavy.
But when she opened her eyes ...
Her vision had been
so tear-blurred last night, and Sadi had taken them through so many
corridors to find a discreet bedroom, she hadn’t known where they
ended up. And last night the room hadn’t mattered, as long as it
had a bed or sofa. Hell’s fire, last night she wouldn’t have cared
if they’d ended up on the floor. But now ...
His psychic scent was
much too prominent for this to be a seldom-used bedroom. Maybe this
was the bedroom he used when a woman stayed overnight for sex? The
thought cut, but she’d asked for something they both needed last
night, and she’d told him it was freely given. So she couldn’t
quibble now if he hadn’t seen it differently from the other sex
he’d had since he’d been anyone’s lover. Even if those other women
hadn’t recognized the difference, she’d lived around him long
enough to know that Daemon as a sex partner, even when he was
giving great sex, paled in comparison with Daemon as a
lover.
That thought added a
wash of sadness over her contentment. Better to slip out now and go
back to her suite to clean up and maybe get another hour of sleep.
She would meet him at the breakfast table as if they’d parted
company in the family sitting room and spent the night in their own
beds.
She started to shift,
to slide out from under his hand. Except the fingers suddenly
pressed down on her belly and the nails pricked in
warning.
“Going somewhere?”
Daemon crooned as he rose up on one elbow and looked down at
her.
It was still too dark
to see his face, his eyes. But that particular timbre in the deep
voice had her heart racing. She knew the Sadist’s voice when she
heard it.
His hand didn’t
actually press down on her belly, but it felt heavier, more ...
possessive.
Then he turned back
the covers for her at the same time a light appeared through a
half-closed door on the opposite side of the room. Enough light to
see the room—and to see his eyes.
Not quite the Sadist.
But not Daemon either. He was riding a side of his nature that was
somewhere between the two.
She slipped out of
bed and walked into the bathroom, too aware that a predator watched
her and was considering if she too was a predator and required
careful handling or if she was prey.
She used the toilet,
then let water run in the sink to wash her face and stall for
time.
They weren’t in a
guest room. She’d seen enough to realize the room was too personal
to be any kind of guest room. His bedroom, then. The Consort’s
suite, since he hadn’t moved out of the room next to Jaenelle’s. A
swift, careful probe confirmed he’d put Black shields in the walls
and Black locks on the doors. No way for her to get out of this
room until he let her go.
Mother
Night.
A Warlord Prince’s bedroom is his private place, and he
tends to be more possessive when he’s there. So if you’re invited
into his bedroom, you want to be more careful in how you deal with
him.
At the time, Surreal
had thought Jaenelle’s mind had begun wandering because of old age,
especially because those kinds of comments had usually come when
they were alone and working on some chore not even remotely related
to the subject matter.
Which was why all
those comments had stuck in her mind.
“Hell’s fire,”
Surreal whispered as she dried her face. Jaenelle’s mind hadn’t
wandered. She’d been giving lessons in a way that wouldn’t be
resisted—and wouldn’t be forgotten.
Damned if he
understood why they had ended up here, except that he’d needed to
have her in this room, in this bed.
You’re only eighteen hundred years old, Daemon. You are
not going to spend the rest of your life
celibate.
You don’t think I can? he’d crooned.
I know you can. That’s why I want you to promise me that
you won’t. No one will think you’re being unfaithful if you find
another lover after the year of mourning. You’re not going to spend
the rest of your life without that kind of companionship or
comfort. If you’re not comfortable accepting that as a request from
your wife, consider it a command from your
Queen.
Cornered. He hadn’t
liked making that promise, and he hadn’t liked the sex much. Even
when he’d enjoyed it physically, he hadn’t liked it much because of
the expectations that always seemed to shroud the bed. And because
he usually dreamed about Hekatah and Dorothea afterward. He didn’t
need more of a reminder than that of what could happen if a man got
careless and had sex with a woman who rode a cock in order to ride
ambition.
Besides, something
had been missing from the bed with the women he’d pleasured that
had made even the best sex a disappointment for him.
That elusive
something wasn’t missing last night, though.
The water in the
bathroom shut off, and his attention sharpened.
He’d have to think
about why last night was different. Later.
Daemon hadn’t moved
at all during her time in the bathroom.
“It’s early,” he
crooned. “Come back to bed.”
Not a lot of
choices.
She slipped into bed,
not sure what to expect. Arousal was dominant in his psychic scent,
so she wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d rolled on top of her.
After all, he was the dominant male in Kaeleer, and that much power
had privileges no other male could claim.
Instead, he pulled
the covers up high enough to cover her breasts. Then his fingers
lightly stroked her hair, combing it away from her
face.
“How are you?” he
asked, his voice still in that dangerous croon.
“All
right.”
“Sore?”
“A little.” She
didn’t dare so much as tweak the truth. Not with him. Not
now.
His fingers drifted
to her temple, down her jaw, over her neck and shoulders. So light.
So delicate.
Her heart stopped
racing as she relaxed under that delicate touch. When he eased the
covers down to her hips, she didn’t protest, barely noticed because
those fingers kept drifting along her skin, making her
float.
A brush of thumb over
hard nipple made her whimper—and whimper even louder because he
stopped touching.
“Pain?” he asked.
Then his mouth closed over that nipple, and what he did with his
tongue stopped just shy of pain. “Stop?”
She curled her
fingers in his hair to hold him in place. “Not if you want to
live.” It was meant as a growl but came out a different kind of
whimper.
After he gave her
breasts sufficient attention, he kissed her mouth, hot and full.
Then he said, “Do you want more, or do you want to
leave?”
It took her a moment
to realize she understood the words. He could sense her arousal,
psychic and physical, but if she said she wanted to leave, he would
release the lock on the door and let her go with no protest, no
show of temper or disappointment. When a man belonged to the most
dangerous caste of male, a display of temper in bed could be seen
as coercion far too easily.
It took her even less
than a moment to realize he would probably never make this
invitation again, and while she’d had some men who were good
lovers—and a few who had been excellent in bed—she had never been
with anyone who could make a woman feel like he did.
“I want more,” she
said.
He slid over her,
slid into her as she opened for him.
As the sun slowly
brightened the room, he rode her delicately, lazily, and so
thoroughly he made her feel things she hadn’t ever dreamed were
possible.