“That was seventeen years ago.” A chill went through Daemon, but he couldn’t tell if it was temper or fear. “You haven’t drunk yarbarah or fresh blood for seventeen years?”
It began making sense—the slow decline, the absence of the Black Jewels that Saetan no longer wore, his seldom being available anymore during daylight hours.
“You’re changing from Guardian to demon-dead, aren’t you? You’ve lied to us for seventeen years?”
Saetan’s eyes glazed with temper. “I don’t have to explain myself to you.”
“Oh, yes, you do. And we both know why, don’t we, Prince SaDiablo?”
“Yes, we both know why,” Saetan replied with a snarl. “But I’m not the only one who has kept a secret, am I, High Lord?”
Daemon rocked back on his heels. Then he glided from one end of the sitting room to the other, too restless to stand still.
“I didn’t want that for you,” Saetan said quietly. “I didn’t expect that from you. To manage the family estates, yes. But not that.”
“I am my father’s son,” Daemon said just as quietly as he glided past. “Is that why you’ve let yourself decline? Because I intruded?”
“No, Daemon. No. Witch was the daughter of my soul. She was the reason I became a Guardian and extended my years for so long. I never intended to live beyond her.”
When he reached his father again, Daemon stopped. “But it’s different now. You have children who still need you, grandchildren who need you.”
“The same can be said for every father who loves his children. We all die—and we all have to let go, both the dead and the living.”
It’s not fair! But that was a boy’s cry, a response to losing someone he loved. The man who had been cautiously exploring Hell for the past few decades understood why the dead needed to be kept away from the living most of the time.
“How long before you make the transition to demon-dead?” Daemon asked.
“A few months.”
“And how long after that before the final death?”
Saetan hesitated. “A few years.”
“A dozen or more?”
“A handful or less.”
So damn hard to breathe. Why was it so hard to breathe? “Are you going to tell Lucivar?”
Saetan closed his eyes for a moment. “And confirm what he’s already guessed? If you think it will help him accept it, then I will.”
“Whether he accepts it or not, you owe it to him.” Daemon took another turn around the room. “Why didn’t you tell us?”
“Do you want the truth?”
“Of course I want the truth!”
“I didn’t tell Lucivar because I didn’t want to spend a couple of decades fighting with him over a choice that is mine to make—and that is as much a part of living as every other choice. I wanted to enjoy the time I could have with him and Marian and Daemonar.”
“And me?” Daemon asked. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Saetan took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “Because you are your father’s son. You put aside mourning, as Jaenelle wanted you to, but you didn’t let her go enough to take up your life.”
Cold rage whispered in his blood. “Be careful, old man.”
Saetan smiled. “Yes. That look in your eyes. That’s why I didn’t tell you. You weren’t ready to accept another loss because her absence still haunts you, still hurts you.”
“I’ve ‘taken up my life,’ as you put it,” Daemon snarled.
“You’ve given in to your body’s needs and had sex with a woman on occasion, but you haven’t had a lover,” Saetan countered. “When loneliness eats at you enough, you respond to an invitation that offers more companionship than sex—at least for a while.You might even feel some affection for the woman once you do get to the bedding stage. But she’s still not a lover. Not to you. Then one day she stops drinking the contraceptive brew and comes to you ripe and fertile—and you can scent it in her body and in her emotions. That’s the day you walk away from her without a second thought. Because you don’t—can’t—love her, and while you trust a few women enough to have sex with them, you don’t trust them with the possibility of having your child. And some part of you is afraid that if you ever do trust a woman that much, she will be the wrong woman, and you’ll end up betrayed just as I was.”
Daemon said nothing.
“I knew that when you were ready to face my leaving, we would have this conversation,” Saetan said gently.
“And now we have.” The words came out colder than he’d intended. He had escorted many women over the past few years while fulfilling his obligations as the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan. But he’d bedded damn few of them, far fewer than Saetan assumed. He could get physical relief well enough without a partner, so he’d given in to the craving to touch another body only a handful of times since he’d last kissed his wife. And the last invitation he’d accepted, the one that seemed to offend Surreal for some inexplicable reason, had scratched at memories of being a pleasure slave. Instead of bringing some comfort, the sex had left him feeling dangerously mean. Because he knew too well what the Sadist wanted to do to that woman, Beale now had strict orders to keep the bitch out of the Hall, and Holt, his secretary, now checked the guest list for her name before accepting any invitations on behalf of his Prince.
Pushing aside his personal life, Daemon considered his duties. “When you decided to retire from the living Realms, you taught me what I needed to know to take over the family estates and fortune. Are you going to teach me what I need to know about Hell, or is that something I’m expected to learn for myself?”
Saetan studied him for a long moment. “I’ll teach you. It’s the least I can do for my heir.”
FOUR
“ Would you like to hold her?” Marian asked.
“No,” Surreal said quickly. Maybe. Where was this yearning to hold a baby coming from? “I think my mother would have been flattered that you named your daughter Titian.”
“And you?”
“I’m . . .” She sighed. “As the Shaladoran people say, my heart is too full for words.”
Marian smiled at Surreal. Then she looked at Titian. “This little bundle is asleep, and Daemonar will be in school for a couple more hours. Why don’t we go into the kitchen? I seem to be outeating my men since the birth. It’s a little scary.”