Daemon drained his glass, then set it aside. “This is all very interesting, but what does it have to do with the other spooky house?”
There was no twinkle in Khary’s eyes now. “We think Jarvis Jenkell is creating a place as vengeance against the Blood.”
A short flight of stairs to a landing. Turn and go up the other flight of stairs and reach the second floor. How in the name of Hell could it take so long, and why did the stairs seem to be going off at an angle? And where did the damn draft come from that blew out the candle, leaving her in the pitch-dark since she wasnot going to use Craft to relight it? And why couldn’t she see the lamps or the other candle?
And if he was at the top of the stairs waiting for her, why didn’t Rainier answer her?
Daemon poured another brandy for himself, refilled Khary’s glass, then settled back in his chair. “Explain.”
Khary scrubbed his curly brown hair with the fingers of one hand, then cupped his glass with both hands. “This is guesses based on rumors and hints. Fiona kept insisting that she didn’tknow anything.”
“But…?”
“Since Jenkell’s other books were read and well received by both Blood and landens, he was stunned by the Blood’s reaction to the Landry Langston stories.”
“Because we found his portrayal of the Blood so excruciatingly bad it was amusing?” Daemon paused and considered. “If he’d just found out he was Blood while he was writing the first story…”
“Then the story was a barely disguised announcement to the entire Realm that he was Blood—and no one realized it. Especially the Blood.” Khary drank some brandy. “So a few months ago, Jenkell began hinting about the story for his next Landry Langston book.”
“His character gets trapped in a spooky house?” Daemon guessed.
“I believe he called it a haunted house, but the same idea. Except that his character would be fighting for his life against traps and dangers instead of being entertained by a few illusion spells. Anyway, a few days afterthat , the story started spreading that Jaenelle was creating a spooky house—and before someone warned Jenkell to hold his tongue, he was spewing that Jaenelle hadstolen his idea. Fiona was at that writers’ gathering, so she approached Jenkell to assure him that his idea of a haunted house would be vastly different from anything Jaenelle would consider, since he was writing a mystery story and Jaenelle was creating an entertainment for children. But he seemed offended that a ‘White-Jeweled bitch’ would dare talk to him. Then he said something about how unjust it was that a mediocre writer like her could be acquainted with the Queen of Ebon Askavi andhe wasn’t even given the courtesy of an audience with the Lady. He left the party right after that and hasn’t been seen since.”
Daemon opened the bottom drawer of his desk and removed the book he’d stashed there. A copy of the second Landry Langston novel, sent to him by Jenkell. The inscription read, “From one Brother of the Blood to another.”
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 thatsomething 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?”