The frown deepened. “LordSocks ? What was his name originally?”
A blush stained Jaenelle’s cheeks. “I couldn’t remember, and the puppy won’t say. When I asked Ladvarian, he said, ‘Socks is an easy name for humans to remember.’”
“The little prick,” Daemon muttered.
She laughed.
Then she looked at him in a way that filled his stomach with butterflies.Nervous butterflies.
Everything has a price, old son. You made a promise. It’s time to pay the debt. Time to pay off all the debts, actually.
“I have an appointment this evening,” Daemon said. “I was waiting for you to return home before I left.”
A subtle change in her eyes, in her psychic scent.
“An appointment,” Witch said.
Not a question. Seventy-two hours had passed since he’d set his little game in motion. He had no doubt the first half of the debt had been paid in full. Now it was time to end it.
And Witch knew it.
“I’ve already informed Mrs. Beale that I won’t be home for dinner.” Informed Beale, actually. He’d hadn’t wanted to be the one to tell Mrs. Beale—and her meat cleaver—just in case she’d already begun preparations for the evening meal. “After I return, I’m available for whatever help you want with your spooky house.”
Her smile was female. Feline. More than a little bit terrifying.
“I’ll look forward to it,” she said.
Hell’s fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful.
After Jaenelle walked out of the study, he sat there for several minutes, giving himself time to grow some bone back into his legs and strap some steel to his spine.
He’d made a promise to his Queen. To his wife. And he would keep it.
But he had another promise to keep first.
Pressed into a corner, Jarvis Jenkell curled up a little tighter.
Her little surprises are now more in keeping with your intentions for this house. They all have teeth.That’s what Sadi had said about Tersa’s illusions. And he’d been right.
The beetles. The spiders. Even the skeleton mice.
The beetles were the worst. Swarming all over him whenever he tried to rest, swelling up, and then…Thoseteeth ! Biting through his clothes. Biting through his skin. Chewing their way into him. Then gone, leaving no marks, no trace. But his flesh remembered the sensation, the pain. Just like the flesh remembered…
No scuff of shoe on wood. No sound at all. But he knew he was no longer alone. Knew what was going to happen. Again. Knew the pleasure would be as cold-blooded and merciless as the pain.
And no longer knew which was worse to endure.
The Sadist had arrived.
“Let this end,” Jarvis whispered. “I’m begging you. Let this end.”
The Sadist stared at him, a measuring regard.
“Yes,” Daemon said softly. “The debt to the SaDiablo family has been paid in full.” He took a step toward Jarvis. Took another. “Now it’s time to pay the debt you owe the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan.”
Witchfire took the house, and it burned fast and hard. Witchfire formed a carpet where grass had once grown, and burned fierce enough to partially melt the wrought-iron fence that surrounded the property.
Witchfire, fueled by a Black Jewel, burned through the spells and consumed the power that remained in the Blood who had been trapped in the house; it finished the kill and freed them to become a whisper in the Darkness.
With one exception.
The boy sneaked glances at the Warlord Prince who had rescued him from the house. The Prince hadsaid he was the Eyrien Prince’s brother, and the boy wasn’t about to call him a liar—even if this Princedidn’t have wings.
Besides, even though the man hadn’t done anything tohim , the boy was pretty surethis Prince was even scarier than the Eyrien Prince.
“Will I have to go to school?” the boy asked. “I’m dead, so I shouldn’t have to go to school.”
“That’s something you’ll have to discuss with the High Lord,” the Prince said.
“Oh.”
The man’s eyes were glazed, and the boy had been taught to avoid Warlord Princes when their eyes were glazed because that’s when they were the most dangerous. But since he’d ended up dead because the Jenkell man had tricked him into coming to the spooky house, he figured it was better to ask about thingsnow.
“I like learning about some stuff,” the boy offered.
A little warmth came into those cold eyes. “Then you should mention that.” The Prince looked at the villagers who were running toward the fire. “Come on, puppy. It’s time to leave.”
He followed the Prince to the small Coach—and hoped the place he was going would be nicer than the spooky house.
Even if he did have to go to school.
Saetan felt the cold ripples in the abyss, rising up from the depth of the Black, and knew what was coming.Who was coming.
He set aside the stack of books he’d been cataloging and looked at Geoffrey. “Why don’t you go into the other room and warm up some yarbarah for us?”“Why would I need to go into the other room?” Following the direction of Saetan’s gaze, Geoffrey looked at the door. Then he retreated to the small room that served as his office.
Saetan waited. Felt the storm coming closer.
When he’d heard what had happened in that Dhemlan village, he’d known why it was Lucivar who had come to the Keep to give him a report. And he’d known why—and when—Daemon would walk through that door.
The door opened. His beautiful, lethal son stood framed in the doorway.
Saetan stood very still as he studied those cold, glazed eyes.
“Did Lucivar tell you about thecildru dyathe boy?” Daemon asked.
“He told me.”
“I brought him here.”
“That’s fine. I’ll find a place for him.”
He knew the brutality involved in a slow execution. There were times when the executioner also paid a price for the Blood’s kind of justice.
“Is there anything else?” Saetan asked.
Their eyes met. Held.
“You were right,” Daemon said too softly. “I’ll never lose that edge.”
Daemon walked away.
The library door closed with obscene gentleness.
Saetan felt the tremor run through him and allowed himself to indulge in a moment of queasiness—and sympathy. Daemon had killed before, and he had no doubt Daemon would kill again. But there was something different about a formal execution that was done because duty required it. That was done in a particular way because duty required it.
Extract the price. Make sure the blood debt was paid in full.
He didn’t turn when Geoffrey walked back into the room and held out a glass of warmed yarbarah.
“You didn’t ask him what he did,” Geoffrey said.
Saetan took the glass of yarbarah and stared at the blood wine for a long moment before he looked at his friend.
“He’s a mirror, Geoffrey. I didn’t have to ask.”
Daemon braced his hands on the shower wall and let the hot water flow over him.
He could no longer count how many of the Blood he had killed in his seventeen hundred years. Some had been a fast slash of temper; others had been exquisitely, hideously slow dances of agony.
He’d never felt dirty about making a kill. Until today.
Because it wasn’t personal. The game he’d played with Jenkell? Yes, that was personal. He’d shaped the Sadist into a shadow and let him slip the leash. But the pain and terror he’d wrung from Jenkell during the execution…That hadn’t been for himself. Hadn’t even been for Rainier or Surreal. That had been done for those unknown people he had agreed to protect when he became the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan.
He hoped with all his heart that it would be decades before he had to do something like that again.
Since water would get his body clean but wouldn’t cleanse his heart, he finished up and did his best to mentally prepare for the next part of the evening.
Jazen was waiting for him when he walked back into the Consort’s bedroom.
“No costume?” Daemon asked, looking at the clothes laid out on the bed.
“The Lady felt your regular attire would best suit her plans for the evening.”
Mother Night.
On the other hand, this was better than he’d expected.
“Consider yourself off duty for the rest of the evening,” Daemon said.
“But—”
“Go. Or you’ll be the next person who volunteers to help with the spooky house.”
On behalf of his wife, he felt a little insulted at the speed in which Jazen left the room.
He dressed with care and even added some face paint to subtly enhance his eyes and make his lips more sensual. That wasn’t for his participation in the spooky house; that was for the woman.
When he opened the connecting door and went into Jaenelle’s bedroom, he was glad he’d made the extra effort. And he was glad there wasn’t another male in this wing of the house because one look at her made him edgy and needy.
He chained lust, but it simmered in his blood. He chained need and let his senses feast on the woman before him.
The material looked like watercolors spilled over moonbeams that were then shaped into a gown. So vibrant and yet so delicate—he wasn’t sure if it was real or an illusion. She wore a skin-colored sheath underneath the gown, but that, too, was so sheer he could see the shadows of her nipples through both layers of cloth.
He didn’t dare look below her waist because that, he was sure, would bring him to his knees and break his self-control.
Her golden hair was long again and unrestrained, as it had been before she’d been injured last year. The hair was an illusion, and intriguing, but he was a trifle disappointed that it hid the spot on her neck that he found so enticing.
He crossed the room and stopped when he was close enough to touch her. But he didn’t touch. Not yet.
“What do you want from me?” he asked, his voice having more of a seductive edge than usual.Please want something from me.