The thing on the other side…
Surreal’s first impression was of an engorged, somewhat malformed Eyrien male combined with something made of smoke. Wisps of black smoke rose from its body, obscuring the separation between the male and the night. The eyes glowed red like stoked coals.
She saw those things in the moment before it grabbed Kester, before the Opal shield around the boy was shattered by a bolt of darker power. Before Kester’s blood sprayed over the hallway.
Neither she nor Rainier had time to react, to strike back before the creature and boy disappeared—and she stared at a door that opened onto nothing but a brick wall.
“Mother Night,” Rainier said.
“Well,” Surreal said, wondering if anyone else could hear her heart pounding, “now we know someone who wore a Jewel darker than Opal was killed and trapped in this house.”
Rainier looked at the remaining four children, who were just staring at the front door. Then he looked at Surreal, and she saw bleak resignation instead of hope. “Yeah. Now we know.”
Nothing Rainier could have done. If the Eyrien could break an Opal shield, a blast of Opal power wouldn’t have stopped him from killing the boy. A blast of her Gray might have stopped him, but like Rainier, she had hesitated, had choked back her natural reaction—and the moment when it might have made a difference was gone. Lost. Just like the boy.
"Did you recognize the Eyrien?" Rainier asked.
Surreal shook her head. "He wasn’t from Ebon Rih, but there were plenty of Eyriens who came in during the service fairs and accepted service in other parts of Askavi—or other Territories altogether."
"Whoever devised this place killed two Black Widows and an Eyrien warrior."
"An Eyrien isn’t any harder to kill than any other man if you can slip a knife between the ribs when he’s not expecting it."
"I doubt we’ll get that close," Rainier said. "If he comes at us, it will be a straight fight."
And without Craft, neither of them had the training or skill needed to face an Eyrien who’d had centuries to hone his fighting skills.
Right now, there was nothing they could do about the Eyrien—or the other dead.
“Let’s check out the sitting room,” she said.
Rainier rounded up the children, and they all entered the sitting room in a tight little pack. Then Rainier swore softly.
“Thisis different,” he said.
It should have been the same room, and it wasn’t. Obvious differences, with no attempt to hide them.
“We should be in the sitting room where we started,” Rainier said. “Since we’re not, where in the name of Hell are we?”
She shook her head. “Don’t know. But let’s see what we’ve got in here.”
They poked at sofa and chair cushions, swept the pokers under furniture to roust anything that might be hidden. There was a bowl of grapes on the table behind the sofa. Nothing noticeably wrong with them, but she said, “Hands off” when the children looked at them—and wondered if they’d actually obey her this time or if someone else would get killed.
The painting over the fireplace wasn’t a portrait as such. It was a man and a woman. He stood behind his lover, his arms around her, his mouth pressed to her bare neck. But as Surreal watched, his arms tightened to restrain. The woman’s eyes opened, and they were filled with fear and resignation. The man’s kiss changed into a bite. No pretense of lover now, just a predator. Blood dribbled down the woman’s pale skin and stained her white dress.
Surreal moved closer, raised her candle, and read the brass plaque attached to the painting’s wood frame. Then she snorted.
“What?” Rainier asked, hurrying to join her.
“The painting is calledRut. ”
Rainier studied the painting for a moment, then turned away.
“On behalf of my caste, I’m not sure if I should be insulted or relieved.”
“Why?”
He gave her a look. Then he said, “Whoever painted that has never seen a Warlord Prince in rut.”
Why?Why? He’d had that painting created based on solid information, and had paid extra for that particular illusion spell. Why was this male so dismissive of what he was seeing?
Warlord Princes were known to be extremely violent when they were caught in the sexual madness known as the rut. The women they used were brutalized fordays . While the Blood didn’t talk about it much, it wasn’t one of their damnsecrets.
Why had the whore dismissed the violent message of the woman’s fate? Shehad to know the fate of such women. They were pampered and imprisoned—and used for the rut until their minds and bodies were too broken for even a sex-maddened beast to ride. That’s what he’d been told.
On the other hand, he hadn’t realized her companion was a Warlord Prince. Too bad there were still some children with them. Otherwise, he might have gotten some sizzling, firsthand information about Blood lust.
Then again, seeing as they were a Warlord Prince and a whore, maybe they wouldn’t be inhibited by an audience—even the audience they could see.
They checked the room, then checked it again. Either there was nothing dangerous in the sitting room or they hadn’t done the combination of things that would trigger it. There was wood for a fire, but they both felt uneasy about opening the flue. She didn’t know if she and Rainier were sensing a real potential danger or if they’d just reached the point where they were spooked byeverything in the house. But the uneasy feeling was strong enough that they decided to make do with the dusty, musty throws they’d found in a chest in one corner of the room.
"Do we shield the room?" Rainier asked.
She nodded. "A Gray shield around the room."
They’d already seen that Rainier’s power wouldn’t be strong enough to protect them, so that would be her task. She would be the one closing off another potential way out of this damn place. But it needed to be done, and it was the smart thing to do.
She still flinched when the gong sounded after she shielded the room.
Rainier rested a hand on her shoulder, unspoken agreement and comfort.
They’d left the sitting room door open while they’d checked the room. Now they moved together to close the door and lock it.
As she started to push the door closed, Rainier sucked in a breath and swore softly.
Trist stood in the hallway. She could see the torn chest and belly through his ripped clothes. She looked straight at the face that was coated in blood on the side that had the empty eye socket.
But this wasn’t Trist. Wasn’t evencildru dyathe. This was an illusion spell called a shadow, an image created from a little blood and a lot of Craft.
Jaenelle could create a shadow that looked and acted and felt so real, even touching it didn’t reveal the truth of its nature. But this…The boy stood with the woodenness of a puppet. Effective enough during that first jolt of seeing him, but clearly a trick just the same.
The shadow Trist smiled at them and said, “The worst is still to come.”
Then it vanished.
Surreal closed the door—and swore when the door vanished too.
Rainier studied the wall, then shook his head and took a step back. “If that’s an illusion, I can’t tell without touching the wall.”
“Which would put your hand on the wrong side of the shield.” Surreal looked around, swore, and pointed to the back wall. “That wasn’t there before.”
A door. She had created her shield a hand span away from the walls to avoid triggering any spells that might bein the walls. Looked like she’d made the right choice. Still, in the morning, the only way out of the room was through a door that held who knew what on the other side.
She took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. “Next?”
“Food and water,” Rainier said. “We’ll use my stash.”
He didn’t expect to get out of the house, Surreal realized. If he died and made the transition to demon-dead, he might get pulled into the spells and become an enemy instead of still fighting with her. If that happened, she wouldn’t have access to the supplies he carried. That’s why he wanted to use his supplies first. But neither of them actually put that into words.
The other thing neither of them said was that she would be able to destroy him, to finish the kill, but ifshe was the one who died and turned on him, he wouldn’t be able to survive her attack. So keeping her alive was the only chance that one of them would get out of this house.
He called in a jug of water and a chill box that was inside a large wicker picnic hamper—the kind that had a separate compartment to carry dishes, glasses, and silverware.
Surreal blinked. She’d brought water, yes. Always carried some with her. But her stash of food was four apples she grabbed from a bowl in the town house’s kitchen as she and Rainier were leaving.
“You carry a chill box?”
He looked puzzled. “Why not?”
She didn’t answer that, too busy wondering if a chill box was something all escorts kept with them or if this was just Rainier.
He opened the chill box’s lid and pulled out a whole roasted chicken, a small wheel of cheese, and three apples.
“What, no sweet?” she teased.
“The chicken had already been cooked when we changed our plans for the evening. We didn’t get much dinner, since we rushed to get here—”
She snorted.
“—so I figured a harvest picnic after viewing the house would be appropriate.” "And I did bring a sweet," he added, "but it’s not in the chill box, so you’ll have to do without."
She grinned at him and opened the compartment that held the silverware and dishes.
They were joking, smiling, eating! How could they find anything amusing? Why weren’t theyafraid ?
The worst was still to come, but they had managed to shut out all his pets. Nothing in that room but a couple of the little, creepy spells, and the bitch had already spoiled one of them by not letting the children eat the grapes. Unless the Warlord Prince insisted on sex, nothing interesting would happen while they stayed in that room.