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.”
Surreal laughed softly as they walked from the parlor to the kitchen. Having arrived in time to help clean up the carnage Lucivar and Daemonar called breakfast, she didn’t think anyone could outeat those two, but she’d been told to encourage any desire Marian had for food.
Setting the baby’s basket at one end of the kitchen table, Marian rummaged in the cold box.
“Looks like there’s a couple good servings left of this vegetable casserole. And there’s a beef soup, and . . .” Marian looked over her shoulder. “Just tell me what you have a taste for. I can probably find it in one of these dishes.”
Surreal looked at the overflowing counters and the cold box that didn’t have room left in it for a spoon. “Is it traditional to provide this much food to a new mother’s family? Seems a little excessive.”
“How many dishes did you bring with you this morning?” Marian asked.
She set her teeth in a smile. “I suggested waiting a week to send the offerings from the Dea al Mon, the Hall, and my house. I was overruled—and anyone who thinks hearth witches are gentle, fuzzy-hearted women has never dealt with Mrs. Beale.”
“Mrs. Beale is an excellent cook, but she isn’t a hearth witch,” Marian countered.
“I don’t care.”
Chuckling, Marian pulled covered dishes out of the cold box. “We’ll have the vegetable casserole and some of that crusty bread.”
“Suits me.”
“And after we eat, you can tell me what’s wrong.”
“Nothing is wrong. Hey hey hey! You’re not supposed to be using Craft yet!”
“Keep your voice down,” Marian warned, glancing at Titian’s basket. Then she raised the dish. “It’s just a warming spell. Basic Craft. Nothing that requires power on the level of my Jewels, or any Jewel for that matter. Even Lucivar doesn’t fuss about me using this much Craft, and he fussed about everything through the whole of this pregnancy.”
“I don’t care if he’d fuss about it—you’re not doing it while he’s gone.” Surreal took the casserole dish, set it above the counter, and put a warming spell on the dish to heat up the food in a few minutes.
“Is it all right if I make the coffee?” Marian asked too sweetly.
“I’m not being unreasonable about this.”
“Yes, you are. But that’s because something is wrong, and you won’t talk about it.”
“Nothing is wrong,” Surreal growled.
“I saw your face this morning when Daemon’s name came up.”
She had learned the hard way that emotions left to fester could turn into a poison, so she moved to the other end of the kitchen, away from the table and the baby.
“For most of the years he and Jaenelle were married, I shielded Sadi from bitches who wanted to see how seriously he took his marriage vows, especially during the later years of Jaenelle’s life. Some of us have not forgotten what happened when Lektra tried to take Jaenelle’s place—or that Daemon threatened to kill all the Dhemlan witches if anyone tried to get between him and his wife again. I’ve made a particular effort to keep one bitch away from him, even after he began escorting women to social events. I can’t tell you her real name because I’ve been calling her ‘Dorothea’ since the day I met her.”
“Mother Night,” Marian whispered.
“I protected him for years. And the first time I spend a few days with the Dea al Mon and he’s in Amdarh on his own for some social obligations, he ends up sleeping with the bitch.” Surreal raked her fingers through her hair. “I don’t know what that says about him—if he’s become that lonely or that unaware of the intentions of the women who are all but stripping down in public to get his attention—but I do know the family history, and I do know Sadi is his father’s son. Anyone who knows those things has good reason to be afraid of what could happen if his temper snaps the wrong way. The purge in Dhemlan would be devastating.”
“Do you think he’d . . . ?” Marian cleared her throat. “Of course he would. What happened to the Dorothea woman?”
“Nothing as far as I can tell. I think she was hoping to keep him interested long enough to get pregnant, but it appears that something about her repulsed him once she got him into bed, and he’s avoided her since then.”
“So she’s not pregnant?” Marian asked.
Surreal shook her head. “No. Thank the Darkness.” Then she sighed. “He needs someone, Marian. He would deny it with his last breath, but he needs someone to cuddle and fuss over.”
“If he and Jaenelle had had children . . .” Now Marian sighed.
“Yeah. But they didn’t.”
“Not all the women who are interested in being with him are calculating bitches, are they?”
“No, some of them are young, starry-eyed, and love the Prince they see at social functions with all their hearts. But they haven’t seen the cold side of him. They haven’t seen the Sadist. And they think if he made any kind of commitment to them, he would love them the way he loved Jaenelle.”
“She was the love of his life,” Marian said. “He’ll never love another woman the way he loved her.”
“No, he won’t. And sooner or later, any of those starry-eyed girls would break and become bitter under the truth of that. And when they became bitter, he would become colder and more distant—and less capable of giving any woman any kind of affection.” And that would be a waste of a good man.
Marian’s eyes filled with tears. She waved a hand when Surreal touched her shoulder. “Just moods. Happens for a while after the birth. I feel too much.” She looked toward the counter. “And you’d better get that casserole out of the dish while it’s still edible.”
“Shit.” For the next few minutes they busied themselves with putting the food on the table and getting themselves settled.
Marian cut a piece of the crusty bread and handed it to Surreal. “Do you think it’s foolish to wish that Daemon finds someone to love again someday?”
“No,” Surreal said, looking at Titian asleep in her basket. “I don’t think wishing is foolish.”
As the Weaver of Dreams tended the tangled web that Witch had left in the golden spiders’ care, she listened to longings, yearnings, and wishes that resonated with that web—and added more threads.
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.”