Heir to the Shadows (43 page)

"I don't know."

"Then if forgetting Daemon was the price that had to be paid in order to keep those memories at bay until you were strong enough to face them. ... He would say it was a fair price."

"It's very easy to make statements about what Daemon would say since he's not here to deny them, isn't it?" Tears filled her eyes.

"You're forgetting something, little witch," Lucivar said sharply. "He's my brother, and he's a Warlord Prince. I've known him longer and far better than you."

Jaenelle shifted on the bench. "I don't blame you for what happened to him. The High Lord—"

"If you're going to demand that the High Lord shoulder the blame for Daemon being in the Twisted Kingdom, then you're going to have to shovel some of that blame onto me as well."

She twisted around to face him, her eyes chilly.

Lucivar took a deep breath. "He came to get me out of Pruul. He wanted me to go with him. And I refused to go because I thought he had killed you, that he was the one who had raped you."

"Daemon?"

Lucivar swore viciously. "Sometimes you can be incredibly naive. You have no idea what Daemon is capable of doing when he goes cold."

"You really believed that?"

He braced bis head in his hands. "There was so much blood, so much pain. I couldn't get past the grief to think clearly enough to doubt what I'd been told. And when I accused him, he didn't deny it."

Jaenelle looked thoughtful. "He seduced me. Well, seduced Witch. When we were in the abyss."

"He what?" Lucivar asked with deadly calm.

"Don't get snarly," Jaenelle snapped. "It was a trick to make me heal the body. He didn't really want me.

Her. He didn't ..." Her voice trailed away. She waited a minute before continuing. "He said he'd been waiting for Witch all his life. That he'd been born to be her lover. But then he didn't want to be her lover."

"Hell's fire, Cat," Lucivar exploded. "You were a twelve-year-old who had recently been raped. What did you expect him to do?"

"I wasn't twelve in the abyss."

Lucivar narrowed his eyes, wondering what she meant by that.

"He lied to me," she said in a small voice.

"No, he didn't. He meant exactly what he said. If you had been eighteen and had offered him the Consort's ring,

you would have found that out quick enough." Lucivar stared at the blurry garden. He cleared his throat.

"Saetan loves you, Cat. And you love him. He did what he had to do to save his Queen. He did what any Warlord Prince would do. If you can't forgive him, how will you ever be able to forgive me?"

"Oh, Lucivar." Sobbing, Jaenelle threw her arms around him.

Lucivar held her, petted her, took aching comfort from the way she held him tight. His silent tears wet her hair. His tears were for her, whose soul wounds had been reopened; for himself, because he may have lost something precious so soon after it was found; for Saetan, who may have lost even more; and for Daemon. Most of all, for Daemon.

It was almost twilight when Jaenelle gently pulled away from him. "There's someone I need to talk to. I'll be back later."

Worried, Lucivar studied her slumped shoulders and pale face. "Where—" Caution warred with instinct.

He floundered.

Jaenelle's lips held a shadow of an understanding smile. "I'm not going anywhere dangerous. I'll still be in Kaeleer. And no, Prince Yaslana, this isn't risky. I'm just going to see a friend."

He let her go, unable to do anything else.

Saetan stared at nothing, holding the pain at bay, holding the memories at bay. If he released his hold and they flooded in ... he wasn't sure he would survive them, wasn't sure he would even try.

"Saetan?" Jaenelle hovered near the open study doorway.

"Lady." Protocol. The courtesies given and granted when a Warlord Prince addressed a Queen of equal or darker rank. He'd lost the privilege of addressing her any other way, of being anything more.

When she entered the room, he walked around the desk. He couldn't sit while she was standing, and he couldn't offer her a seat since the rest of the furniture in his study had been destroyed and he hadn't allowed Beale to clear up the mess.

Jaenelle approached hesitantly, her lower lip caught between her teeth, her hands twining restlessly. She didn't look at him.

"I talked to Lorn." Her voice quivered. She blinked rapidly. "He agreed with you that I shouldn't go to Terreille—except the Keep. We decided that I would create a shadow of myself that can interact with people so that I can search for Daemon while my body remains safe at the Keep. I'll only be able to search three days out of every month because of the physical drain the shadow will place on me, but I know someone I think will help me look for him."

"You must do what you think best," he said carefully.

She looked at him, her beautiful, ancient, haunted eyes full of tears. "S-Saetan?"

Still so young for all her strength and wisdom.

He opened his arms, opened his heart.

She clung to him, trembling violently.

She was the most painful, most glorious dance of his life.

"Saetan, I—"

He pressed a finger against her lips. "No, witch-child," he said with gentle regret. "Forgiveness doesn't work that way. You may want to forgive me, but you can't do it yet. Forgiving someone can take weeks, months, years. Sometimes it takes a lifetime. Until Daemon is whole again, all we can do is try to be kind to one another, and understanding, and take each day as it comes." He held her close, savoring the feeling, not knowing when, or if, he'd ever hold her like this again. "Come along, witch-child. It's almost dawn. You need to rest now."

He led her to her bedroom but didn't enter. Safe in his own room, he felt the loneliness already pressing down on him.

He curled up on his bed, unable to stop the tears he'd held back throughout the long, terrible night. It would take time. Weeks, months, maybe years. He knew it would take time.

But, please, sweet Darkness, please don't let it take a lifetime.

4 / Terreille

Surreal walked down the neglected street toward the market square, hoping her icy expression would offset her vulnerable physical state. She shouldn't have used that witch's brew to suppress last month's moon time, but the Hayllian guards Kartane SaDiablo had sent after her had been breathing down her neck then and she hadn't felt safe enough to risk being defenseless during the days when her body couldn't tolerate the use of her power beyond basic Craft.

Damn all Blood males to the bowels of Hell. When a witch's body made her vulnerable for a few days, it also made every Blood male a potential enemy. And right now she had enough enemies to worry about.

Well, she'd pick up a few things at the market and then hole up in her rooms with a couple of thick novels and wait it out.

Stifled, frightened cries came from the alley up ahead.

Calling in a long-bladed knife, Surreal slipped to the edge of the alley and peeked around the corner.

Four large, surly, Hayllian men. And one girl who was barely more than a child. Two of the men stood back, watching, as one of their comrades held the girl and the other's hands yanked her clothes aside.

Damn, damn, damn. It was a trap. There was no other reason for Hayllians to be in this part of the Realm, especially in this part of a dying city. She should just slip back to her rooms. If she was careful, they might not find her. There would be other Hayllians waiting around the places where she might purchase a ticket for a Web Coach, so that was out. And riding the Winds without the protection of a Coach might not be suicidal right now, but it would feel damn close.

But there was that girl. If she didn't intervene, that child was going to end up under those four brutes.

Even if someone "rescued" her afterward, she'd be passed from man to man until the constant use or the brutality of one of them killed her.

Taking a deep breath, Surreal rushed into the alley.

An upward slash opened one man from armpit to collarbone. She swung her arm, just missing the girl's face, and managed to get in a shallow slash across the other's chest while she tried to pull the girl away.

Then the other two men joined the fight.

Diving under a fist that would have pulped one side of her head, Surreal rolled, sprang up, took two running steps and, because no one tried to stop her from going deeper into the alley, spun around.

A dead end behind her, and the Hayllians blocking the only way out.

Surreal looked at the girl, wanting to express her regret.

Smiling greedily as one of the unwounded men dropped a small bag of coins into her hands, the girl pulled her clothes together and hurried out of the alley.

Mercenary little bitch.

Surreal tried hard to remember the other girls she'd helped over the past five years, but remembering them didn't diminish the overwhelming sense of betrayal. Well, she'd come full circle. She'd come up from living in stinking alleys. Now she'd die in one, because she wasn't about to let Kartane SaDiablo truss her up and hand her over as a present to the High Priestess of Hayll.

The men stepped forward, smiling viciously.

"Let her go."

The quiet, eerie, midnight voice came from behind her.

Surreal watched the men, watched surprise, uneasiness, and fear harden into a look that always meant pain for a woman.

"Let her go," the voice said again.

"Go to Hell," the largest Hayllian said, stepping forward.

A mist rose up behind the men, forming a wall across the alley.

"Just slit the bitch's throat and be done with it," the man with the shoulder wound said.

"Can't have any fun and games with the half-breed, so the other will have to learn some manners," the largest man said.

Thick mist suddenly filled the alley. Eyes, like burning red gems, appeared, and something let out a wet-sounding snarl.

Surreal screamed breathlessly as a hand clamped on her left arm.

"Come with me," said that terrifyingly familiar midnight voice.

The mist swirled, too thick to see the person guiding her through it as easily as if it were clear water.

More snarls. Then high-pitched, desperate screams.

"W-what—•" Surreal stammered.

"Hell Hounds."

To the right of her, something hit the ground with a wet plop.

Surreal tried hard to swallow, tried hard not to breathe.

The next step took them out of the mist and back to the welcome sight of the neglected street.

"Are you staying around here?" the voice asked.

Surreal finally looked at her companion and felt a stab of disappointment immediately followed by a sense of relief. The woman was her height, and the body in the form-fitting black jumpsuit, though slender, definitely didn't belong to the child she remembered. But the long hair was golden, and the eyes were hidden behind dark glasses.

Surreal tried to pull away. "I'm grateful you got my ass out of that alley, but my mother told me not to tell strangers where I live."

"We're not strangers, and I'm sure that's not all Titian told you."

Surreal tried again to pull away. The hand on her arm clamped down harder. Finally realizing she still held a weapon in her other hand, Surreal swung the knife, bringing it down hard on the woman's wrist.

The knife went through as if there was nothing there and vanished.

"What are you?" Surreal gasped.

"An illusion that's called a shadow."

"Who are you?"

"Briarwood is the pretty poison. There is no cure for Briarwood." The woman smiled coldly. "Does that answer your question?"

Surreal studied the woman, trying to find some trace of

the child she remembered. After a minute, she said, "You really are Jaenelle, aren't you? Or some part of her?"

Jaenelle smiled, but there was no humor in it. "I really am." A pause. Then, "We need to talk, Surreal.

Privately."

Oh, yes, they needed to talk. "I have to go to the market first."

The hand with the dagger-sharp, black-tinted nails tightened for a moment before releasing her. "All right."

Surreal hesitated. Snarls and crunching noises came out of the mist behind them. "Don't you have to finish the kill?"

"I don't think that'll be a problem," Jaenelle said dryly. "Piles of Hound shit aren't much of a threat to anyone."

Surreal paled.

Jaenelle's lips tightened. "I apologize," she said after a minute. "We all have facets to our personalities.

This has brought out the nastier ones in mine. No one will enter the alley and nothing will leave. The Harpies will arrive soon and take care of things."

Surreal led the way to the market square, where she bought folded breads filled with chicken and vegetables from one vendor, small beef pies from another, and fresh fruit from a third.

"I'll make you a healing brew," Jaenelle said when they finally returned to Surreal's rooms.

Still wondering why Jaenelle had sought her out, Surreal nodded before retreating into the bathroom to get cleaned up. When she returned, there was a covered plate on the small kitchen table and a steaming cup filled with a witch's brew.

Settling into a chair, Surreal sipped the brew and felt the pain in her abdomen gradually dull. "How did you find me?" she asked.

For the first time, there was amusement in Jaenelle's smile. "Well, sugar, since you're the only Gray Jewel in the entire Realm of Terreille, you're not that hard to find."

"I didn't know someone could be traced that way."

"Whoever is hunting you can't use that method. It’ requires wearing a Jewel equal or darker than yours."

"Why did you find me?" Surreal asked quietly.

"I need your help. I want to find Daemon."

Surreal stared at the cup. "Whatever he did at Cassandra's Altar that night was done to help you. Hasn't he suffered enough?"

"Too much."

There was sorrow and regret in Jaenelle's voice. The eyes would have told her more. "Do you have to wear those damn dark glasses?" Surreal asked sharply.

Jaenelle hesitated. "You might find my eyes disturbing."