Tangled Webs bj-6 Read online

  Daemon wasn’t a fool. The feel of Tersa’s spells was easily recognized by anyone who had spent enough time with her to know the woman. If she wasn’t safely tucked in her cottage in Halaway, if she was trapped in the house, Daemon would have told him. And if…

  Fury washed through him at the thought of anyone daring to harm Tersa.

  He grabbed the coat-tree and swung.

  The mirror exploded, showering that part of the hallway with glass. One foot of the coat-tree punched through the wall.

  Lucivar pulled the coat-tree out of the wall, set it down, and said, “Why use Craft when a little temper will do?”

  Wasn’t likely he’d find Surreal or Rainier this close to the starting point of the game, but he’d check the back room and the kitchen before moving on.

  One step. Two.

  He caught a faint psychic scent, enhanced by a whiff of fear. It was gone before he could track the direction it came from, but it had been enough to warn him that Blood was nearby.

  Not the Black Widow. This was someone else, someone who barely registered as Blood to his senses because that person stood so far above him in the abyss. Someone he hadn’t detected at all until he punched a hole in the wall.

  He stared at the wall and considered the game. Then he bared his teeth in a feral smile and walked back to the front door.

  “Guess I’ll play by your rules after all,” he said softly as he pressed his right hand against the door. The Ebon-gray Jewel in his ring blazed for a moment as he put an Ebon-gray shield around the whole structure.

  Somewhere in the house, a gong sounded.

  He felt the bite of a spell as it hooked into the Ebon-gray power, but he fed the shield for a few heartbeats longer—giving it enough power to assure that it wouldn’t be drained by the house before sundown. Of course, when he was ready to leave, he’d have to punch through spells that were bloated with his own Ebon-gray strength, and the backlash from that would hurt like a wicked bitch. So be it. He’d still be the one walking out. As for the little writer-mouse he suspected was hiding in the walls…

  Lucivar picked up his pack and headed for the back room. As he passed the hole in the wall, he said in Eyrien, “You don’t leave until I let you leave. So you keep watching—and prepare to die.”

  An illusion suddenly appeared in front of him. The boy had died a hard death, judging by the ripped torso and the missing eye, but he was just an illusion and not cildru dyathe, so he posed no threat.

  “The worst is still to come,” the boy said.

  “No,” Lucivar replied, walking right through the illusion. “I’m here now.”

  He secured the door, then pressed his back against the wall—and trembled.

  Why use Craft when a little temper will do?

  Lucivar had cut the Black Widow in half. The fight was over before it began because he cut the witch in half.

  Without Craft.

  Lucivar had swung a heavy coat-tree like it was nothing more than a stick and punched a hole in a Craft-protected wall.

  Without Craft.

  The hole had compromised that part of the secret passageway, making it vulnerable to the spells that chained the rest of the house. This just proved how right he’d been to install doors to divide these passageways into separate sections that had their own set of protection spells. The witch who had done those particular spells had been a sweet woman until he had tortured her and killed her in a way that made her a suitably vicious predator.

  Of course, there was no law against murder, so he’d done nothing wrong. And the information he’d collected in the process would make his next novels wildly successful, surpassing any of his rivals’. Maybe even successful enough that he would be able to acquire one of the kindred as a companion.

  There was just one little hitch in his plans.

  He was beginning to understand why Surreal and her companion were afraid of Lucivar.

  “He put an Ebon-gray shield around the house,” Surreal said. “Hell’s fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful.” How were they supposed to get past an Ebon-gray shield?

  “Maybe Lucivar was trying to keep anyone else from coming in,” Rainier said.

  “Or he’s trying to keep someone from getting out,” Surreal replied. Like us? she wondered as she glanced at the children. They had come close to pissing out their brains when that thunderous challenge had rolled through the house. Now the four of them were staring at her and Rainier, looking pathetically hopeful that they could be protected.

  As if any of them had a chance of surviving now.

  “Last night, that boy said the worst was still to come,” she said quietly. “What if Lucivar has been here all along?”

  Rainier considered the question, then shook his head. “If he’d come in ahead of us, we would have seen some sign of his presence before now. A fist-sized hole in a wall, if nothing else.”

  That was true enough. Once he realized he was trapped, Lucivar would go through the house like a wild storm. They would have been climbing over wreckage instead of moving through untouched rooms. But…

  “Someone managed to kill a dark-Jeweled Eyrien Warlord and trap him in the house’s spells,” Surreal said. “Could those spells be strong enough to trap an Ebon-gray Warlord Prince?”

  “Based on the rules we read, I think trapping Lucivar and Daemon was at least part of the intention,” Rainier replied. “But even if Lucivar is still just Lucivar…”

  They looked at each other.

  “Let’s get moving,” Surreal said. “We have got to find a way out of here.”

  Moments after Lucivar’s Ebon-gray shield closed around the house, Daemon’s Black shield surrounded the property, forming a dome over the house and sinking deep into the land.

  Cold rage whispered in his blood, singing its seductive song of violence and death.

  Then he felt Witch’s hand on his arm, felt a cold in her equal to his own but still tempered by the fire of surface anger.

  “Lucivar found something he wants to contain,” Daemon said too softly. “Something not otherwise bound by the spells put on that house. He locked the house; I’ve locked the land.”

  She nodded. “Nothing will leave here without his consent—and yours.”

  And yours, Daemon thought. No matter what he and Lucivar thought, Witch would make the final decision.

  Her hand tightened on his arm, a silent command to step back from the killing edge and the sweet, cold rage.

  “Daemon, let’s take care around the boy,” Jaenelle said quietly.

  That reminder helped him leash the rage and obey. He took a deep breath, let it out slowly…and regained control.

  “Why don’t we take a walk around the perimeter and look for something that doesn’t feel natural?” Jaenelle suggested.

  “Such as…?”

  “A tunnel. A passageway.”

  “An underground escape.” Daemon nodded. His Black shield went deep enough to block such an escape, but the search would give them both something to do while they waited.

  He looked at the Coach. “Should we bring the boy with us and let him stretch his legs? He hasn’t left the Coach since you invited him in.”

  “He’s afraid, Prince.”

  “Of us?”

  Jaenelle shook her head. “Of being sent back to the orphans’ home.”

  He hesitated, then said softly, “We can’t keep him. The Hall is too dark. Our power is too dark. He would never belong. Might not even be able to survive.”

  “I know,” she said. “But we can have him as a guest for a day or two while we decide what would be the best place for him.”

  Something in her tone of voice. Something that softened his temper and tickled his sense of humor.

  “How do kindred puppies feel about young boys who may be half-Blood?” he asked.

  Jaenelle just grinned.

  Tersa stepped back from her worktable. She had worked through the night, building her tangled web strand by careful strand.


  The Langston man had used her to hurt the boys. Her boy. And the winged boy.

  She remembered the winged boy from the days when she had been less of a shattered chalice and had lived in a cottage with her boy.

  Before Dorothea had taken her boy. Had used her boy. Had hurt her boy.

  And the winged boy too.

  But the winged one was strong now, powerful now—and still a boy when he came to visit. He thought she believed that foolishness about ale being Eyrien milk? Even someone who walked in the Twisted Kingdom could tell the difference between milk and ale.

  He wasn’t being mean, though. He wasn’t making fun of her, thinking she wouldn’t know the difference. He was teasing because he wanted ale, and his smile invited her to pretend she believed the fib.

  He understood her. Daemon listened, and he loved her. Jaenelle listened too. And Saetan. But Lucivar rode her currents of words like he rode currents of air, following a path that wasn’t meant for straight lines. So she told him things, taught him things that she couldn’t explain any other way, and trusted him to eventually show the others.

  His mother didn’t want him. Couldn’t love him because she hated him. All because he had those glorious wings that looked like dark silk when he spread them wide. What a foolish reason to hate a child.

  So, in a way, he had become her boy too.

  And Surreal. The girl child who had been forged into a warrior by pain and blood and fear. Never like a daughter, but always a friend. Someone who could accept what couldn’t be made whole.

  The Langston man wanted to hurt Surreal too.

  Tersa gently touched the frame that held her tangled web.

  She owed the Langston man for whatever harm she had done—and she would pay her debt.

  TWENTY

  Lucivar looked around the dining room. In the early light of a gray autumn morning, an eyrie could look gloomy too, but that was balanced by the fact that an eyrie was built of stone and had the strength and character of being part of the land around it.

  There was no excuse for making a room look like this.

  No reason to linger, since Surreal and Rainier weren’t there, but he set his pack down on the dining room table and circled the room anyway, just to see if he could sense anything of interest.

  Like the reason someone had ripped the door of the storage cupboard off its hinges and then replaced the door with enough care that a casual glance around the room might not detect the damage.

  As he came abreast of the door, the knob rattled, as if someone inside was trying to get out. Or trying to entice whoever was in the room into letting him or her out.

  Switching the war blade to his left hand, he stood on the hinge side and closed his right hand over the doorknob, using the length of his arm as a brace to keep the cupboard’s occupant from simply knocking the door down.

  As soon as he started to open the door, something inside the cupboard slammed into it, trying to knock it down on top of him. He moved with the swing of the door, using it as a shield as the enemy rushed into the dining room, intent on finding its prey.

  He tossed the door and flipped the war blade back to his right hand. The door’s crash had the witch turning to face him, to find him—and his gorge rose.

  Enough of her face was left for him to see that she had been pretty. Enough of her psychic scent was left, despite the layers of rage, for him to tell that she hadn’t been a bitch when she walked among the living. In fact…

  Hearth witch. She had been a hearth witch, and someone had burned her. Not a fast fire meant to kill, but a slow burning to torture the body and break the mind.

  Her face blurred. Became Marian’s.

  She was on him before he could regain his emotional balance and evade her.

  His heart went numb. Instinct and training took over. He caught her by the back of the neck and threw her against the wall. Before she could recover, he followed, pressing her head between his hand and the wall. Then he let temper and memories be the whip driving him as his hand smashed through bone and brains.

  He kept his hand pressed against the wall, capturing bits of skull and brain while her body slumped to the floor.

  Still there. Her Self was still there, chained to a demon-dead body that no longer functioned.

  He shook the gore off his hand, then wiped off the rest on her dress.

  As he crouched there, too close to the sight of her, the smell of her, memory took him back to the camp in Terreille and the nightmare that still haunted his sleep some nights.

  Two naked…things…floated out of the hut into the light. An hour ago, they had been a woman and a small boy. Now…

  Marian’s fingers and feet were gone. So was the long, lovely hair. Daemonar’s eyes were gone, as well as his hands and feet. Their wings were so crisped, the slight movement of floating made pieces break off. And their skin…

  Smiling that cold, cruel smile, the Sadist released his hold on Marian and Daemonar. The little boy hit the ground with a thump and began screaming. Marian landed on the stumps of her legs and fell. When she landed, her skin split, and…

  The Sadist hadn’t just burned them; he had cooked them—and they were still alive. Not even demon-dead. Alive.

  “Lucivar,” Marian whispered hoarsely as she tried to crawl toward her husband. “Lucivar.”

  Lucivar stood up, backed away from the witch’s body.

  Daemon had tortured him with nothing but elaborate shadows, knowing that his response would convince Dorothea and Hekatah that the Sadist had actually cooked his brother’s wife and son. That game had provided Daemon with the breathing space needed to get Marian and Daemonar away from the camp and keep them safe.

  He and Daemon had both paid a high price for Marian and Daemonar’s safety. He reminded himself of that often on the nights when he woke up in a cold sweat, certain there was a lingering odor of burned hair and cooked flesh in the bedroom.

  But he also never forgot that, with the right provocation, the Sadist was capable of playing out that kind of game for real.

  He studied the hearth witch. Was that why she had been killed this way? Had Jenkell been trying to kindle that memory, maybe turn him and Daemon against each other so they would focus thoughts and tempers on each other instead of this house? Who could have told Jenkell what happened in that camp?

  Or had the little bastard killed the witch that way just for the fun of it?

  “I don’t know the answer, and I don’t care,” Lucivar said quietly. “Even if you pay for nothing else, you will pay for this witch’s death. I’ll make sure of it.”

  Picking up his pack, he headed down the passageway to the kitchen.

  “The last time we used the back stairs, you got lost,” Rainier said.

  “I didn’t get lost,” Surreal replied, feeling testy. “I just didn’t end up in the same place as you did.” And discovered those damn beetles because of it.

  “However it happened, we came up the front stairs and everyone is here. I say we go back down the same way.”

  But Lucivar is on the first floor. That couldn’t matter. They hadn’t found anything in their hurried exploration of the second floor. No clue that might indicate an exit. No trap that might indicate an exit.

  They could pick a room and wait for something to come after them, or they could try to find a way out before someone else got killed.

  Which meant going down.

  “All right,” she said. “We’ll use the main staircase.”

  They went down in a tight little pack. Rainier led, taking it slow, testing each step just as he’d done on the way up. Henn held on to Rainier’s jacket and Dayle’s hand. Trout held on to Henn’s jacket and Sage’s hand. And Surreal held on to Trout.

  Constant contact and a continuous roll call so they would know immediately if anyone suddenly disappeared.

  How many times can you repeat six names? Surreal wondered. It’s not a big staircase. But it felt like they had been going down those stairs forever. />
  She finally took the last step—and daylight vanished. The only light came from the witchfire on the candle Rainier held.

  “Mother Night!” Surreal said. “Where are we now?”

  Rainier looked over his shoulder at her. “I think we’re in the cellar.”

  Lucivar took a mouthful of water, then corked the jug and dug an apple out of the pack.

  The mice’s heads floating in the jar of peaches was a bitch-mean trick. But the spiders…

  Damn things gave him a jolt when they came pouring out of the drawer like that, big and hairy and fast. Of course, their scariness was greatly diminished by the fact that they giggled like a herd of little children who were playing “chase me.”

  “Not bad, Tersa,” he said as he munched on the apple.

  It had the feel of her, and it was what he’d expect from her efforts to build scary surprises for children. Strange? Yes. Creepy? Definitely. But benign.

  He tossed the apple core in the sink and picked up the pack and war blade he’d set on the table. The doors that seemed to lead outside didn’t interest him, so he considered the other door.

  Cellar door? Probably. Even without the warning of a chair braced under the knob, he didn’t need to get any closer to know something malevolent was on the other side of that door. Since they were trying to get out, Surreal and Rainier wouldn’t head belowground. They’d stick to the parts of the house where they could make use of a door or window. So that left him heading upstairs.

  Whatever was in the cellar held no interest for him.

  Lucivar was destroying the predators! He was going to ruin everything!

  At least the special one in the cellar hadn’t been discovered yet. He wanted that one to survive for the story’s climax.

  “There’s a tunnel here,” Jaenelle said, pointing at the ground. “It’s deep, so it must start in the cellar—maybe even in a chamber below the main cellar—and runs to there.” Her finger traced a line that led to the stables behind the house.