Dreams Made Flesh bj-5 Page 37

  I'll see you in Hell first.

  Rainier gave him an amused glance before focusing on Jaenelle again. "Would you mind telling your lover that I'm allowed to flirt with you?"

  "Of course you're allowed to flirt with me," Jaenelle said, her voice filled with laughter. "After all, you never mean it." She paused. "On the other hand, if you were flirting with Daemon…"

  "Pointless," Rainier said, grinning, "since it's so obvious that he's taken. But…" Releasing Jaenelle's hand, he smiled at Daemon. "May I have this dance?"

  Hot fury. Cold rage. Suddenly it was easy to slip into the game. He'd assumed the person behind the rumors was female…an assumption he shouldn't have made.

  "If my Lady has no objections," Daemon crooned. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Lucivar and Surreal entering the ballroom. As soon as he moved away, they'd stay close to Jaenelle.

  "Do you mind?" Rainier asked, glancing at Jaenelle.

  She looked baffled. "No, I don't mind."

  "Shall we?" Smiling, Rainier offered an arm.

  Daemon didn't take the arm…too much temptation to rip it off…but he turned and matched his stride to the Warlord Prince beside him until they reached the dance floor.

  The music started. A waltz. He wondered if Rainier had arranged that.

  "Who leads?" he asked.

  "I asked, so I lead."

  The man could dance. Daemon heard startled gasps, noticed other couples stumble to a halt and move out of the way. But those were distant things. His focus…and his temper…were fixed on Rainier.

  "Before you decide in favor of killing me, I should mention that I'm Second Circle," Rainier said.

  That statement almost threw him off balance. It was possible. Jaenelle's court had been so informal, he'd never met anyone beyond her First Circle. "You mean you were Second Circle. The Dark Court no longer exists."

  "Hmm. Yes. I'm no longer Second Circle just like you're no longer the Consort."

  They whirled around the dance floor, perfectly matched, studying each other.

  "I'll think you'll find, Prince Sadi, that those who serve Jaenelle don't give a damn that there's no longer formally a court. The Dark Court still exists because she still exists. We still serve…and you're still the Consort."

  "What's your game, Rainier?"

  "Figured I'd better help you two by providing a distraction. You're doing a lousy imitation of a quarreling couple. You're having too much fun. I'm thinking you're trying to draw out whoever started those rumors. So this should catch someone's interest."

  The man had a point. They certainly had the attention of everyone in the room. "How did you end up in the Second Circle?"

  Rainier grinned. "I was the coven's dance instructor. The fifth or sixth one the High Lord hired. I wasn't much older than the girls and had no credentials except a knowledge of, and love for, dancing, but he told me if I could last the hour with them I had the position."

  "And you lasted the hour."

  Rainier nodded. "The Heart of the Realm was in that room. If the personalities and power of the coven didn't scare the shit out of a man, there was no better place to be. There's still no better place to be."

  He had a feeling Rainier was more than a dance instructor, but the man wasn't a rival, and a skilled ally could prove useful right now. "Do you know court dances?"

  "I adore court dances."

  "My lead." Daemon sent a psychic command to the head musician. When the music changed, he and Rainier broke the steps of one dance and flowed into the other as smoothly as if they'd been partners for years. Hand to hand. Turning. Circling. Gliding. Watching each other. Restrained sensuality swelling to the point of bursting. He saw the hint of fear in Rainier's green eyes as the web of desire he was spinning through the dance became a snare for the unwary.

  "Mother Night," Rainier whispered hoarsely. "You must be a mean bastard when you want to hurt someone."

  Daemon smiled a cruel, knowing smile, and crooned, "But you'd let me hurt you, wouldn't you?"

  The sudden tremble in Rainier's hand was answer enough.

  As the dance ended, Daemon leaned in, trapping their hands between their bodies, bringing lips close to lips. "That's why they called me the Sadist."

  Something was scraping his temper, some feeling in the room that reminded him too much of the Terreillean courts, something that had him teetering a heartbeat away from the killing edge.

  But that something wasn't the man staring into his glazed eyes. This male belonged to his Queen and shouldn't be harmed.

  With effort, he pulled back the seduction tendrils, eased back physically. "Thank you for the dance."

  "My pleasure." Rainier cleared his throat. "It's been an education."

  They walked back to where Jaenelle and Surreal stood. No one in the ballroom spoke, no one moved. Even the musicians were silent for a long moment before the music began for the next dance, and the room was once more filled with movement and murmurs.

  Jaenelle watched him approach, her face flushed, her eyes wide.

  Was she repulsed by seeing him dance with another man? What was she thinking? He wanted to reach out, mind to mind, but he didn't dare. Not when his temper was being held back by a frayed thread.

  As he stopped in front of her, Rainier still beside him, he saw her throat muscles working to swallow.

  Looking dazed, Jaenelle said, "It's awfully warm in here. Is it warm in here?"

  Surreal snorted as she studied him and Rainier. "Sugar, we passed warm and leaped straight to blazing."

  "Oh. Good. It's not just me."

  Surreal gave him a wary look and linked her arm through Jaenelle's. "I imagine everyone is feeling a bit warm right now. Let's go out on the terrace and get some air."

  "Air is good," Jaenelle said, wobbling a little. "Air is… good."

  He said nothing as the two women made their way to the glass doors that led out to the terrace.

  Rainier cleared his throat. "It's been… um…" He shook his head and walked away.

  Daemon stayed where he was, watching Lucivar approach, seeing wariness in his brother's gold eyes. Rainier had been given the lightest taste of what it was like to dance with the Sadist, but Lucivar knew. And Lucivar was afraid.

  But being afraid never stopped him from issuing a challenge with all the Eyrien arrogance in him.

  "Quite a dance," Lucivar said.

  "It had its moments."

  "Rainier is a good Warlord Prince."

  "He's a dance instructor?"

  "Among other things."

  Which confirmed his sense of the man. "Who trained him?"

  "I helped him hone what he'd already learned."

  Which meant Rainier wasn't just a natural predator, he was also a well-trained killer.

  "Daemon… Jaenelle and Rainier are just friends."

  "I know. It isn't him. But there's something in this room…" He shook his head. "I'm going to find someplace to be alone for a few minutes. I need a few minutes."

  Lucivar stepped aside, letting him pass. With a bit of hunting, he found a small, secondary parlor near the ballroom. By the look of it, this was where visitors who weren't "important company" were entertained. Which meant right now it was quiet and empty, and that was what he needed to bring himself back from the point of going cold.

  Lektra grabbed Tavey's arm. "Do it now. He's by himself."

  "You want me to talk to him alone?"

  "Well, you can't do it when she's nearby, and she's been clinging to him all night. This may be your only chance." And after watching him dance with that other Warlord Prince, she'd go mad if she couldn't have Daemon soon.

  Tavey looked scared, but he never could refuse her for very long. So he left the ballroom to deliver his little speech.

  By the end of the evening, her beautiful love would be free to be with the one woman in the whole Realm who truly deserved to have him.

  * * *

  Hearing the parlor door open, Daemon slipped his hands into h
is trouser pockets to hide his wedding ring. He'd spent the past few minutes just staring at it, taking comfort in its presence. He'd almost regained his balance, but he wasn't quite far enough away from the killing edge yet. He needed to find Jaenelle and tell her he couldn't go through with their public quarrel. He couldn't afford to have anything prick his temper right now.

  As he turned toward the door, he caught sight of himself in the mirror above the fireplace. His gold eyes were still glazed…the prelude to cold rage.

  "You don't want to be here," he snarled softly as the Yellow-Jeweled Warlord slipped into the room and closed the door. "You really don't want to be here."

  "I…" The Warlord swallowed hard. "I'm asking you to do the right thing."

  "And what is the right thing?" He glided toward the door, forcing the Warlord to sidle farther into the room to avoid getting close to him.

  "We…We're in love. We want to be together."

  "Who is 'we'?"

  "Jaenelle. Me. We're in love. But she hasn't wanted to say anything because…"

  "Because?" Daemon asked too softly.

  "She's afraid of you." The Warlord blurted out the words. "She doesn't want to be with someone like you anymore."

  "Someone like me." The words sliced his heart, inserted a tiny sliver of doubt. Then he rubbed his left thumb against his wedding ring.

  If Jaenelle had fallen in love with someone else, she might not have told him until she felt capable of dealing with him. But she never would have married him, because she understood the nature of Warlord Princes better than anyone else could.

  "You may be in love," Daemon said, "but…"

  "We're lovers."

  His brain shut off, snuffing out control, shattering the illusion of civilized behavior. As he descended to the level of the Black, the cold, glorious Black, every thought, every feeling funneled through the lethal rage of a Warlord Prince.

  Ice glazed the mirror over the fireplace, formed a crust over the carpet. In the moments when he and the Warlord stared at each other, he created a bubble shield and an aural shield, both ready to snap into place in a heartbeat. Then he rose from the abyss, his Black power delicately surrounding that weaker mind, preventing the Warlord from reaching anyone through a psychic thread.

  "So," Daemon crooned as he drew his left hand out of his pocket and rubbed a finger over his chin, "just when did you sleep with my wife?" Horror filled the Warlord's eyes as he stared at the plain gold band. The aural and bubble shield snapped up around the Warlord at the same moment Daemon's Black power smashed through all of the man's inner barriers.

  The Warlord's mouth opened in a scream of terror and pain, but no sound filled the room. He tried to run…and crashed against the shield that contained him.

  Daemon gave his prey a few moments to stare at death before he ripped into the Warlord's mind…and found all the answers he needed.

  One flash of the Black. The Warlord's torso burst open, his guts spilling out. Ribs snapped as they were ruthlessly spread open. The heart burst out of the body to hang, impaled, on a shattered rib.

  Another flash of the Black. Witchfire filled the Warlord's skull…and it burned. As the Warlord hit the floor, the skull broke open. Hot ash spilled out on the ice-covered carpet. Steam rose as the ice melted, soaking the carpet enough to keep it from catching fire.

  One last flash of the Black drained the Warlord's Jewels and burned out all of the man's psychic power, finishing the kill.

  Daemon studied his work with a critical eye…and smiled a cold, cruel smile.

  Lucivar flung the parlor door open and rushed into the room, pulling up fast when he saw the body on the floor. His gorge rose, but he braced himself for whatever would come. He knew what that glazed, sleepy look in Daemon's eyes meant, what that smile meant. The Sadist had gone cold, and there was no one strong enough to control him.

  Daemon glided up to him…and waited.

  "Annoyed about something?" Lucivar asked.

  "Not anymore." Stepping around him, Daemon walked to the door and stopped. "Shall we go? I have an appointment to quarrel with my Lady."

  No. Sweet Darkness, no. Lucivar moved to the door. "You don't have to quarrel with Jaenelle."

  "What my Queen wants, my Queen will have."

  Knowing better than to argue, Lucivar walked out of the parlor. Daemon followed him. The door closed behind them.

  "Don't worry, Prick," Daemon said. "It won't be much of a quarrel."

  Daemon walked away. Lucivar hesitated, then turned back to the parlor. Better to get rid of the corpse before someone else found it.

  But when he reached for the doorknob, a feeling of revulsion swept through him, making his skin crawl. Stepping back, he studied the door. Stepping forward, the feeling swept over him again.

  Craft. Daemon had done something in the moment when he walked out the door that guaranteed no one would willingly open that door until the spell wore off. Which meant Daemon wanted the body to be found…but not until he was ready to have it found.

  "Well, bitch… or whoever you are," he whispered. "You wanted to play with the Sadist? Looks like you'll get your chance."

  Turning away from the parlor, Lucivar hurried back to the ballroom. He couldn't stop what would happen, but he'd do whatever he could to protect Jaenelle and Surreal.

  Daemon glided back to the ballroom. He had to find Jaenelle and get them both out of this house. He was a danger to everyone around him right now. The kill had cleared his mind enough to give him back a fragment of control, but not enough for him to be sure he wouldn't leave these rooms strewn with corpses.

  Unfortunately, Jaenelle was waiting near the door, waiting for her cue to begin the quarrel.

  "Where have you been?" she asked, handing her glass of sparkling wine to Surreal.

  Hell's fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful. It stabbed at him that her power was so much less that she hadn't been able to tell that he'd descended to the Black, that he was struggling not to go cold again.

  He walked past her, not quite knowing what to do. He didn't want to quarrel with her. Couldn't quarrel with her. If he said anything that hurt her… Mother Night, he'd destroyed entire courts in Terreille when his temper had been riding this edge. If he hurt her, his control would snap completely, and the killing wouldn't stop until he'd exhausted his body and his power.

  "Where have you been?" Jaenelle raised her voice enough to have conversations throughout the ballroom stutter to a halt.

  He pivoted to face her, enough space between them to explain the raised voices. As he looked into her eyes, relief swept through him so fiercely he felt light-headed. She knew. Whatever her reasons for going through with this "quarrel," she knew he was too close to the killing edge and would take care not to push him back into a lethal rage.

  He saw Lucivar walk into the ballroom, saw Surreal hand over Jaenelle's glass of sparkling wine. Hoping those two would have the good sense to stay out of this, he focused on Jaenelle, who, along with everyone else in the room, was waiting for his answer.

  "I wasn't with another woman, if that's what you're asking," he snarled.

  He felt a flash of frustration from her as she tried to find some way to respond to his words that wouldn't hurt either of them.

  Balling her hands into fists, she shouted something at him. The fact that Lucivar choked on the wine confirmed the words were Eyrien, but he didn't know what she'd said. Which gave him a clue how to provide the tone of a quarrel without wounding.

  Unfortunately, there was only one phrase he could think of that no one else would understand. So he bared his teeth and said the words he'd intended to say out of love, in the heat of passion. Words in the Old Tongue.

  Her eyes widened in shock. She clamped a hand over her mouth to muffle the mewling noises. Then she whirled and rushed out of the ballroom.

  Startled by her response, he hesitated. Play out the game, old son. Struggling to look irritated and slightly disgusted, he shook his head and le
ft the ballroom to find Jaenelle.

  She'd made it as far as the conservatory, where large ferns shielded her, giving her some privacy. He approached quietly, pained to see her shoulders hunched and her hands over her face. She gasped for air between sobs.

  "Jaenelle," he said, brushing a hand over her shoulder…and bracing himself for her rejection of his touch. Mother Night, she sounded close to hysterical.

  She lowered her hands and looked at him.

  She was close to hysterical… because she was laughing so hard she could barely stay on her feet.

  "I…I…I eat cow brains?" she gasped.

  Shocked, his mouth fell open. "What? You do?"

  "N-n-no. You do."

  He gripped her upper arms to keep her upright. "What? No, I don't."

  "Th-that's what you said. 'I eat cow brains.' " She collapsed against him, howling with laughter.

  That was so far removed from what he'd intended to say it was embarrassing…and he could imagine how much worse it would have been if he'd whispered those words in the middle of hot lovemaking. "That wasn't… It wasn't what I thought I said." Feeling his face heat, he wrapped his arms around her and pressed her face against his chest to muffle her laughter.

  "Oh, g-good." She gulped air and made an effort to regain some control. "What did you mean to say?"

  Oh, no. He wasn't about to embarrass himself that much. "Never mind." He paused. "So what did you say to me?"

  "Oh. Well."

  "Come on, fair is fair." He tugged on her hair. "What did you say?"

  "I said you had the feet of a pig and smelled like a goat." She burst into laughter again.

  Daemon sighed. "Well, we certainly descended fast enough to barnyard mudslinging, didn't we?"

  "We did. Oh, we did."

  Her laughter broke his temper better than anything else could have. "Let's get out of here."

  She gulped and wiped the tears from her face. "I'm not sure I can."

  He picked her up. "Just keep your face turned away. I'll get us to the carriage."

  "Are you going to look all snarly and fierce?" she asked, fighting against another burst of laughter.