Heir to the Shadows dj-2 Read online

  "Rule Hell while you can, you gutter son of a whore," she said as she hugged herself. "This time I have the perfect weapon."

  2 / Hell

  Saetan opened the door of his private study and froze as the Harpy standing hi the corridor drew back the bowstring and aimed her arrow at his heart.

  "A rather blunt way of requesting an audience, isn't it, Titian?" he asked dryly.

  "None of my weapons are blunt, High Lord," the Harpy snarled.

  Saetan studied her for a moment before stepping back

  into the room. "Come in and say what you've come to say." Leaning heavily on his cane, he limped to the blackwood desk, settled himself on one corner, and waited.

  Titian came in slowly, her anger swirling like a winter storm. She stood at the other end of the room, facing him, fearless in her fury, a demon-dead Black Widow Queen of the Dea al Mon. Once more the bowstring was drawn back, the arrow aimed at Saetan's heart.

  His patience, already frayed from the unrelenting months, snapped. "Put that thing down before I do something we'll both regret."

  Titian didn't waver. "Haven't you already done something you regret, High Lord? Or are you so filled with the pus of jealousy you have no room for regret?"

  The walls of the Hall rumbled. "Titian," he said too softly, "I won't warn you again."

  Reluctantly, Titian vanished the bow and arrow.

  Saetan crossed his arms. "Actually, your forbearance surprises me, Lady. I expected to have this conversation long before now."

  Titian hissed. "Then it's true? She walks among the cildru dyathe!"

  Saetan watched the tension building in her. "And if it is?"

  Titian looked at him for one awful moment, then threw back her head and keened.

  Saetan stared at her, shaken. He had known the rumor would drift through Hell. He had expected that Titian, like Char, the leader of the cildru dyathe, would seek him out. He had expected their fury. Their fury he could face. Their hatred he could accept. But not this.

  "Titian," he said, his voice unsteady. "Titian, come here."

  Titian continued to keen.

  Saetan limped over to her. She didn't seem to notice when he took her in his arms and held her tightly against him. He stroked her long silver hair, and murmured words of sorrow in the Old Tongue.

  "Titian," he said gently when the keening faded to a whimper, "I'm truly sorry for the pain I've caused you, but it couldn't be helped."

  Titian buried her fist in his belly and sent him sprawling.

  "You're sorry," she snarled as she stormed around the room. "Well, so am I. I'm sorry it was only my fist and not a knife just then. You deserve to be gutted for this! Jealous old man. Beast! Couldn't you let her enjoy an innocent romance without tearing her apart out of spite?"

  Finally able to catch his breath, Saetan propped himself up on one elbow. "Witch doesn't become cildru dyathe, Titian," he said coldly. "Witch doesn't become one of the demon-dead. So tell me which you prefer: that I say she walks among the cildru dyathe, or that I leave a vulnerable young girl open to further enemy attacks?"

  Titian stopped, an arrested look in her large blue eyes. She leaned over Saetan, searching his face. "Witch can't become demon-dead?"

  "No. But you and Char are the only others in Hell who know that."

  "I suppose," she said slowly, "that the most convincing way to fool an enemy would be to fool a friend." She considered this for a moment more and offered him a hand up. She retrieved his cane and looked him in the eye. "A Harpy is a Harpy because of the way she died. That made it easy to believe the rumors."

  That was more of an apology than he'd thought to get from Titian.

  Saetan took the cane from her, grateful for the support. "I'll tell you the same thing I told Char," he said. "If you're still a friend and want to help, there is something you can do."

  "What is that, High Lord?"

  "Stay angry."

  A fire kindled in Titian's eyes. A smile brushed her lips and was gone. "An arrow that just misses would be highly convincing."

  Saetan raised one eyebrow and clucked his tongue. "A Dea al Mon witch missing a target?"

  Titian shrugged. "Even the Dea al Mon don't always succeed."

  "Just in case you miss missing, try not to aim for anything terribly vital," Saetan said dryly.

  Titian blinked. The smile brushed her lips again. "There's only one part of a male's anatomy a Harpy aims for, High Lord. How terribly vital do you consider it?"

  "Go," Saetan said.

  Titian bowed and left.

  Saetan stared at the study door for a moment before limping to a chair. He sank into it with a sigh, stretching out his legs. A minute later he left the study, making his way through the corridors to the upper rooms in the Hall, hoping Mephis or Andulvar would be around.

  He wanted company. Male company.

  Having Titian for a friend didn't make a man feel comfortable.

  3 / Terreille

  In the moonlight, the lawn was a ghostly silver rippled by the wind. Throughout the hot midsummer's day, storm clouds had been piling up on the horizon, and thunder had rumbled in the distance.

  Surreal buttoned her jacket and hugged herself for warmth. The air had turned cold. An hour from now the storm would break over Beldon Mor. But she would be back at Deje's Red Moon house by then, the guest of honor at her quiet retirement dinner.

  After that night at Cassandra's Altar, she had discovered that she no longer had the stomach for playing the bed, not even when it would have made a kill easier. She wouldn't starve if she gave up whoring. Lord Marcus, Sadi's man of business, also handled her investments and handled them well. Besides, she'd always preferred being an assassin to being a whore.

  Surreal shook her head. She could think about that later.

  Moving silently through the small shrub garden that backed the lawn, she reached the large tree with the branch that was perfect for a swing. Something hung from that branch, but it wasn't a child's toy.

  Surreal looked up, trying to feel the ghostly presence, trying to see the transparent shape.

  "You won't find her," a girl's voice said. "Marjane is gone."

  Surreal spun around and stared at the girl with the slit throat and bloody dress. She'd met Rose seven months ago when Jaenelle had shown her Briarwood's awful secret. The next night, she and Rose had gotten Jaenelle out of Briarwood, but too late to stop the vicious rape.

  "What happened to her?" Surreal said, glancing toward the tree. A silly thing to ask about a girl long dead.

  Rose shrugged. "She faded. All the old ghosts have finally returned to the Darkness." She studied Surreal. "Why are you here?"

  Surreal took a deep breath. "I came to say good-bye. I'm leaving Chaillot in the morning – and I'm not coming back."

  Rose thought about this. "If you hold my hand, maybe you'll be able to see Dannie. I don't know how Jaenelle always saw the ghosts. Even after I became a demon, I couldn't see the oldest ones unless she was here. She said that was because this was one of the living Realms."

  Surreal took Rose's hand. They walked toward the vegetable garden.

  "Is Jaenelle all right?" Rose asked hesitantly.

  Surreal pushed her windblown hair from her face. "I don't know. She was hurt very badly. A witch at Cassandra's Altar took her away to a safe place. She might have reached a Healer in time."

  They stopped at the carrot patch where two redheaded sisters had been buried in secret, as all these children had been buried. But there were no shapes, no whispery voices. Surreal didn't feel the numb horror she had the first time she'd seen this garden. Now there was grief mingled with the hope that those young girls were finally beyond the memory of what had been done to them.

  Dannie was the only one there. Surreal tried hard not to look at the ghostly stump where a leg should have been. Her stomach tightened as she tried even harder not to remember what had been done with that leg.

  Burying her pity, Surreal sent out a psychic threa
d of warmth and friendship toward the ghost-girl.

  Dannie smiled.

  Even in death the Blood were cruel, Surreal thought as she squeezed Rose's cold hand. How empty, how lonely the years must have been for those who weren't strong enough to become demon-dead but were too strong to return to the Darkness. They remained, chained to their graves, unseen, unheard, uncared for – except by Jaenelle.

  What had happened to her?

  Surreal and Rose finally walked back to the shrub garden. "They should all be gutted," Surreal growled, releasing Rose's hand. She leaned against the tree and stared at the building. Most of the windows were dark, but there were a few dim lights. Calling in her favorite stiletto, she balanced it in her hand and smiled. "Maybe one or two can feed the garden before I go."

  "No," Rose said sharply, placing herself in front of Surreal. "You can't touch any of Briarwood's uncles. No one can."

  Surreal straightened, a feral expression in her gold-green eyes. "I'm very good at what I do, Rose."

  "No," Rose insisted. "When Jaenelle's blood was spilled, it woke the tangled web she created. It's a trap for all the uncles."

  Surreal looked at the building, then at Rose. There had been rumors of a mysterious illness that was affecting a number of Chaillot's high-ranking members of the council – like Robert Benedict – as well as a few special dignitaries – like Kartane SaDiablo. "This trap will kill them?"

  "Eventually," Rose said.

  A vicious light filled Surreal's eyes. "What about a cure?"

  "Briarwood is the pretty poison. There is no cure for Briarwood."

  "Is it painful?"

  Rose grinned. " To each will come what he gave.' "

  Surreal vanished her stiletto. "Then let the bastards scream."

  4 / Terreille

  In the light of two smoking torches, the young Priestess double-checked the tools she had placed on the Dark Altar. Everything was ready: the four-branched candelabra with its black candles, the small silver cup, and the two vials of dark liquid – one with a white stopper, the other with a red.

  When the stranger with the maimed hands had given her the vials, he'd assured her that the antidote would keep her from being affected by the witch's brew that had been designed to subdue a Warlord Prince.

  She paced behind the Dark Altar, chewing on her thumbnail. It had sounded so easy, and yet. .

  She froze, not even daring to breathe as she tried to see beyond the wrought-iron gate into the dark corridor. Was something there?

  Nothing but a silence within the night's silence, a shadow within the shadows, gliding toward the Altar with a predator's grace.

  The Priestess squatted behind the Altar, broke the seal on the white-stoppered vial, and gulped the contents. She vanished the vial and rose. When she looked toward the wrought-iron gate, she clutched her Yellow Jewel as if it might protect her.

  He stood on the other side of the Altar, watching her. Despite the rumpled clothing and the disheveled hair, he exuded a cold, carnal power.

  The Priestess licked her lips and rubbed her damp hands on her robe. His golden eyes looked sleepy, slightly glazed.

  Then he smiled.

  She shivered and took a deep breath. "Have you come for advice or assistance?"

  "Assistance," he said in a deep, cultured voice. "Have you the training to open the Gate?"

  How could a man be so beautiful? she thought as she nodded. "There is a price." Her voice seemed to be swallowed by the shadows.

  With his left hand, he drew an envelope out of an inner pocket in his coat and laid it on the Altar. "Will that be sufficient?"

  As she reached for it, she glanced at him, her hand frozen above the thick white envelope. There was something in the question, although courteously asked, that warned her it had better be enough.

  She forced herself to pick up the envelope and look inside. Then she leaned against the Altar for support. Gold thousand marks. At least ten times what the stranger with the maimed hands had offered.

  But she already had an agreement with the stranger, and there would be time to pocket the marks before the guards arrived.

  The Priestess carefully placed the envelope on the far corner of the Altar. "Most generous," she said, hoping she sounded unimpressed.

  Taking a deep breath, she lifted the silver cup high over her head, then placed it carefully in front of her. She broke the seal on the red-stoppered vial, poured the contents into the cup, and held it out to him. "The journey through a Gate is a difficult undertaking. This will assist you."

  He didn't take the cup.

  She made an impatient sound and took a sip, trying not to gag on the bitter taste, then held out the cup.

  He held it in his left hand, his nostrils flaring at the smell, but didn't drink.

  A minute passed. Two.

  With an imperceptible shrug, he gulped the contents of the cup.

  The Priestess held her breath. How soon before it worked? How soon before the guards came?

  His eyes changed. He swayed. Then he leaned across the Altar and looked at her the way a lover looks at his lady. She couldn't take her eyes off his lips. Soft. Sensual. She leaned toward him. One kiss. One sweet kiss.

  Just before her lips touched his, his right hand closed around her wrist. "Bitch," he snarled softly.

  Startled, she tried to pull away.

  As his hand tightened, she stared at the Black-Jeweled ring.

  His long nails pierced her skin. Then she felt the sharp needle prick of the snake tooth beneath his ring-finger nail, felt the venom chill her blood.

  She flailed at him with her other hand, trying to reach his face, trying to scream for help as her vision blurred and her lungs refused to fill with needed air.

  He broke both her wrists, snapping the bones as he thrust her away from him.

  "The venom in my snake tooth doesn't work as quickly as you may think," he said too quietly, too gently. "In the end, you'll be able to scream. You'll tear yourself apart doing it, but you'll scream."

  Then he was gone, and there was nothing but a silence within the night's silence, a shadow within the shadows.

  By the time the guards arrived, she was screaming.

  5 / Terreille

  The floor rolled beneath him, teasing legs that already shook from exhaustion and were cramped by the foul witch's brew.

  Behind that door was a safe place. As he reached for it, the floor rolled again, knocking his feet out from under him. His shoulder hit the door, cracking the old, rotting wood, and he fell into the room, landing heavily on his side.

  "Bitch," he snarled softly.

  Gray mist. A shattered crystal chalice. Black candles. Golden hair.

  Blood. So much blood.

  Words lie. Blood doesn't. "Shut up, Prick," he rasped.

  The floor kept rolling under him. He dug his long nails into the wood, trying to keep his balance, trying to think.

  His fever was dangerously high, and he knew he needed food, water, and rest. Right now, he was prey to whoever might think to look for him in this abandoned house where he had spent his earliest years with Tersa, his real mother.

  Everything has a price.

  If he had given up outside that Sanctuary three days ago, if he had let the Hayllian guards find him, he might not have become so ill from the brew. But he had ruthlessly pushed his body to the point of collapse in order to reach the Gate near the ruins of SaDiablo Hall.

  And every time exhaustion crept in, every time his strength of will slipped a little, a gray mist began to cloud his mind, a mist he knew held something very, very terrible. Something he didn't want to see.

  You are my instrument.

  Words, like flickering black lightning, came out of that mist, threatening to sear his soul.

  Words lie. Blood doesn't.

  He was less than a mile from the Gate.

  "Lucivar," he whispered. But he didn't have the strength to feel angry at his brother's betrayal.

  You are my instrum
ent.

  "No." He tried to stand up, but he couldn't do it. Still, something in him required defiance. "No. I am not your instrument. I… am… Daemon. . Sadi."

  He closed his eyes, and the gray mist engulfed him.

  With a groan, Daemon rolled onto his back and slowly opened his eyes. Even that was almost too much effort. At first, he wondered if he had gone blind. Then he began to make out dim shapes in the darkness.

  Night. It was night.

  Breathing slowly, he began to assess the physical damage.

  He felt as dry as touchwood, as inflexible as stone. His muscles burned. His belly ached from hunger, and the craving for water was fierce. The fever had broken at some point, but. .

  Something was wrong.

  Words lie. Blood doesn't.

  The words Lucivar had spoken swam round and round, growing larger, growing solid. They crashed against his mind, fragmenting it further.

  Daemon screamed.

  You are my instrument.

  As Saetan's words thundered inside him, there was more pain – and there was fear. Fear that the mist filling his mind might part and show him something terrible.

  Daemon.

  Holding on fiercely to the memory of Jaenelle saying his name like a soft, sighing caress, Daemon got to his feet. As long as he could remember that, he could hold the other voices at bay.

  His legs felt too heavy, but he managed to leave the house and follow the remnants of the drive that would take him to the Hall. Even though every movement was a fiery ache, by the time he reached the Hall, he was almost moving with his usual gliding stride.

  But there was still something very wrong. It was hard to hold on to the Warlord Prince called Daemon Sadi, hard to hold on to his sense of self. But he had to hold on for a little while longer. He had to.

  Gathering the last of his strength and will, Daemon cautiously approached the small building that held the Dark Altar.

  Hekatah prowled the small building that stood in the shadow of the ruins of SaDiablo Hall. She shook her fists in the air, frustrated beyond endurance by the past three days. Even so, every time she circled the Altar, she glanced at the wall behind it, fearful it would turn to mist and Saetan would step through the Gate to challenge her.