'Prince Alexander,' Dorothea purred, 'even someone from Chaillot should know that, among the Blood, there is no law against murder. If you didn't have sense enough to prevent an emotionally disturbed child from toying with a Warlord Prince of Sadi's temperament. .' She shrugged delicately. 'Perhaps the child got what she deserved.'
Philip paled. 'She was a good girl,' he said, but his voice trembled with a whisper of doubt.
'Yes,' Dorothea purred. 'A good girl. So good your family had to send her away every few months to be… reeducated.'
Emotionally disturbed child. The words were a bellows, stoking the fire within Lucivar to ice-cold rage. Emotionally disturbed child.
At some point, Zuultah, Dorothea, and Philip had withdrawn to continue their discussion in the cooler recesses of Zuultah's house. Lucivar didn't notice. He was barely aware of being led into the salt mines, barely aware of the pick in his hands, barely aware of the pain as his sweat ran into the new lash wound on his back.
All he saw was the bloodstained sheet.
Lucivar swung the pick.
Liar.
He didn't see the wall, didn't see the salt. He saw Daemon's golden-brown chest, saw the heart beating beneath the skin.
Silky. . court-trained. .
Andulvar settled one hip on a corner of the large, blackwood desk.
Saetan glanced up from the letter he was composing. 'I thought you were going back to your eyrie.'
'Changed my mind.' Andulvar's gaze wandered around the private study, finally stopping at the portrait of Cassandra, the Black-Jeweled Queen who had walked the Realms more than 50,000 years ago. Five years ago, Saetan had discovered that Cassandra had faked the final death and had become a Guardian in order to wait for the next Witch.
And look what had happened to the next Witch, Andulvar thought bleakly. Jaenelle Angelline was a powerful, extraordinary child, but still as vulnerable as any other child. All that power hadn't kept her from being overwhelmed by family secrets he and Saetan could only guess at, and by Dorothea's and Hekatah's vicious schemes to eliminate the one rival who could have ended their stranglehold on the Realm of Terreille. He was certain they had been behind the brutality that had made Jaenelle's spirit flee from her body.
Too late to prevent the violation, a friend had taken Jaenelle away from her destroyers and brought her to Cassandra's Altar. There, Daemon Sadi, with Saetan's help, had been able to bring the girl out of the psychic abyss long enough to convince her to heal the physical wounds. But when the Chaillot Warlords arrived to 'rescue' her, she panicked and fled back into the abyss.
Her body was slowly healing, but only the Darkness knew where her spirit was – or if she would ever come back.
Pushing aside those thoughts, Andulvar looked at Saetan, took a deep breath, and puffed his cheeks as he let it out. 'Your letter of resignation from the Dark Council?'
'I should have resigned a long time ago.'
'You had always insisted that it was good to have a few of the demon-dead serving in the Council because they had experience but no personal interest in the decisions.'
'Well, my interest in the Council's decisions is very personal now, isn't it?' After signing his name with his customary flourish, Saetan slipped the letter into an envelope and sealed it with black wax. 'Deliver that for me, will you?'
Andulvar reluctantly took the envelope. 'What if the Dark Council decides to search for her family?'
Saetan leaned back in his chair. 'There hasn't been a
Dark Council in Terreille since the last war between the Realms. There's no reason for Kaeleer's Council to look beyond the Shadow Realm.'
'If they check the registers at Ebon Askavi, they'll find out she wasn't originally from Kaeleer.'
'As the Keep's librarian, Geoffrey has already agreed not to find any useful entries that might lead anyone back to Chaillot. Besides, Jaenelle was never listed in the registers – and won't be until there's a reason to include an entry for her.'
'You'll be staying at the Keep?'
'Yes.'
'For how long?'
Saetan hesitated. 'For as long as it takes.' When Andulvar made no move to leave, he asked, 'Is there something else?'
Andulvar stared at the neat masculine script on the front of the envelope. 'There's a demon in the receiving room upstairs who has asked for an audience with you. He says it's important.'
Saetan pushed his chair away from the desk and reached for his cane. 'They all say that – when they're brave enough to come at all. Who is he?'
'I've never seen him before,' Andulvar said. Then he added reluctantly, 'He's new to the Dark Realm, and he's from Hayll.'
Saetan limped around the desk. 'Then what does he want with me? I've had nothing to do with Hayll for seventeen hundred years.'
'He wouldn't say why he wants to see you.' Andulvar paused. 'I don't like him.'
'Naturally,' Saetan replied dryly. 'He's Hayllian.'
Andulvar shook his head. 'It's more than that. He feels tainted.'
Saetan became very still. 'In that case, let's talk to our Hayllian Brother,' he said with malevolent gentleness.
Andulvar couldn't suppress the shudder that ran through him. Fortunately, Saetan had already turned toward the door and hadn't noticed. They'd been friends for thousands of years, had served together, laughed together, grieved together. He didn't want the man hurt because, at times, even a friend feared the High Lord of Hell.
But as Saetan opened the door and looked at him, Andulvar saw the flicker of anger in his eyes that acknowledged the shudder. Then the High Lord left the study to deal with the fool who was waiting for him.
The recently demon-dead Hayllian Warlord stood in the middle of the receiving room, his hands clasped behind his back. He was dressed all in black, including a black silk scarf wrapped around his throat.
'High Lord,' he said, making a respectful bow.
'Don't you know even the basic courtesies when approaching an unknown Warlord Prince?' Saetan asked mildly.
'High Lord?' the man stammered.
'A man doesn't hide his hands unless he's concealing a weapon,' Andulvar said, coming into the room. He spread his dark wings, completely blocking the door.
Fury flashed over the Warlord's face and was gone. He extended his arms out in front of him. 'My hands are quite useless.'
Saetan glanced at the black-gloved hands. The right one was curled into a claw. There was one finger missing on the left. 'Your name?'
The Warlord hesitated a moment too long. 'Greer, High Lord.'
Even the man's name somehow fouled the air. No, not just the man, although it would take a few weeks for the rotting-meat stink to fade. Something else. Saetan's gaze drifted to the black silk scarf. His nostrils flared as he caught a scent he remembered too well. So. Hekatah still favored that particular perfume.
'What do you want, Lord Greer?' Saetan asked, already certain he knew why Hekatah would send someone to see him. With effort, he hid the icy rage that burned within him.
Greer stared at the floor. 'I… I was wondering if you had any news about the young witch.'
The room felt so deliciously cold, so sweetly dark. One thought, one flick of his mind, one brief touch of the Black
