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Being invited to Jaenelle’s private place had been special, a pocket of time when they could be nothing more than a man and woman in love. He cherished those memories, just as he cherished the memories of the time they took for themselves each Winsol. He tried not to think about them too much during the rest of the year. He’d made a promise to Surreal to be a husband, and he did his best to keep that promise. But on this day, he wandered the acre of land that belonged to the cottage or sat in the front room and let the memories flow—the ones that made him laugh, the ones that made him cry.
Later in the evening, he ate the food Marian left for him in the cold box. Then he lay down on the bed and closed his eyes. The dream would come—the one where he was dead and had a hole in his chest where his heart had been. It didn’t plague him as often anymore, but it would come tonight.
Except it didn’t. Instead, he dreamed he was stretched out on the altar in the Misty Place, comfortable and passive, lulled by the steady beat of his heart.
He opened his eyes and rolled onto his back, bumping against someone else on the altar—except she was propped up on one elbow, watching him out of ancient sapphire eyes.
“Jaenelle,” he whispered.
She tapped a cat claw lightly against his chest. “Stubborn, snarly male. But I guess that’s not surprising, since you always were.”
The steady beat of his heart.
He looked down. The hole was still there, a gaping wound. But not completely empty anymore. Half a heart now beat in his chest.
“You taking that much back is progress, ”Witch said. “I’ll keep the rest of it safe until you’re ready to take it back.”
“I want you to have it.”
“No, Daemon. I had all of it for a lifetime. Eventually you’ll take the rest of your heart back in order to share it again.” She gave him a long, gentle kiss. “Sleep. I’ll watch over you tonight.”
He closed his eyes. As he drifted into an easy sleep, he heard her singing. He couldn’t make out words or even a melody, but the song drifted through the Darkness and wrapped him in peace.
He woke up just after dawn, alone. But he could have sworn her scent was on his skin and he could feel the lingering warmth of her next to him in bed.
TWELVE
Daemon jolted awake when his bundle of witch landed on his back.
“Papa! I have something wonderful to show you!” Jaenelle gave his bare shoulder a smacking kiss.
He grunted, raised his head, and got his eyes open enough to look out the window. Then his head dropped back down on the pillow. “Witch-child, nothing is wonderful before the sun comes up, and the sun is still sleeping. Don’t you want to sleep for another hour?”
“Tch.”
Daemon groaned. What reasonable child wanted to get up before the sun?
“Papa.”
Reaching out, he groped for the other adult who should have been in the bed. *Surreal?*
*I’m in the bathroom. I’ll be back in a minute.*
*Are you well?*
*Needing to pee first thing in the morning doesn’t mean I’m ill. And being in the bathroom doesn’t mean my moontime has started yet, so back off, Sadi.* Defensive temper sizzled in the psychic link before Surreal broke the connection, a sure sign there was nothing wrong with his ability to read a calendar.
Fine. Wonderful. The sun wasn’t up, he was barely awake, and he already had one female snarling at him and the other prepared to keep jumping on him until he saw whatever wonderful thing she wanted to show him.
He turned on the bedside lamp, its candle-light still set to the soft light he preferred for sex, and tried to force his brain into believing he should be awake at this hour of the morning. “All right, witch-child. Let me up.”
Jaenelle slid off the bed, bouncing with excitement. “Come on, Papa.” She started to yank the sheet off him.
He grabbed the sheet before she pulled it below his waist, and snarled softly, a sound that would have frightened everyone else and just made his daughter pause.
“Get out of here,” he said. “Let me get dressed.”
“I can wait for you,” she protested. “If I leave, you’ll take forever.”
“I’m not wearing anything, so I’m not getting out of bed until you’re gone.”
“Oh, tch,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “I’ve seen boy parts before.”
He didn’t remember moving, but his hand was suddenly locked around her wrist. His temper had turned feral and cold and was rising to the killing edge, and he knew by the way her eyes widened that his eyes were glazed.
“Explain, witch-child,” he crooned.
“I’m sorry.” She tried to pull away from him, but his hold, while gentle, was unyielding. “We didn’t mean to cause trouble.”
“Jaenelle Saetien.”
*Daemon?* Surreal asked.
He shut out his wife and stared at his trembling daughter. “Explain.”
“Uncle Lucivar said it was all right!”
He saw the room through a red veil. With effort, he released Jaenelle’s wrist. “Get out of here. Now.”
She ran. The moment she was out of the room, he flung the sheet aside, sprang out of bed, and strode to his own adjoining bedroom to get dressed. He could hear Jaenelle yelling for her mother, felt the crackle of Gray power in response. No doubt Surreal had used Craft to pass through the wall and meet Jaenelle in the corridor. Better that way. Right now he couldn’t get past the rage to deal with the girl in any gentle way.
He was dressed and striding for his bedroom’s door when Surreal rushed in from her room.
“Jaenelle’s practically in hysterics,” she said. “What in the name of Hell is going on?”
“I don’t know yet.” His hand closed on the door’s handle.
“Where are you going?”
He turned his head and looked at her—and watched her freeze because she recognized the difference between dealing with the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan and the High Lord of Hell.
But she swallowed hard and pushed, because Surreal wouldn’t do anything less. “Daemon, where are you going?”
He yanked on the handle and ripped the door off its hinges. Letting it fall, he snarled, “I’m going to have a chat with my brother.”
All the way to Ebon Rih, Daemon worked to keep his temper chained—at least until he had some kind of explanation from Prince Yaslana.
“Oh, tch. I’ve seen boy parts before.... Uncle Lucivar said it was all right!
