Heir to the Shadows (The Black Jewels #2)(3)
Author: Anne Bishop

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

Jewels’ strength and there wouldn’t be enough left of that Warlord to be even a whisper in the Darkness.

"I rule Hell, Greer," Saetan said too softly. "Why should I care about a Hayllian witch, young or otherwise?"

"She wasn’t from Hayll." Greer hesitated. "I had understood you were a friend of hers."

Saetan raised one eyebrow. "I?"

Greer licked his lips. The words rushed out. "I was assigned to the Hayllian embassy in Beldon Mor, the capital of Chaillot, and had the privilege of meeting Jaenelle. When the trouble started, I betrayed the High Priestess of Hayll’s trust by helping Daemon Sadi get the girl to safety." His left hand fumbled with the scarf around his neck and finally pulled it away. "This was my reward."

Lying bastard,Saetan thought. If he didn’t have his own use for this walking piece of carrion, he would have ripped through Greer’s mind and found out what part the man hadreally played in this.

"I knew the girl," Saetan snarled as he walked toward the door.

Greer took a step forward. "Knew her? Is she …"

Saetan spun around. "She walks among thecildru dyathel"

Greer bowed his head. "May the Darkness be merciful."

"Get out." Saetan stepped aside, not wanting to be fouled by any contact with the man.

Andulvar folded his wings and escorted Greer from the Hall. He returned a few minutes later, looking worried. Saetan stared at him, no longer caring that the rage and hatred showed in his eyes.

Andulvar settled into an Eyrien fighting stance, his feet apart to balance his weight, his wings slightly spread. "You know that statement will spread through Hell faster than the scent of fresh blood."

Saetan gripped the cane with both hands. "I don’t give a damn who else he tells as long as that bastard tells the bitch who sent him."

"He said that? He really said that?" Slumped in the only chair in the room, Greer nodded wearily.

Hekatah, the self-proclaimed High Priestess of Hell, twirled around the room, her long black hair flying out behind her as she spun.

This was even better than simply destroying the child. Now, with her torn mind and torn, dead body, the girl would be an invisible knife in Saetan’s ribs, always twisting and twisting, a constant reminder that he wasn’t the only power to contend with.

Hekatah stopped spinning, tipped her head back, and flung her arms up in triumph. "She walks among thecildru dyathe!" Sinking gracefully to the floor, she leaned against an arm of Greer’s chair and gently stroked his cheek. "And you, my sweet, were responsible for that. She’s of no use to him now."

"The girl is no longer useful to you either, Priestess."

Hekatah pouted coquettishly, her gold eyes glittering with malice. "No longer useful for my original plans, but she’ll be an .excellent weapon against that gutter son of a whore."

Seeing Greer’s blank expression, Hekatah rose to her feet, slapping the dust from her gown as shetsked in irritation. "Your body is dead, not your mind. Do try to think, Greer darling. Who else was interested in the child?"

Greer sat up and slowly smiled. "Daemon Sadi."

"Daemon Sadi," Hekatah agreed smugly. "How pleased do you think he’ll be when he finds out his little darling is so very, very dead? And who, with a little help, do you think he’ll blame for her departure from the living? Think of the fun pitting the son against the father. And if they destroy each other"—Hekatah opened her arms wide— "Hell will fragment once more, and the ones who were always too frightened to defy him will rally around me. With the strength of the demon-dead behind us, Terreille will finally kneel to me asthe High Priestess, as it would have done all those many, many centuries ago if that bastard hadn’t always thwarted my ambition."