Heir to the Shadows (The Black Jewels #2)(36)
Author: Anne Bishop

When the rush and roar finally stopped, he found himself lying on a tiny, phallic-shaped island in the middle of a vast sea of blood.

Even before she was fully awake, Surreal called in her stiletto.

A soft, stealthy sound.

She slipped out of bed and opened her door a crack, listening.

Nothing.

Maybe it was only Daemon groping in the bathroom.

Gray, predawn light filled the short hallway. Keeping close to the wall, Surreal inspected the other rooms.

The bathroom was empty. So was Daemon’s bedroom.

Swearing softly, Surreal examined his room. The bed looked like it had been through a storm, but the rest of the room was untouched. The only clothes missing were the ones she’d given him last night.

Nothing missing from the living area. Nothing missing— damn it!—from the kitchen.

Surreal vanished the stiletto before putting the kettle on for tea.

Tersa used to vanish for days, months, sometimes years before showing up at one of these hideaways. Surreal had intended to move on soon, but what if Daemon returned in a few days and found her gone? Would he remember her as a child and worry? Would he try to find her?

She made the tea and some toast. Taking them into the front room, she curled up on the couch with one of the thick novels she’d bought.

She would wait a few weeks before deciding. There was no hurry. There were plenty of men like the ones who had used Briarwood that she could hunt in this part of Terreille.

10 / Kaeleer

Stubbornly ignoring the steady stream of servants flowing past his study door toward the front rooms, Saetan reached for the next report. They were only halfway up the drive. It would be another

quarter hour before the carriage pulled up to the steps. What had Mephis been thinking of when he’d decided to use the landing web at Halaway instead of the one a few yards from the Hall’s front door?

Grinding his teeth, he flipped through the report, seeing nothing.

He was the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan, the High Lord of Hell. He should set an example, should act with dignity.

He dropped the report on his desk and left his study.

Screw dignity.

He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall at a point that was midway between his study and the front door. From there he could comfortably watch everything without being stepped on. Maybe.

Fighting to keep a straight face, Saetan listened to Beale accept one implausible excuse after another for why this footman or that maid just had to be in the great hall at that moment.

Intent on their busy chaos and excuses, no one noticed the front door open until a very rumpled Mephis said, "Beale, could you—Never mind, the footmen are already here. There are some packages—"

Mephis glared at the footmen scrambling out the door before he spotted Saetan. Weaving his way through the maids, Mephis walked over to Saetan, braced himself against the wall, and sighed wearily. "She’ll be here in a minute. She pounced on Tarl as soon as the carriage stopped to consult him on the state of her garden."

"Lucky Tarl," Saetan murmured. When Mephis snorted, he studied his rumpled son. "A difficult trip?"

Mephis snorted again. "I never realized one young girl could turn an entire city upside down in just five days." He puffed his cheeks. "Fortunately, I’ll only have to help with the paperwork. The negotiations will fall squarely into your lap . . . where they belong."

Saetan’s eyebrow snapped up. "What negotiations? Mephis, what—"

A few footmen returned, carrying Jaenelle’s luggage. The others . . .

Saetan watched with growing interest as smiling footmen

brought in armloads of brown-paper packages and headed for the labyrinth of corridors that would eventually take them to Jaenelle’s suite.

"They aren’t what you think," Mephis grumbled.

Since Mephis knew he’d been hoping Jaenelle would buy more clothes, Saetan growled in disappointment. Sylvia’s idea of appropriate girl clothes hadn’t included a single dress, and the only concession she and Jaenelle had made to his insistence that everyone at the Hall dress for dinner wasone long black skirt and two blouses. When he had pointed out—and very reasonably, too—that trousers, shirts, and long sweaters weren’t exactly feminine, Sylvia had given him a scalding lecture, the gist of it being that whatever a woman enjoyed wearing was feminine and anything she didn’t enjoy wearing wasn’t, and if he was too stubborn and old-fashioned to understand that, he could go soak his head in a bucket of cold water. He hadn’t quite forgiven her yet for saying they would have to look hard to find a bucket big enough to fit his head into, but he admired the sass behind the remark.

Then Jaenelle bounded through the open door, dazzling Beale and the rest of the staff with a smile before politely asking Helene if she could have a sandwich and a glass of fruit juice sent to her suite.

She looks happy,Saetan thought, forgetting about everything else.

After Helene hurried off to the kitchen and Beale herded the remaining staff back to their duties, Saetan pushed away from the wall, opened his arms . . . and fought the sudden nausea as Menzar’s fantasies and memories flooded his mind. He cringed at the thought of touching Jaenelle, of somehow dirtying the warmth and high spirits that flowed from her. He started to lower his arms, but she walked into them, gave him a rib-squeezing hug, and said, "Hello, Papa."

He held her tightly, breathing in her physical scent as well as the dark psychic scent he’d missed so keenly during the last few days.

For a moment, that dark scent became swift and penetrating.

But when she leaned back to look at him, her sapphire eyes told him nothing. He shivered with apprehension.

Jaenelle kissed his cheek. "I’m going to unpack. Mephis needs to talk." She turned to Mephis, who was still leaning wearily against the wall. "Thank you, Mephis. I had a grand time, and I’m sorry I caused you so much trouble."

Mephis gave her a warm hug. "It was a unique experience. Next time I’ll be a little more prepared."

Jaenelle laughed. "You’d take me back to Amdarh?"

"Wouldn’t dare let you go alone," Mephis grumped.

As soon as she was gone, Saetan slid an arm around Mephis’s shoulders. "Come to my study. You could use a glass of yarbarah."

"I could use a year’s sleep," Mephis grumbled.

Saetan led his eldest son to the leather couch and warmed a glass of yarbarah for him. Sitting on a footstool, Saetan rested Mephis’s right foot on his thigh, removed the shoe and sock, and began a soothing foot massage. After a few silent minutes, Mephis roused enough to remember the yarbarah and take a sip.

Continuing his massage, Saetan said quietly, "So tell me."