Tangled Webs

“One of us would be dumb enough to take a candle and go down into the dark, scary cellar, where something would be waiting to gut the dumb one.” The doorknob rattled, pulling against her hand. “Rainier, get away from there!”

He spun and leaped clear just as the doorknob yanked out of her grasp and the door slammed shut.

“And the dumb person, having reached the bottom of the stairs when the door mysteriously slams shut…,” Rainier said.

“Is not only locked in with one of the Bad Things, he’s also in the dark because thewhoosh of air blows out the candle.”

Rainier raised his eyebrows. “He?”

She smiled at him. “Of course the dumb one is a male.”

“Of course,” he replied sourly. But he smiled.

She took one of the chairs that were around the kitchen table and wedged it under the doorknob. When she looked at Rainier, he was no longer smiling. “There’s a spell on that door,” she said.

She saw his hesitation, his frustration. He wanted to Craft-lock that door and keep the nastiness that was hiding in the cellar locked in the cellar.

She glanced at the children. They’d come closer to the table—and the available light—but still hadn’t said anything.

Back to the pantry. Neither of them sensed any power or Craft around that door, but Rainier still braced himself against the door to hold it open, and she didn’t argue with him.

She slipped the stiletto under her belt, took two jars off the shelves, and returned to the table. Using her jacket sleeve, she wiped off the jars, then held one closer to the candles to get a good look at what was inside. “Peaches.”

How long had the jars been there? How long did canned fruit last? Not much dust on them. The witches who had created this place would have wanted food handy in case they got hungry. Most likely, these were leftover supplies.

Using the tip of her stiletto, she pried the lid open on one jar. Thepop of the seal breaking was a good sign, so she picked up the jar and sniffed. Smelled like peaches, but…Was she getting a whiff of something else?

After wiping her stiletto on her trousers, she poked at the peach slices on top.

“Why are you poking those with that dirty old knife?” Ginger said.

“Mind your tone, girl,” Rainier growled. Then he added on a psychic thread, "Whyare you poking around? The seal was good, wasn’t it?"

"It was good," Surreal replied. "But do you really want to trust a good seal when there were three Black Widows in this house?"

“I’ll find a bowl,” Rainier said.

He did, and used his shirttail to wipe the dust out of it.

Wasn’t much food to share between them, Surreal thought as she dumped the contents of the jar into the bowl. But a little food and liquid would help postpone the time when they’d have to use Craft to get to the supplies they were carrying and—

“What’s that?” Sage asked, leaning closer to the bowl. “Are those grapes in there?”

“Mother Night,” Rainier said, turning away.

She felt her gorge rise, but she stared at the mouse heads mixed in with the peach slices.

“So,” she said too softly, “no water, no food. And nothing we can trust.” She set the jar down, then slipped her stiletto into the boot sheath and picked up one of the candles. “Time to see what’s upstairs.”

“What’s down there?” Ginger said, pointing to the cellar door.

“You didn’t go down there.”

“And we’re not going to,” Rainier said. He picked up the oil lamp, then used the poker to point at the table. “One of you take the other candle.”

“There might be food down there,” Ginger said. She walked over to the door and pointed dramatically. “I’llgo down there ifyou’re too afraid.”

“You do that, sugar,” Surreal said. “But I’ll only tell you this once. From here on, we’ll do our best to protect you from whatever is in this house, but we won’t protect you from your own stupidity. You want to open that door after we’ve told you not to, you go right ahead. If something comes after you, you deal with it or die.”

“You have to—”

Something on the cellar stairs suddenly hit the door hard enough to rattle the hinges.

Ginger ran back to the other girls.

“Guess that answers the question, doesn’t it?” Surreal said.

“Guess it does,” Rainier replied. “I’ll take point. You watch our backs.”

“Done.”

They didn’t get to see the first big surprise. No matter. There would be plenty of opportunities for them to meetthat one. And now that they were climbing the stairs to the second floor, they were finally starting the interesting part of the adventure.

FOURTEEN

Using Craft, Daemon flung open the Hall’s front door, almost hitting the footman, who scrambled out of his way. Beale, wary but determined, stood in the center of the great hall. A prudent position, Daemon thought as he strode toward the man. He couldn’t avoid noticing the butler’s presence and yet the man wasn’t in his direct path.

“Lord Khardeen has been waiting to see you,” Beale said.

“Not now,” Daemon growled as he headed toward his study. He needed a few minutes to settle himself before he went to Halaway—and also take care of the other worry that had occurred to him on his way back to the Hall.

Hell’s fire! He hoped that message reached Lucivar in time. He could have contacted Yaslana on a psychic thread before leaving the landen village—he was strong enough to reach the Ebon-gray from any part of Dhemlan when his brother was at home—but they didn’t use that kind of communication for casual matters at that distance. Sensing that something was wrong, Lucivar would have ignored the words and responded in typical Eyrien fashion: he would have headed for the location from which the message had been sent—and he would have ended up at that damn house. Sending a written message had been a gamble, one Daemon hoped he wouldn’t regret.

Before he reached the study, Khardeen stepped out of the informal reception room.

“We need to talk,” Khary said.

“I don’t have time, Warlord,” Daemon said as he opened the study door. “Beale, I need to get a message to the Keep. Find the fastest messenger within easy reach.”

“Make time,” Khary said.

He choked on the instinctive desire to lash out at any Warlord insolent enough to usethat tone of voice when addressing a Warlord Prince. But because this was Khardeen, Warlord of Maghre and husband to the Queen of Scelt, he held on to his temper with all the slippery self-control he could command at that moment.