The Invisible Ring

“What happened to the Gray Lady?”

Jared tried to shrug. “She’s probably back in Dena Nehele by now.”

The phantom hand pulled him away from the wall and slammed him back into it.

Something malevolent flickered in Daemon’s eyes. “Dorothea’s Master of the Guard is hunting for the Gray Lady. Every band of marauders who preys in this part of the Realm has been sniffing around for a particular quarry. Does that sound like Grizelle’s safely returned to Dena Nehele?” Daemon sighed and looked at the ceiling. “This is becoming tedious, so I’ll make it easy for you. You have three chances to give me a believable answer. After that, I’ll take the information I want. But I’ll make sure I leave enough of your mind intact so that you’re able to fully understand what I’m doing when I tear your little witch apart.” He paused. “What are you doing here, Jared?”

For a moment, Jared felt too stunned to even try to answer. Even the agony of the Ring of Obedience was a mild threat compared to this. He’d have no chance against Daemon. His inner barriers would be forced open, his thoughts, feelings, memories picked over like tawdry goods at a market stall. At best, it would be a mental rape. At worst, he wouldn’t necessarily be broken, but he could still be savaged so badly he’d never fully recover.

And what would happen to Lia? Daemon made no secret of his revulsion for the distaff gender.

Jared licked his dry lips. “It’s none of your business, Daemon.”

Daemon smiled, a sweetly murderous smile. “Puppy, when you wailed for help, and I answered, you made it my business.”

Hell’s fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful. Why hadn’t he thought of that sooner?

“Although,” Daemon added, “I hadn’t expected you to show up shielding some battered slut.”

“She’s not a slut,” Jared said hotly, pushing away from the wall.

The phantom hand slammed him back again, hard enough to make him wonder if he’d have cracked ribs as well as a crushed throat.

Daemon said nothing.

“I told you,” Jared said through gritted teeth. “The witch who owns me ordered me to bring her—”

The phantom nails stabbed him, breaking the skin. Blood trickled down his neck.

“Liar,” Daemon snarled quietly.

Jared shivered as he watched the gold eyes glaze with cold fury. He bit his tongue to keep from whimpering.

“She owns me,” he said weakly as the fingers tightened a bit more.

Contempt joined the fury in Daemon’s eyes. He looked pointedly at Jared’s groin. “You wear no Ring, Warlord. And you’re down to your last chance.”

“I do wear a Ring,” Jared said, gasping for breath. “I wear the Invisible Ring.”

Unexpectedly, the phantom hand eased its vicious grip.

Daemon studied Jared. Then one finely shaped black eyebrow rose, and he asked mildly, “Which one? The Silver or the Gold?”

Which one? Jared thought desperately.Which one ? How in the name of Hell was he supposed to know which one?

It wasinvisible ! “I...”

A loud thump came from his room.

Jared turned toward the door without thinking. Releasing the Red lock, he rushed inside.

Lia was crawling toward the door, her eyes glazed and unseeing. Her right arm was curled, as if she were still dragging Tomas’s body away from the viper rats’ nest.

“Lia,” Jared murmured, hurrying to reach her.

As he crouched in front of her, he heard the door quietly close. Heard the snick of a lock.

He slowly straightened and turned.

Daemon leaned against the closed door, his hands still tucked in his trouser pockets. In silence, he watched Lia’s efforts.

“Who is she?” Daemon asked quietly. ?

Jared took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Lady Arabella Ardelia. The Gray Lady’s granddaughter.”

Daemon didn’t move, but Jared sensed a change. Not exactly surprise, but a swift reassessment.

“Viper rats?” Daemon said, his eyes narrowing as he studied Lia.

Jared nodded. He had no chance against the Sadist, but he’d make Daemon go through him in order to get to Lia.

Daemon shrugged out of his tailored black jacket, tossed it on a chair, and began rolling up the sleeves of his white-silk shirt. “Get her on the bed. We’ll finish this discussion later.” He stepped through the bathroom door.

Daemon returned before Jared had a chance to settle Lia.

“Wait,” Daemon said. He unfolded two sheets, then refolded them to make a pad. Placing them on the left side of the double bed, he smoothed the sheets.

What kind of spells was Daemon putting on the sheets? Jared wondered, holding Lia a little tighter to his chest.

Satisfied, Daemon said, “Put her on those. It’ll be easier than stripping the bed later and disturbing her.”

Jared did as he was told. He bit back a snarl when Daemon knelt on the bed beside Lia. “Is there a Healer in the village?”

Daemon’s hands glided over Lia’s head, slid down her swollen neck. “Even if there is, I doubt she’d be much help. You need someone who has some skill in healing Craft and a knowledge of poisons.” His hands glided over her shoulders, over her breasts.

Thera had said the same thing, Jared reminded himself as he watched Daemon’s hands move over Lia’s body. There was nothing personal or sexual about the way Daemon explored her, but Jared couldn’t push aside the memory of watching those hands with their long, black-tinted nails roam over other female bodies for a very different purpose.

Especially when those strong, slender fingers drifted through the triangle of hair between Lia’s legs and curved to cup her.

Jared snarled at the intimacy.

“If you don’t know how to behave in a sickroom, get out,” Daemon said mildly, giving Jared one piercing look before he turned his attention back to Lia.

Stung, Jared clenched his teeth. Of course he knew how to behave in a sickroom. His mother was a Healer. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath to steady himself.

The first rule of a sickroom was that no anger, no fear, no violent emotions were permitted because they could be absorbed into a healing, neutralizing or even destroying a Healer’s efforts.

He opened his eyes when Daemon sat back.

“If someone hadn’t taught her how to contain an injected poison, she’d be dead by now,” Daemon said.

“Her mother is a Black Widow.” The bites looked bigger, darker. “Isn’t there anyone . . .” Jared’s voice faded.

Daemon got off the bed. He called in two leather carrying boxes, opened them, and started looking through the various jars. “I know enough healing Craft.” Amusement and something else Jared couldn’t identify flickered in Daemon’s eyes. “And poisons are an interest of mine. Those bites have to be opened and the venom drawn out. If you don’t have a strong stomach, you’ve got five minutes to acquire one.”

Jared swallowed hard. Frowning, he gingerly touched his throat.

Daemon gave him a knowing look before calling in a mortar and pestle. “There’s no physical damage. Well, not much. I didn’t think I’d actually have to crush your throat to convince you to be reasonable. There are many kinds of illusions. Jared.”

Jared winced when his fingers brushed against one of the cuts made by the phantom nails. “But you would have.”

Daemon poured a jar of dried herbs into the mortar. “If you’d done something to harm the Gray Lady, yes, I would have.”

“Why are you so interested in the Gray Lady?”

Daemon’s golden eyes turned to hard, yellow stones. “Because she stands against Dorothea.”

“There’s nothing more we can do,” Daemon said wearily, wiping his hands on a soiled towel.

Jared braced his forearms on the bed, too tired to sit up straight.

They had done all they could, but had they done enough?

They’d worked for hours, applying herb poultices to draw the venom, draining the pus and fluid that Daemon had explained were the result of the healing Craft Lia had used. They’d gone through the cycle three times. In between those cycles, Daemon stroked Lia’s body, soothing her while she burned with fever. Sure that Reyna had never used her hands quite that way, Jared had clenched his teeth and leashed his emotions while he assisted by doing all the mundane tasks required.

At the end of it, though, the swelling had gone down and the ugly, malignant look of the bites had faded to the color of pale bruises. Lia was breathing easily and no longer feverish.

Jared smoothed the already smooth covers and stood up. He swayed from fatigue.

“Here,” Daemon said, calling in a long dressing robe. “Get cleaned up. I’ll see about getting something to eat.”

Jared took the robe. Maybe a hot bath would ease his aching muscles enough to convince his body to keep going. “I’m not hungry.”

“Being tired is no excuse for being an idiot.” Daemon finished putting the empty jars back into the leather carrying cases. He vanished them, along with the mortar and pestle. “If you expect to be of any use to her tomorrow when she needs you, you’ll eat and get some rest tonight.”

Jared didn’t argue. What was the point of arguing with someone who was right?

Nodding agreement, he stumbled into the bathroom. It was a bit primitive, but it had running water and indoor plumbing. He fit the plug into the bottom of the bathtub, turned the single faucet, and stifled a yelp when cold water gushed out.

He sank to his knees and stared at the rising water, wondering how he was going to convince himself to get into that tub of cold water.

He scrubbed his hands over his face, trying to clear away enough of the fatigue to think. If the innkeeper wasn’t supplying hot water, that meant the guests were expected to make their own.

Jared lowered his hands. Of course. This wasn’t an aristo inn where servants would be responsible for the warming spells that would keep tanks of water hot for the guests. He’d have to use Craft to heat the water. A small thing, really. Certainly nothing a Red-Jeweled Warlord would have to think twice about.