The Invisible Ring (The Black Jewels #4)(75)
Author: Anne Bishop

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 br**sts.

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.

It took several tries before he got the water to the temperature he wanted, too mentally and physically drained to get even the simplest spell right the first time.

Finally, he got in the tub and let the hot water soak away the sweat and grime, the ache in his muscles, and the tension that had ridden him hard since he’d seen the brass button among the boulders.

By the time he returned to the bedroom, a square wooden table and two straight-backed chairs were positioned in front of the fire. The table held two steaming bowls of beef stew, a small loaf of bread, a dish of butter, cheese, fruit, a bottle of wine, and two glasses.

Daemon sat comfortably in one of the chairs, smoking one of his black cigarettes. “You’re almost recognizable now,” he said as he flicked the cigarette into the fire. “Come and eat.”