Dreams Made Flesh
Page 12
“She has good reason to be afraid of you.”
Oh, now. Here was a battleground and an opponent who wouldn’t flinch at his temper. His voice became quiet and deadly. “Meaning what?”
“Do you know how Marian came to live in Kaeleer?” Saetan asked.
“Jaenelle brought her in.” Another battleground. “And what in the name of Hell was Jaenelle doing in Askavi Terreille?” he roared.
“Rescuing a hearth witch.”
He heard it then. It wasn’t anger under Saetan’s calmly spoken words; it was rage. So he chained his temper, no longer sure if he was dealing with Saetan, his father, or Saetan, the High Lord of Hell. He didn’t understand why Andulvar Yaslana, the Ebon-gray Eyrien Warlord Prince who had been Saetan’s closest friend for more than fifty thousand years, made a point of warning him to be careful when he dealt with the High Lord, but the fact that the Demon Prince felt the need to make the distinction was reason enough for him to be cautious.
Saetan rose, came around his desk, and leaned against the front of it. That informal stance, rather than his remaining behind the desk, usually signaled a discussion between equals.
“Marian’s father is a Warlord serving as a Fifth Circle guard in a Queen’s court,” Saetan said, his voice still quiet—and still filled with suppressed rage. “From the information I gathered, he doesn’t have the brains, the backbone, or the balls to advance any higher, but he deludes himself by thinking it’s his lack of the proper social connections rather than his lack of abilities that keeps him from being in the First or Second Circle. He likes to rub elbows with the aristo males in the court, and he likes to gamble—and some of them tolerate him because they find his expectations amusing and they like winning the quarterly pittance he earns whenever they consent to let him gamble with them. But they wouldn’t let him play on credit because they’d quickly realized he had no way to pay them back.
“But one night, a few weeks ago, they let him play beyond the marks he’d brought to the table. They kept refilling his glass, and they let him play because he had something they wanted. He’d been bragging recently about his younger daughters and how he expected them to become prominent witches once they completed their training as a Healer and a Priestess. But the eldest daughter was an embarrassment to him. A witch whose skills would never provide the family with any status, a witch who did—”
“Nothing important,” Lucivar murmured, remembering the defeated way Marian had held herself when she’d said those words.
Saetan nodded. “That was exactly what those aristo males wanted—a witch who did nothing important, a witch whose disappearance wouldn’t draw the attention of anyone in the court.” His hands curled around the edge of the blackwood desk. “So they let the bastard gamble until he was so far in debt he would never be able to repay them. And when he sobered up enough to realize his standing in the court would be ruined if he didn’t repay them, they offered him a trade—and he took it.
“He didn’t even have the courage to take her to the meeting place so she would know why she was being sacrificed. He just sent her there. Five Warlords with knives and Eyrien war blades. One terrified hearth witch, tethered so she could fly, since that made it more interesting, but couldn’t escape. Shallow slices to prolong the pain and fear. And when she couldn’t fight anymore, they pulled her down, intending to rape her while she bled out under them.”
Feeling sick, Lucivar closed his eyes. “So they raped her.”
“No. Jaenelle arrived before they began that part of their entertainment.”
Lucivar shuddered. Jaenelle had been brutally raped when she was twelve. Her body had healed, but she, and those who loved her, lived with the emotional scars. There was nothing that turned Jaenelle lethal and merciless faster than rape.
He opened his eyes, needing to see Saetan’s confirmation. “She killed those Warlords.” Then he shook his head. “If she intended to begin the healing in order to save Marian, it would have been a fast kill.” Which meant they hadn’t suffered nearly enough to repay the debt of pain and terror they’d inflicted.
“A fast kill,” Saetan agreed. “Although, considering the condition of their bodies, it was sufficient for the initial payment.”
Lucivar said nothing, just waited for the rest.
“Jaenelle gave them to me to extract the rest of the payment,” Saetan said too softly. “And they paid the debt in full.”
The knowledge of what Saetan could do to one of the Blood after the physical death should have frightened him, but he took a grim satisfaction in knowing every wound Marian had received, every moment of terror she’d experienced, had been accounted for. While Saetan ripped their minds apart, piece by piece, he would have found out everything there was to know about why and how Marian had ended up being attacked by those men.
“What about her father?” Lucivar asked.
“I have no authority in Askavi Terreille. I can’t touch her father.”
Yet.
The word hung unsaid between them, and Lucivar knew with absolute certainty that it didn’t matter how many more centuries Marian’s father lived. The day would come when his body died, and he would make the transition to become one of the demon-dead. He would end up in the Dark Realm—and the High Lord would be waiting for him.
“So you have a choice, Lucivar,” Saetan said. “I can appreciate, quite well, what it means to have Marian’s fear scraping against the instincts that bring out the best, and the deadliest, side of your nature. If you can’t tolerate it, then you should dismiss her. Between Jaenelle and me, we should be able to find her another position. Or you can grit your teeth for a while and endure it, giving her time to settle and regain her balance. Giving both of you time to find out if it’s you she really fears.”
Lucivar turned away. He couldn’t dismiss her. Not just because of what he’d learned from Saetan, but because it would confirm that she did nothing important, that her skills had no value. That she believed it, accepted it, chafed as much as anything else.
But having her stay wasn’t going to ease the other part of his frustration—especially now that he knew there were five—the bastards!—more reasons why she’d run from him.
Lucivar started pacing again.
Saetan watched him for a while, then cocked his head. “Something else?”
He tried to think of a delicate way to say it, but in the end, he blurted it out. “She makes me hungry.”
“She—” Saetan paused. Crossed his arms over his chest.
Lucivar glanced at his father, expecting to see criticism or anger in Saetan’s expression. Instead, he saw . . . interest.
“I know it isn’t possible,” he said.
“Why not?”
Lucivar stopped pacing and stared at Saetan in disbelief. “For one thing, she works for me. If she thinks that’s part of what I expect from her—” He raked his fingers through his hair. “I couldn’t stand it if she came to my bed because she thought she had to.”
“If she worked for someone else?”
Where he couldn’t protect her, especially now that he knew she needed protecting? Not while he was breathing. But the question made his temper soar. “I’d follow Protocol and stake a claim,” he snarled.
“There’s no reason why you can’t do that,” Saetan said.
“She works for me.”
Saetan made an exasperated sound. “There’s just the three of you. If she worked somewhere else and you expressed interest in her, she’d be scrutinized by everyone in that household because your interest would be public knowledge. This way, you can get to know her—and she can get to know you—in private. The end result will be the same. If she wants to be your lover, she’ll make the choice.”
“She still might think—”
“If I ever have so much as an inkling that you’re doing anything that makes her feel cornered, I will kick your ass from one end of Kaeleer to the other and back again.”
The threat, which was sincere, shouldn’t have cheered him up, but it did.
“You want advice about how to deal with Marian?” Saetan said. “Treat her the same way you treat the coven.”
Lucivar clenched his fists. The coven could take anything he dished out, but ... “She’s too fragile to be handled that way.”
Saetan just looked at him for a long time, then said quietly, “I saw her when Jaenelle brought her to the Keep. The woman who survived that attack has strength she’s never tested, strength she probably doesn’t even realize is inside her. Give her the chance to find it. Give her a reason to test it.”
Marian stared at the open kitchen cupboards. The empty kitchen cupboards. The man had two skillets, a pot, a chipped mixing bowl, four mismatched dishes, two coffee mugs, three glasses, two kitchen knives, and an odd assortment of silverware. No baking dishes, no baking sheets, no measuring cups. No coffeepot or coffee grinder. He didn’t even have wooden spoons. How was she supposed to prepare decent meals for him without any tools?
And the pantry. The size and design of it thrilled her, but the barren shelves made her want to cry. There was a small keg of ale and a wine rack that held three bottles labeled “yarbarah,” which she assumed was the name of a vineyard somewhere in Kaeleer because the only other “yarbarah” she knew about was the blood wine warriors drank at special ceremonies, and Yaslana wouldn’t have three bottles of that. But the flour, sugar, and coffee beans were just left in their sacks without so much as a light shield to keep the bugs out, and they were the only food items.
Oh, now. Here was a battleground and an opponent who wouldn’t flinch at his temper. His voice became quiet and deadly. “Meaning what?”
“Do you know how Marian came to live in Kaeleer?” Saetan asked.
“Jaenelle brought her in.” Another battleground. “And what in the name of Hell was Jaenelle doing in Askavi Terreille?” he roared.
“Rescuing a hearth witch.”
He heard it then. It wasn’t anger under Saetan’s calmly spoken words; it was rage. So he chained his temper, no longer sure if he was dealing with Saetan, his father, or Saetan, the High Lord of Hell. He didn’t understand why Andulvar Yaslana, the Ebon-gray Eyrien Warlord Prince who had been Saetan’s closest friend for more than fifty thousand years, made a point of warning him to be careful when he dealt with the High Lord, but the fact that the Demon Prince felt the need to make the distinction was reason enough for him to be cautious.
Saetan rose, came around his desk, and leaned against the front of it. That informal stance, rather than his remaining behind the desk, usually signaled a discussion between equals.
“Marian’s father is a Warlord serving as a Fifth Circle guard in a Queen’s court,” Saetan said, his voice still quiet—and still filled with suppressed rage. “From the information I gathered, he doesn’t have the brains, the backbone, or the balls to advance any higher, but he deludes himself by thinking it’s his lack of the proper social connections rather than his lack of abilities that keeps him from being in the First or Second Circle. He likes to rub elbows with the aristo males in the court, and he likes to gamble—and some of them tolerate him because they find his expectations amusing and they like winning the quarterly pittance he earns whenever they consent to let him gamble with them. But they wouldn’t let him play on credit because they’d quickly realized he had no way to pay them back.
“But one night, a few weeks ago, they let him play beyond the marks he’d brought to the table. They kept refilling his glass, and they let him play because he had something they wanted. He’d been bragging recently about his younger daughters and how he expected them to become prominent witches once they completed their training as a Healer and a Priestess. But the eldest daughter was an embarrassment to him. A witch whose skills would never provide the family with any status, a witch who did—”
“Nothing important,” Lucivar murmured, remembering the defeated way Marian had held herself when she’d said those words.
Saetan nodded. “That was exactly what those aristo males wanted—a witch who did nothing important, a witch whose disappearance wouldn’t draw the attention of anyone in the court.” His hands curled around the edge of the blackwood desk. “So they let the bastard gamble until he was so far in debt he would never be able to repay them. And when he sobered up enough to realize his standing in the court would be ruined if he didn’t repay them, they offered him a trade—and he took it.
“He didn’t even have the courage to take her to the meeting place so she would know why she was being sacrificed. He just sent her there. Five Warlords with knives and Eyrien war blades. One terrified hearth witch, tethered so she could fly, since that made it more interesting, but couldn’t escape. Shallow slices to prolong the pain and fear. And when she couldn’t fight anymore, they pulled her down, intending to rape her while she bled out under them.”
Feeling sick, Lucivar closed his eyes. “So they raped her.”
“No. Jaenelle arrived before they began that part of their entertainment.”
Lucivar shuddered. Jaenelle had been brutally raped when she was twelve. Her body had healed, but she, and those who loved her, lived with the emotional scars. There was nothing that turned Jaenelle lethal and merciless faster than rape.
He opened his eyes, needing to see Saetan’s confirmation. “She killed those Warlords.” Then he shook his head. “If she intended to begin the healing in order to save Marian, it would have been a fast kill.” Which meant they hadn’t suffered nearly enough to repay the debt of pain and terror they’d inflicted.
“A fast kill,” Saetan agreed. “Although, considering the condition of their bodies, it was sufficient for the initial payment.”
Lucivar said nothing, just waited for the rest.
“Jaenelle gave them to me to extract the rest of the payment,” Saetan said too softly. “And they paid the debt in full.”
The knowledge of what Saetan could do to one of the Blood after the physical death should have frightened him, but he took a grim satisfaction in knowing every wound Marian had received, every moment of terror she’d experienced, had been accounted for. While Saetan ripped their minds apart, piece by piece, he would have found out everything there was to know about why and how Marian had ended up being attacked by those men.
“What about her father?” Lucivar asked.
“I have no authority in Askavi Terreille. I can’t touch her father.”
Yet.
The word hung unsaid between them, and Lucivar knew with absolute certainty that it didn’t matter how many more centuries Marian’s father lived. The day would come when his body died, and he would make the transition to become one of the demon-dead. He would end up in the Dark Realm—and the High Lord would be waiting for him.
“So you have a choice, Lucivar,” Saetan said. “I can appreciate, quite well, what it means to have Marian’s fear scraping against the instincts that bring out the best, and the deadliest, side of your nature. If you can’t tolerate it, then you should dismiss her. Between Jaenelle and me, we should be able to find her another position. Or you can grit your teeth for a while and endure it, giving her time to settle and regain her balance. Giving both of you time to find out if it’s you she really fears.”
Lucivar turned away. He couldn’t dismiss her. Not just because of what he’d learned from Saetan, but because it would confirm that she did nothing important, that her skills had no value. That she believed it, accepted it, chafed as much as anything else.
But having her stay wasn’t going to ease the other part of his frustration—especially now that he knew there were five—the bastards!—more reasons why she’d run from him.
Lucivar started pacing again.
Saetan watched him for a while, then cocked his head. “Something else?”
He tried to think of a delicate way to say it, but in the end, he blurted it out. “She makes me hungry.”
“She—” Saetan paused. Crossed his arms over his chest.
Lucivar glanced at his father, expecting to see criticism or anger in Saetan’s expression. Instead, he saw . . . interest.
“I know it isn’t possible,” he said.
“Why not?”
Lucivar stopped pacing and stared at Saetan in disbelief. “For one thing, she works for me. If she thinks that’s part of what I expect from her—” He raked his fingers through his hair. “I couldn’t stand it if she came to my bed because she thought she had to.”
“If she worked for someone else?”
Where he couldn’t protect her, especially now that he knew she needed protecting? Not while he was breathing. But the question made his temper soar. “I’d follow Protocol and stake a claim,” he snarled.
“There’s no reason why you can’t do that,” Saetan said.
“She works for me.”
Saetan made an exasperated sound. “There’s just the three of you. If she worked somewhere else and you expressed interest in her, she’d be scrutinized by everyone in that household because your interest would be public knowledge. This way, you can get to know her—and she can get to know you—in private. The end result will be the same. If she wants to be your lover, she’ll make the choice.”
“She still might think—”
“If I ever have so much as an inkling that you’re doing anything that makes her feel cornered, I will kick your ass from one end of Kaeleer to the other and back again.”
The threat, which was sincere, shouldn’t have cheered him up, but it did.
“You want advice about how to deal with Marian?” Saetan said. “Treat her the same way you treat the coven.”
Lucivar clenched his fists. The coven could take anything he dished out, but ... “She’s too fragile to be handled that way.”
Saetan just looked at him for a long time, then said quietly, “I saw her when Jaenelle brought her to the Keep. The woman who survived that attack has strength she’s never tested, strength she probably doesn’t even realize is inside her. Give her the chance to find it. Give her a reason to test it.”
Marian stared at the open kitchen cupboards. The empty kitchen cupboards. The man had two skillets, a pot, a chipped mixing bowl, four mismatched dishes, two coffee mugs, three glasses, two kitchen knives, and an odd assortment of silverware. No baking dishes, no baking sheets, no measuring cups. No coffeepot or coffee grinder. He didn’t even have wooden spoons. How was she supposed to prepare decent meals for him without any tools?
And the pantry. The size and design of it thrilled her, but the barren shelves made her want to cry. There was a small keg of ale and a wine rack that held three bottles labeled “yarbarah,” which she assumed was the name of a vineyard somewhere in Kaeleer because the only other “yarbarah” she knew about was the blood wine warriors drank at special ceremonies, and Yaslana wouldn’t have three bottles of that. But the flour, sugar, and coffee beans were just left in their sacks without so much as a light shield to keep the bugs out, and they were the only food items.
