Dreams Made Flesh (The Black Jewels #5)

Dreams Made Flesh (The Black Jewels #5) Page 48

“I took care of things,” he replied too softly. “I took care of everything.” He turned and walked up the stairs. When he was halfway up, he stopped and looked back at her. “If you want other lovers, you don’t want me as a husband. I’ve tolerated that game for the last time, Priestess. If it happens again, we’ll be divorced before you have time to leave your lover’s bed. As for him . . .” He smiled a brutal, gentle smile. “I’ll take him to Hell. Your name will be the last thing he screams while the Hounds tear him apart.”

Hekatah stared up at him. Then she made a dismissive gesture. “What did you do to Zuulaman?”

“Zuulaman? That’s a word without meaning.”

“It’s a place, as you very well know.”

Saetan shook his head. “It doesn’t exist.” He walked up the stairs and disappeared down the corridor toward his suite.

Since Saetan was no longer available, Hekatah rounded on Andulvar. “What did he do?” she demanded. “Did he put some kind of shield around the islands so no one can find them?”

“They’re gone, Hekatah,” Andulvar said quietly.

“We sent messengers to find out why the Ambassador left so suddenly but they couldn’t find—”

“The islands are gone.” Hell’s fire! How many times would he have to say it before the bitch finally heard him?

Hekatah frowned at him. “What do you mean they’re gone?”

“The islands don’t exist anymore. The Zuulaman people don’t exist anymore. Everything that ever came from them doesn’t exist anymore.”

She shook her head slowly. “Not possible. You can’t destroy everything about a people that fast.”

“You can’t. I can’t. But the Prince of the Darkness? The High Lord of Hell? He can. Oh, yes, Hekatah. He can.”

She kept shaking her head. “You don’t believe that story about him ruling the Dark Realm. A living man can’t rule the demon-dead, can’t control them.”

Andulvar released her arm and stepped back. “You believe what you choose. But when they butchered his son and sent the pieces to him, Zuulaman broke the chain he’d forged to keep the rest of us safe from what he is. I know what he is. So I know he’s the High Lord of Hell.”

Fear slowly filled her eyes. She staggered back a step. “I can’t stay here. He’s angry with me.”

“He’s still riding the killing edge,” Andulvar said. “There’s no room in him yet for something as small as anger. Not when the rage only needs a spark to rekindle and look for another killing field.”

She shrank away from him.

“Why don’t you go back to Hayll and spend a few more days with your family? Right now, there’s nothing you can do to help him.”

As she glanced up the stairs, her face turned a sickly gray. “Yes. I need—I don’t feel well.”

He watched her stumble out of the room. Then he went to the window and pulled back the curtains enough to watch her run to the Coach that was still waiting for her.

Stupid aristo bitch. He wondered if Saetan had sensed the Coach and realized Hekatah hadn’t intended to stay. He wondered if Saetan cared. At least she was gone for a few more days and wouldn’t stir things up.

I can’t help you, SaDiablo, Andulvar thought as he let the curtain fall back into place. She shattered the moment when I might have made a difference. But I can give you two reasons to step away from the killing edge . . . and come all the way back from the Twisted Kingdom.

16

As he stared at the charred, broken remains of a tangled web, Saetan felt Andulvar’s wary presence as the Eyrien entered the short corridor that led to this hidden workroom.

“The boys?” he asked when Andulvar stepped into the room.

“Upstairs in their playroom.”

“The baby kept crying,” Saetan said softly, keeping his eyes focused on the web. “Screams of pain. Shrieks of terror. He kept crying. When I made the pain go away, the terror go away . . . When the reason for those things ceased to exist, he stopped crying.” He closed his eyes. He still felt hollowed out, knew he was still too close to the border of the Twisted Kingdom. But he had to ask. “They don’t exist, do they? Zuulaman doesn’t exist anymore.”

“No,” Andulvar said. “They don’t exist anymore. Everything they were is gone.”

He felt the weight of what he had done settle on his shoulders and knew he would feel that burden for the rest of his life. He was a strong man. He would carry that weight. But nothing would be the same because of it. He would never be the same because of it.

He turned and looked at Andulvar, noting how the Eyrien tensed and had to fight to keep from taking a step back.

“Are you afraid of me, Andulvar?”

A long pause. “Yes. I’m afraid of you.” Another pause. “I’m still your friend. We’ve been friends too long for it to be otherwise. But what happened to Zuulaman has changed things. I need . . . some time.”

“I understand.” Saetan forced his lips to curve into a smile. “Prince Yaslana.”

Andulvar didn’t try to return the smile. “High Lord.”

Saetan listened to Andulvar’s retreating footsteps before he turned back to study the web.

Yes, they’d been friends too long to break completely. Centuries ago, they’d first met in a court, two Red-Jeweled Warlord Princes who came from cultures that had nothing in common. Despite that, or because of it, they had become friends. It wasn’t the first time they’d parted on uneasy terms. It wouldn’t be the last. But this time, it was different.

Are you afraid of me, Andulvar?

Yes. I’m afraid of you.

“So am I, my friend,” Saetan whispered. “So am I.”

Two hours later, after cleaning the workroom, locking away the tools of the Black Widows’ Craft, and scrubbing himself while he silently wept, he opened the door to the playroom.

“Papa!”

Mephis and Peyton rushed toward him, then skidded to a stop. His heart broke when they hesitated to come near him.

Then Mephis said, “You should sit down.”

Since his legs were shaking, that sounded like a good idea. Moving carefully, he made his way to the large stuffed chair near the hearth. As soon as he was settled, Peyton climbed into his lap. Mephis, always more cautious, leaned against the side of the chair, then brushed a hand against his shoulder.

“Were you sick?” Mephis asked.

“I . . . wasn’t well,” he replied.

“Was that why Uncle Andulvar took us to stay with him?” Peyton asked.

Wondering how long it would be before he and Andulvar sat at a table together to talk and argue as they’d done for so many years, he swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded. “Yes, that’s why.”

“Are you better now?” Mephis asked.

He reached up and curled his fingers around his son’s hand. “Yes, I’m better now.”

Mephis’s hand tightened to hold on to his, surprising him.

They had been the beacons he’d followed to find his way out of the Twisted Kingdom. He hadn’t wanted to leave. There had been peace there after the baby stopped crying. There had been an absence of pain he knew he wouldn’t find in the sane world. But he’d made the journey back because he needed to be with them, needed to be here for them.

His little Warlord Princes. The day would come when they realized who . . . and what . . . their father was. And things would change between them. But until that day came, they were his boys, his sons, his joy. He would protect them, no matter the price.

“Papa?” Peyton said. “Would you read us a story?”

He pressed his lips to Peyton’s forehead, savoring the contact, just as he savored the feel of Mephis’s hand in his. “Yes, my darlings. I’ll read you a story.”

KAELEER’S HEART

This story takes place after the events in Queen of the Darkness

ONE

1

Rage filled him. Love drove him. He and Witch hit the Green web. He rolled, but he didn’t have Lucivar’s skill. They broke through close to the middle of the web. He kept rolling so that when they hit the Sapphire, they were close to the edge. He rolled the other way, wrapping her in the web’s power.

They broke through the Sapphire, but they weren’t falling as fast now. He had a little more time to brace, to plan, to pour the strength of his Black Jewels into fighting the fall.

They hit the Red, rolled, clung for a second before falling to the Gray. Only half the Gray strands broke immediately. He strained back as hard as he could. When the other half broke, he rolled them upward while the web swung them down toward the Ebon-gray. He pulled against the swing, slowing it, slowing it.

When the other side of the Gray broke, they sailed down to the Ebon-gray. The web sagged when they landed, then stretched, then stretched a little more before the strands began to break.

His Black Jewels were almost drained, but he held on, held on, held on as they floated onto the Black web.

And nothing happened.

Shaking, shivering, he stared at the Black web, not quite daring to believe.

It took him a minute to get his hands to unlock from their grip around her ankles. When he was finally able to let go, he floated cautiously above the web. Near her shoulder, he noticed two small broken strands. Very carefully, he smoothed the Black strands over the other colors that cocooned her.

He could barely see her, only just enough to make out the tiny spiral horn. But that was enough.

*We did it,* he whispered. He looked up. He couldn’t see his brother and father, but he knew they were still floating in the abyss, exhausted from their own part of this fight to save her. *Lucivar! Priest! We did it!*

Then he looked at Witch—and horror filled him. In that moment of inattention, the Black web’s strands had sagged, stretched, started to break. He lunged, trying to grab her. His fingertips brushed against her ankle, but no matter how hard he strained, he couldn’t get any closer.

Her eyes opened. Even through the cocoon of webs, they glittered like fine sapphires.

“Daemon.” Little more than an exhalation of breath, a sigh. “Daemon.”

Then the strands of Black web broke, and she spiraled down into the Darkness and disappeared.

“No.” Grief ensnared him, cocooned him in agony. “Noooo!”

Still trembling from the nightmare that had become a familiar companion over the past few months, Daemon Sadi braced his hands against the shower walls and let the hot water sluice over his bowed head.

He loved Jaenelle Angelline with everything in him, had waited all of his seventeen hundred years for the day when he would surrender to Witch and serve her, be her lover. He had dreamed of her, yearned for her, had endured the centuries of being used as a pleasure slave because he had to survive in order to find her. And now . . .

He was losing her. He didn’t know what he’d done, or hadn’t done, to cause her feelings for him to change, but he was losing her. There was sadness lurking in the depths of her sapphire eyes whenever he was with her, and with each passing day, she seemed a little more distant, a little more out of reach.