Dreams Made Flesh

She studied him with narrowed eyes. “You’ve got that bossy I’m-a-Warlord-Prince-so-I’m-right tone in your voice.”

“No, I’ve got that I’m-a-Warlord-Prince-who-is-your-adoring-loving-husband tone in my voice.”

“Sounds like bossy from where I’m sitting.”

“Must be the acoustics in the cab.” He smiled as he kissed her frown-wrinkled forehead. “Sweetheart, you’re exhausted. We’ve paid a courtesy call to Zhara and been seen in several shops today. That’s enough. You need to rest.” He paused. “Hell’s fire, I need to rest.”

She considered that for a moment. “What did you have in mind?”

Several things, but he’d take them in order. “Tucking into the sitting room for the rest of the afternoon. If you’re a good little witch and nibble on some food to make up for what you didn’t eat at midday, I’ll read to you.”

“That’s bribery,” Jaenelle grumbled.

“And your point is?”

“It’s a good bribe.”

Daemon grinned, then looked out the window when the cab stopped. “Streets are crowded today.”

“What else is on your mind?”

He sighed. Of course she’d noticed his preoccupation at the last two shops they’d visited. Taking her left hand in his, he dropped the sight shield on his wedding ring for a moment. The brief sight of it warmed him, soothed him.

“Maybe we should let this go,” he said quietly, rubbing his thumb over the back of her hand.

“Someone tried to ruin your reputation and isolate you socially from the rest of the Blood,” Jaenelle pointed out.

“Someone wanted you to turn away from me. You didn’t. Nothing else matters.” The cab started forward. “I don’t give a damn if the Blood in Amdarh accept me or not.”

“If someone wants you enough to hurt you—”

The driver cried out. The horse screamed and bolted.

Daemon had enough time to throw a Black shield around both of them before the horse veered sharply. The sound of wood snapping . . .

“Air!” Jaenelle shouted.

... then the cab tipped, crashing on its side before continuing a sickening flip with unnatural speed until it smashed against walls of power.

The inside of the cab was a dazzle of colors—Green, Rose, Summer-sky, Purple Dusk, Red, Sapphire.

As the cab came to rest, Daemon blinked to clear his vision. The colors danced around them a moment longer before they faded—and he realized they were floating in the middle of the cab. He had automatically created a tight, defensive shield that would have protected them from invasive harm, but they would have been thrown around the inside of the cab. Jaenelle’s bubble shield had provided a better cushion.

Shattered glass and thrusting spikes of broken wood littered the cab’s roof, which was now beneath them.

He wasn’t aware he’d risen to the killing edge, wasn’t aware of the freezing rage flooding him until Jaenelle said quietly, “Leash it, Prince. They just want to help.”

He stared at her, working through what she was telling him, what she was demanding from him. He wanted to rip flesh from bone, wanted to crush the minds surrounding the cab. He wanted to wash Amdarh’s streets in a river of blood.

“Daemon,” Jaenelle said.

“For you,” he crooned. “Only for you.”

With effort, he chained the desire to strike out with lethal intent as the cab door opened, revealing worried male faces. The air bubble shrank around them. In the space of a heartbeat, he dropped the Black shield around them and re-formed tight shields around each of them. Then he shifted until he could crouch among the shattered glass and shards of wood and help the Warlords reaching into the cab to guide Jaenelle, still floating on air, through the door.

As Daemon emerged from the cab, he noticed how the males had formed a protective circle around Jaenelle, noted the distress and anger in all of their faces.

“Where’s the driver?” he asked too softly.

“Over there,” a Warlord said, pointing to another cluster of males.

The males near the driver backed away as he approached. He looked down at the man sprawled in the street, testing with a delicate psychic probe.

Physically dead but not burned out.

He put a Black shield around the driver and vanished the body, ignoring the startled exclamations of the other men. The Warlords surrounding Jaenelle watched him with fear in their eyes.

Jaenelle just watched him.

Her presence was the tiny spark of warmth in a world that had gone sweetly, deadly cold. So he held on to that spark while he led his Lady to one of the carriages offered for their use—and he held himself in the eye of a storm that he would either dissipate . . . or unleash on Amdarh.

Keeping her inner barriers tightly shut to prevent anyone picking up on her frustration and fury, Lektra, along with several other women, stood on a street corner and watched the Warlords ease Jaenelle Angelline from the broken cab. She walked away, knowing she’d be sickened by the sight of Daemon fawning over that pale bitch.

It should have worked. It should have. Even if Jaenelle wasn’t as much of an invalid as she’d thought, being tossed around in a tumbling cab should have injured something. But the bitch didn’t even have a scratch.

Of course, she hadn’t seen Daemon emerge from the cab.

She turned back, barely able to stop herself from running. It hadn’t occurred to her that Daemon might get hurt. She’d expected him to shield himself and be safe. But what if he’d shielded Jaenelle instead? What if he was still in the cab with a broken leg or a broken back or . . .

She reached the corner in time to glimpse Daemon helping Jaenelle into another carriage. Staggering back a few steps, she braced a hand against the nearest building. He wasn’t hurt. Her beautiful love wasn’t hurt.

But he still wasn’t free to be her beautiful love, and if she couldn’t find some way of preventing him from marrying that used-up bitch, it could be decades before he could be with his real love.

Maybe Roxie was right. Maybe she’d gone about this from the wrong direction. No woman would give up Daemon Sadi. But since Jaenelle Angelline didn’t have any status anymore to attract a strong male, maybe the thing to do was give Daemon a reason to walk away from Jaenelle.

4

Feeling the cold rage wash over the town house, Lucivar stepped into the small entrance hall and shivered. A moment later, Surreal rushed down the stairs.

“Mother Night,” she muttered. “We’re going to dance with the Sadist, aren’t we?”

“Yeah, it looks like we are.” What had provoked Daemon into cold rage? Lucivar looked at Surreal. “Maybe you should get out of here.”

She shook her head. “Two people distracting him are—”

“Twice as many targets for him to splatter over the walls.”

“He doesn’t splatter,” she snapped. “He’s not that merciful when he’s this pissed off.”

She was right. Unfortunately.

A minute later, they heard a carriage pull up in front of the town house.

Taking a deep breath and blowing it out, Surreal opened the front door. Her shock hit Lucivar with the force of a fist. He gave himself a moment to acknowledge his stomach-churning fear before he locked it away. He couldn’t afford to show even a hint of fear. Not if he had to deal with the Sadist.

“Hell’s fire!” Surreal flung the door wide open and stepped back. “What happened?”

“A carriage accident,” Daemon replied as he carried Jaenelle into the house.

“Cat!” Lucivar leaped forward, but Daemon’s glazed, sleepy eyes stopped him from actually touching Jaenelle.

“I’m fine,” Jaenelle said.

“I’ll settle the Lady upstairs,” Daemon snarled. “Then we’ll talk. In the meantime, contact Gabrielle and ask her to come as quickly as possible. We need a Healer.”

Lucivar stepped aside to give Daemon a clear path to the stairs. “There are Healers in Amdarh.”

“None that I trust,” Daemon replied. He climbed the stairs and disappeared down the hallway that led to the suite he shared with Jaenelle.

“Oh, shit,” Surreal said as she shut the door. “If he considers all the Blood in Amdarh as an enemy, someone is going to die.”

“Let’s try not to be among the corpses,” Lucivar growled. “You stay here. I’ll contact Chaosti.” He walked into the sitting room and closed the door. Ebon-gray to Gray, he could make the psychic reach to the Warlord Prince of the Dea al Mon.

*Chaosti.* He waited a few moments, then called again.

*Lucivar?*

*We need Gabrielle here in her capacity as a Healer.*

Hesitation. *How much do you need her?*

*What?*

Another hesitation. *We confirmed yesterday that Gabrielle is pregnant. If she uses more than basic Craft ...*

*She’ll miscarry.*