Dreams Made Flesh

They walked back to where Jaenelle and Surreal stood. No one in the ballroom spoke, no one moved. Even the musicians were silent for a long moment before the music began for the next dance, and the room was once more filled with movement and murmurs.

Jaenelle watched him approach, her face flushed, her eyes wide.

Was she repulsed by seeing him dance with another man? What was she thinking? He wanted to reach out, mind to mind, but he didn’t dare. Not when his temper was being held back by a frayed thread.

As he stopped in front of her, Rainier still beside him, he saw her throat muscles working to swallow.

Looking dazed, Jaenelle said, “It’s awfully warm in here. Is it warm in here?”

Surreal snorted as she studied him and Rainier. “Sugar, we passed warm and leaped straight to blazing.”

“Oh. Good. It’s not just me.”

Surreal gave him a wary look and linked her arm through Jaenelle’s. “I imagine everyone is feeling a bit warm right now. Let’s go out on the terrace and get some air.”

“Air is good,” Jaenelle said, wobbling a little. “Air is . . . good.”

He said nothing as the two women made their way to the glass doors that led out to the terrace.

Rainier cleared his throat. “It’s been . . . um . . .” He shook his head and walked away.

Daemon stayed where he was, watching Lucivar approach, seeing wariness in his brother’s gold eyes. Rainier had been given the lightest taste of what it was like to dance with the Sadist, but Lucivar knew. And Lucivar was afraid.

But being afraid never stopped him from issuing a challenge with all the Eyrien arrogance in him.

“Quite a dance,” Lucivar said.

“It had its moments.”

“Rainier is a good Warlord Prince.”

“He’s a dance instructor?”

“Among other things.”

Which confirmed his sense of the man. “Who trained him?”

“I helped him hone what he’d already learned.”

Which meant Rainier wasn’t just a natural predator, he was also a well-trained killer.

“Daemon . . . Jaenelle and Rainier are just friends.”

“I know. It isn’t him. But there’s something in this room . . .” He shook his head. “I’m going to find someplace to be alone for a few minutes. I need a few minutes.”

Lucivar stepped aside, letting him pass. With a bit of hunting, he found a small, secondary parlor near the ballroom. By the look of it, this was where visitors who weren’t “important company” were entertained. Which meant right now it was quiet and empty, and that was what he needed to bring himself back from the point of going cold.

Lektra grabbed Tavey’s arm. “Do it now. He’s by himself.”

“You want me to talk to him alone?”

“Well, you can’t do it when she’s nearby, and she’s been clinging to him all night. This may be your only chance.” And after watching him dance with that other Warlord Prince, she’d go mad if she couldn’t have Daemon soon.

Tavey looked scared, but he never could refuse her for very long. So he left the ballroom to deliver his little speech.

By the end of the evening, her beautiful love would be free to be with the one woman in the whole Realm who truly deserved to have him.

Hearing the parlor door open, Daemon slipped his hands into his trouser pockets to hide his wedding ring. He’d spent the past few minutes just staring at it, taking comfort in its presence. He’d almost regained his balance, but he wasn’t quite far enough away from the killing edge yet. He needed to find Jaenelle and tell her he couldn’t go through with their public quarrel. He couldn’t afford to have anything prick his temper right now.

As he turned toward the door, he caught sight of himself in the mirror above the fireplace. His gold eyes were still glazed—the prelude to cold rage.

“You don’t want to be here,” he snarled softly as the Yellow-Jeweled Warlord slipped into the room and closed the door. “You really don’t want to be here.”

“I—” The Warlord swallowed hard. “I’m asking you to do the right thing.”

“And what is the right thing?” He glided toward the door, forcing the Warlord to sidle farther into the room to avoid getting close to him.

“We—We’re in love. We want to be together.”

“Who is ‘we’?”

“Jaenelle. Me. We’re in love. But she hasn’t wanted to say anything because . . .”

“Because?” Daemon asked too softly.

“She’s afraid of you.” The Warlord blurted out the words. “She doesn’t want to be with someone like you anymore.”

“Someone like me.” The words sliced his heart, inserted a tiny sliver of doubt. Then he rubbed his left thumb against his wedding ring.

If Jaenelle had fallen in love with someone else, she might not have told him until she felt capable of dealing with him. But she never would have married him, because she understood the nature of Warlord Princes better than anyone else could.

“You may be in love,” Daemon said, “but—”

“We’re lovers.”

His brain shut off, snuffing out control, shattering the illusion of civilized behavior. As he descended to the level of the Black, the cold, glorious Black, every thought, every feeling funneled through the lethal rage of a Warlord Prince.

Ice glazed the mirror over the fireplace, formed a crust over the carpet. In the moments when he and the Warlord stared at each other, he created a bubble shield and an aural shield, both ready to snap into place in a heartbeat. Then he rose from the abyss, his Black power delicately surrounding that weaker mind, preventing the Warlord from reaching anyone through a psychic thread.

“So,” Daemon crooned as he drew his left hand out of his pocket and rubbed a finger over his chin, “just when did you sleep with my wife?”

Horror filled the Warlord’s eyes as he stared at the plain gold band.

The aural and bubble shield snapped up around the Warlord at the same moment Daemon’s Black power smashed through all of the man’s inner barriers.

The Warlord’s mouth opened in a scream of terror and pain, but no sound filled the room. He tried to run—and crashed against the shield that contained him.

Daemon gave his prey a few moments to stare at death before he ripped into the Warlord’s mind—and found all the answers he needed.

One flash of the Black. The Warlord’s torso burst open, his guts spilling out. Ribs snapped as they were ruthlessly spread open. The heart burst out of the body to hang, impaled, on a shattered rib.

Another flash of the Black. Witchfire filled the Warlord’s skull—and it burned. As the Warlord hit the floor, the skull broke open. Hot ash spilled out on the ice-covered carpet. Steam rose as the ice melted, soaking the carpet enough to keep it from catching fire.

One last flash of the Black drained the Warlord’s Jewels and burned out all of the man’s psychic power, finishing the kill.

Daemon studied his work with a critical eye—and smiled a cold, cruel smile.

Lucivar flung the parlor door open and rushed into the room, pulling up fast when he saw the body on the floor. His gorge rose, but he braced himself for whatever would come. He knew what that glazed, sleepy look in Daemon’s eyes meant, what that smile meant. The Sadist had gone cold, and there was no one strong enough to control him.

Daemon glided up to him—and waited.

“Annoyed about something?” Lucivar asked.

“Not anymore.” Stepping around him, Daemon walked to the door and stopped. “Shall we go? I have an appointment to quarrel with my Lady.”

No. Sweet Darkness, no. Lucivar moved to the door. “You don’t have to quarrel with Jaenelle.”

“What my Queen wants, my Queen will have.”

Knowing better than to argue, Lucivar walked out of the parlor. Daemon followed him. The door closed behind them.

“Don’t worry, Prick,” Daemon said. “It won’t be much of a quarrel.”

Daemon walked away. Lucivar hesitated, then turned back to the parlor. Better to get rid of the corpse before someone else found it.

But when he reached for the doorknob, a feeling of revulsion swept through him, making his skin crawl. Stepping back, he studied the door. Stepping forward, the feeling swept over him again.

Craft. Daemon had done something in the moment when he walked out the door that guaranteed no one would willingly open that door until the spell wore off. Which meant Daemon wanted the body to be found—but not until he was ready to have it found.

“Well, bitch . . . or whoever you are,” he whispered. “You wanted to play with the Sadist? Looks like you’ll get your chance.”

Turning away from the parlor, Lucivar hurried back to the ballroom. He couldn’t stop what would happen, but he’d do whatever he could to protect Jaenelle and Surreal.