“Bitch,” the Warlord snarled.
“Right on the first guess.”
Struggling to sit up, the Warlord got a good look at his naked torso. “You filthy bitch! You cut off my cock!”
“And your balls. Not to mention your arms and legs. So relax, sugar. You’re not going anywhere just yet.”
Using Craft, Surreal lifted a chair and settled it near the Warlord.
“And just so there’s no further misunderstandings, the Green are my Birthright.” She tapped the Jewel hanging from a gold chain around her neck. “I wear the Gray.”
His Sapphire Jewel glowed as he tried to strike her with a bolt of power. She slapped the power back at him with interest—and heard his rib cage snap in several places.
He lay still, taking shallow breaths. Being demon-dead, he didn’t actually need to breathe, but she imagined it took a little while for the brain to stop trying to do what it had once needed to do.
Sitting in the chair, she leaned forward, resting her arms on her thighs. “Here are your choices. You can tell me everything you know about why I ended up here, and in return, I’ll finish the kill, freeing you from what’s left of a dead body.”
He started swearing.
“Or,” she continued, raising her voice to compete with his, “I can haul your sorry carcass up to the Keep, dump you on the High Lord’s desk, and tell him you not only abducted his niece, you also worked for the bitch who tried to physically harm his daughter and ruin his son’s reputation. You can imagine how well Uncle Saetan is going to respond to that.”
He probably would have paled if he was still capable of doing that.
“Un—Uncle Saetan?”
You really weren’t paying attention to much beyond your fee, were you? “Prince of the Darkness. High Lord of Hell. Patriarch of the SaDiablo family. Since he has over fifty thousand years of experience in ruling the Dark Realm, your being demon-dead isn’t going to get in his way when it comes to hurting you. So who are you going to talk to, sugar? Me or Uncle Saetan?”
I wanted information about the bitch who hired him, not his life story, Surreal thought an hour later. Still, given his choices, she appreciated why the Warlord had wanted to be thorough.
She’d finished the kill as she’d promised, burning out what was left of his power and freeing his spirit to return to the Darkness. And thinking about the pack of Hell Hounds that had obeyed her mother and were now left without a mistress to look after them—assuming those animals actually needed someone to look after them—she wrapped cold spells around the torso and the other pieces, caught the Winds, and rode to the Keep.
Draca, the Keep’s Seneschal, accepted her offering without comment, and offered, in return, a guest room where she could clean up and have a meal. She accepted both, glad of the opportunity to wash thoroughly and change into fresh clothes, and pleased when Draca sent along a selection of books with the meal. Choosing one, she decided to settle in for a few hours. Maybe Uncle Saetan would be back by then and she’d have a chance to talk to him before she headed back to Amdarh.
5
There was no official landing place on the island, since visitors were seldom welcome—and anyone unwelcome usually didn’t survive. But he did sense a residual power he could home in on. Hoping he would land in a safe place, Saetan dropped from the Black Wind, wrapped himself in Black shields, and closed his inner barriers as tightly as possible.
A moment later, he appeared in the center of a small clearing. The trees and bushes around the clearing were veiled with webs, some old and tattered, others looking freshly spun.
As powerful as he was, he felt the whispery tugs from those tangled webs, luring him to open his mind, just a little, and slip into a dream from which he might never return.
He closed his eyes and fought against the lure—and wondered how the kindred Ladvarian had gathered here to help heal Jaenelle had managed to keep their minds intact. Or had the golden spiders refrained from spinning those tangled webs during those weeks?
*I am the High Lord.* He sent the thought rolling over the land. *I need to talk to the Weaver of Dreams. It concerns Jaenelle.*
He waited, slowly becoming aware that all the whispery tugs had faded until only one remained. Strong. Powerful. But not threatening. Just a thread to follow.
He followed a path out of the clearing. More of a game trail, actually. The kindred must have used the clearing as their landing place, must have created this trail as they traveled from one part of the island to another.
He moved carefully since he wasn’t sure what would happen if he stumbled and brushed against one of the tangled webs close to the trail. He couldn’t judge how far he’d walked, but his bad leg ached by the time he reached the caves and the thread of power drew him inside.
Witchlight glowed in niches in the cave walls. Was it for his benefit or did the spiders need the light as well? As he passed from one chamber to the next, the floor rocked beneath him, and the air became golden and veiled. No longer sure if he was still in the real world or caught in a dream, he stopped moving.
*Here,* a soft voice called. *Here.*
Light filled another chamber. Since he was watching where he set his feet, the dark stain that covered most of the chamber floor was the first thing he saw when he reached the entrance.