Twilight's Dawn

She started crying. “I’m sorry I was so bitchy about your ribs. You did it to help Surreal, and I shouldn’t have been angry with you.”

“You were right to be bitchy about the ribs,” he said. “It was a dumb thing to do, and I deserved getting jabbed for it.”

“Oh. Well, maybe a little.” Sniffling, she eased back and he let her go. She wrinkled her nose. “Lucivar . . .” Then she looked down at her own clothes and swayed.

“Marian!”

Lucivar made a grab for her, but Daemon caught her as she stumbled back, her eyes glassy with shock.

“He’s all right, darling,” Daemon crooned. “Lucivar is all right. A man gets messy in that kind of fight.”

You don’t, Lucivar thought. Which was actually more terrifying? To see a man walk off a killing field covered in the carnage made by his own hand, or to see the man who had created that carnage walk off the field pristine?

A different image, a different message. He knew which one he found more frightening.

“I’ll go with him to the Keep,” Daemon crooned. “Help him get cleaned up. Why don’t you go back inside through the side door? You’ll be able to change clothes and wash up. I’ll take care of Lucivar.”

Marian lifted a hand but didn’t touch the dark, wet stains on the front of her tunic. “Yes. These clothes need to soak.” She focused on Lucivar again.

“I’ll take care of him,” Daemon said firmly. He led her to the gate that opened on her garden, which had access to the side door closest to the laundry room.

Lucivar waited until Marian was inside and Daemon returned. “Soothing spell?”

Daemon nodded. “I thought it best if she didn’t think too much about what was on those clothes—and why.”

He agreed with that. “Come on. I’d rather give this report only once—but I’m going to say this here and now. This isn’t your territory, Bastard, and while I appreciate you being here to protect my family, whatever happens to the people in this valley is my decision, not yours.”

“Of course,” Daemon said. “I never thought otherwise.”

He knew his brother too well to trust the words.

“Shall we go?” Daemon asked.

They rode the Ebon-gray Wind to the Keep, dropping to the landing web closest to the courtyard with the shower. Lucivar wrapped another shield around himself to avoid dripping gore through the corridors. He suspected that what lived within the walls and shadows would welcome the blood and bits of meat, but he didn’t want to excite their hunting instincts, so he took the shortest route.

He pushed open a door and stepped into the courtyard.

“Hell’s fire,” Daemon said. “You’re going to shower outside? In the winter?”

“Show some balls. It’s not so bad.” A few minutes ago, he wouldn’t have noticed. Now he was starting to feel the cold and wanted to get cleaned up enough to go home and soak in the heated pool for an hour or two.

“If you show your balls in this weather, you’ll freeze them off,” Daemon growled as he studied what looked like a jumble of pipes over a round area with drains that flowed directly down the mountain. “Is there any reason why I can’t put a warming spell around this area?”

His body ached. His teeth began to chatter. “None.”

If he hadn’t been so tired—and, more to the point, feeling hollowed out—he would have thought of that himself.

“Mother Night.”

Turning at the sound of his father’s voice, Lucivar saw the shock in Saetan’s eyes before the High Lord locked away all feelings.

*Do I really look that bad?* he asked Daemon.

*Prick, you have no idea how bad you look,* Daemon said grimly.

Damn. He should have warned Saetan, should have told him he wasn’t hurt before arriving at the Keep. It hadn’t occurred to him that Andulvar and Prothvar must have looked like this the day they became demon-dead. Having won that battle, they had walked off the killing field, but they no longer walked among the living.

“There’s nothing wrong with him that a good scrubbing and a hot meal won’t fix,” Daemon said with enough bite to make Lucivar snarl in response.

But the bite and snarl were exactly what Saetan needed to relax. He called in a porcelain dish and used Craft to float it over to Lucivar. “I’ll cleanse your Jewels for you.”

“I can—”

*Let him do it,* Daemon said. *Just in case we find anything under all that blood that you don’t want him to see.*

Lucivar removed the Ebon-gray pendant and the Red ring, put them in the dish, and floated it back to his father. Then he stripped out of his clothes, wondering if it was worth the effort to clean them.

Saetan must have wondered the same thing, because he shook his head and vanished the clothes, including the boots, belt, and knife sheath. He turned and walked inside, saying nothing.

“Seeing you like this hit a nerve, and I don’t think he’s feeling as steady as he’s pretending to be,” Daemon said. “The sooner we get you cleaned up, the better.”

Shivering, Lucivar stepped under the pipes, twisted the lever that controlled the water, and let out a breathless scream as the frigid water hit him, turning to steam as it battled against Daemon’s warming spell.

When hands grabbed him and spun him around, his own hands balled into fists, but he managed to stop himself from hitting Daemon. He hadn’t realized Sadi had intended to strip down and actually help him wash up.

“What’s wrong with you?” Daemon’s hands tightened on Lucivar’s arms, the nails just pricking the skin.

Coming to the Keep and shocking Saetan with his appearance. Stepping under an ice-cold spray of water instead of waiting for the hot water to get through the pipes. Daemon had good reason to ask the question.

“Nothing physical,” Lucivar said.

Those long-nailed fingers clamped on either side of his head as Daemon stared into his eyes. He felt the Black brushing over his inner barriers, looking for damage, for some kind of wound.

“Nothing wrong with my mind either.”

“Then what?” Daemon’s question sounded more like a demand.

“Shades of honor. All the Eyriens on that field chose to turn on me because, in their eyes, I was still just the half-breed bastard and always would be. I’m done with that. Anyone who wants to live in my territory can accept me for what I am or they can leave.”

Water poured over both of them. Daemon’s hands slid down Lucivar’s face to rest on his shoulders.

“Every one of them is dead?” Daemon asked softly.

“Every one.”

“Will any of them become demon-dead?”

“No.”

Daemon studied him. “You could have killed them all with one blast of the Ebon-gray. Why did you give them a chance to fight and take the risk of getting hurt?”

“Their fate was decided from the moment they stepped on that field, so it wasn’t about giving them a chance.” Lucivar’s smile wobbled, and for a moment his eyes were tear-bright. “I just needed to work off some temper.”

Daemon studied him a moment longer, then nodded. Calling in two sponges and a small bowl of soft soap, he handed one sponge to Lucivar. “You take the front; I’ll take the back.”

They worked in silence. Even with the strength of the shields he’d had wrapped around himself, there were some bruises, some aches. But not one single slice or cut.

He mentioned that to Daemon, figuring it would be a good thing to point out to their father.

“I wouldn’t lie to him if I were you,” Daemon said dryly as he crouched down.

“What?” Lucivar winced and swore as Daemon’s sponge rubbed over his left leg.

“You’ve got a slice just above your ankle,” Daemon said. “It’s not deep—won’t need more than the cleansing ointment and basic healing Craft—but it’s there.”

“Shit,” Lucivar muttered.

“How did any of those bastards get through your Ebon-gray shield, let alone the shield in Jaenelle’s Ring of Honor?” Daemon sponged the cut again. “You were wearing the Ring with the Ebony shield, weren’t you?”

“Yes, I was. At least until I walked off the killing field.”

“So how did you get injured?”

“I was still feeling pissy, and when I rammed the knife through my shields and back into the boot sheath, I must have sliced through the leather and cut my leg.”

“Ah, Prick.” Daemon huffed out a laugh.

“Don’t tell Merry, all right?”

“Why not?”

“Because I said she could yell at me if I got hurt, and I don’t want my ass chewed because I cut myself with my own knife.”

Daemon resoaped the sponge and began scrubbing Lucivar’s right leg. “I’m surprised there is so much gore on your lower legs. Were you higher than the men you were fighting?”

“Nope.” Lucivar lathered soap into his hair. “But a number of them were focused on striking my left ankle, which made them easy targets. Damned if I know why. If you know of a weak spot, you might concentrate your blows there to bring down an enemy, but there was no reason for any of them to think my ankles would be any more vulnerable than theirs. Especially the left ankle, which was never damaged in the first place.”

Frigid air washed up the backs of his legs, there and gone.

Daemon rose up behind him. “Open your wings. I want to make sure I cleaned all the shit off them.”

Something wrong here. Something off. Feeling vulnerable, but knowing what might happen if he refused, Lucivar spread his wings. Daemon’s touch was light and careful as he moved the sponge over the wings, but Lucivar knew when he was being touched by the Sadist.

What had he said to bring out this side of Daemon’s temper?

“There. Done.” Daemon took a step back.

Lucivar rinsed the soap out of his hair, then turned to face his brother. Water poured over them, steamed around them. “Daemon . . .”

Daemon pressed a finger against Lucivar’s lips.

That light touch—and what he saw in Daemon’s eyes—told him he couldn’t stop whatever was coming.

“Whatever happens to the people in this valley is your decision, not mine,” Daemon said too softly. “I agree with that—and I’ll respect it. I expect you to do the same.”

“Meaning?”

“Don’t interfere with me taking care of my own.” Daemon turned and walked through the steam. “You should talk to Father before you go home. And be sure to put a healing salve on that cut.”

Lucivar turned off the water and hurried into the Keep. Once inside, he rubbed himself dry with the warm towels that had been left floating just inside the door.

The cold that made him shiver had nothing to do with the weather.

Dressed and polished, Daemon waited for Geoffrey in the private section of the Keep’s library.

... There was no reason for any of them to think my ankles would be any more vulnerable than theirs. Especially the left ankle . . .

“But there was a reason, brother,” Daemon whispered. “There was a reason.”

“Prince Sadi?”

Daemon turned at the sound of Geoffrey’s voice, then took a moment to consider the degree of wariness in the historian/librarian’s black eyes. He smiled—and saw Geoffrey’s inability to completely hide the shiver caused by that smile.

“I need your assistance,” he said, still smiling.

“In what way?” Geoffrey asked.

“The map you showed me the other day? I’d like to see it again.”

FOURTEEN

Surreal stared at Daemon and tried to decide how badly she would get hurt if she hit him.

Badly enough, since he didn’t look like he was in an indulgent mood.

“That’s it?” she snarled. “Falonar just gets sent away like some little prick who played a nasty joke? He set Lucivar up to die on that killing field. You know that!”