Twilight's Dawn

TWO

The Arachnian Queen, the Weaver of Dreams, delicately touched one thread of the web spun by Witch before the living myth became a song in the Darkness. This web had slept many years because the dreams it held had been too unshaped to become flesh. But something had changed, and now the golden spider could sense the whisper of wishes, of longings.

Specific dreamers. Most unusual to tie threads to specific dreamers when the shaping had not yet begun. Too much chance that the dream would never be flesh if one of the dreamers stopped wishing, stopped wanting. But that was why Witch had made the web this way—because these dreamers had to wish long enough, had to want hard enough, even if they weren’t aware of the wanting.

As long as the dreamers gave her something to work with, the Weaver would keep her promise and add to the web Witch had begun. And someday, another Arachnian Queen would add the last strand to this dream.

THREE

Standing in the family parlor of Lucivar’s eyrie, Daemon grinned like a fool and didn’t give a damn. He looked at the Eyrien baby girl in his arms and purred, “Hello, beautiful.”

She studied him with solemn eyes. Then she broke into a grin.

“Hell’s fire,” Lucivar said. “She’s barely out of the womb, and she’s already half-seduced by your voice.”

“As she should be,” Daemon replied, loosening the blanket enough to get a better look at his niece. “Look at those perfect little fingers and those perfect little toes.”

“She is a darling.”

Daemon tucked the blanket around the baby. “Does Surreal know you named your daughter Titian?”

“Not yet. I have to go up to the northern camp tomorrow and most likely will be gone overnight. Surreal is coming here in the morning and will stay with Marian until I get back.”

Had Surreal told him she would be staying in Ebon Rih? Or would he find a note on his desk when he returned to the Hall? Sometimes he had the feeling that she was trying to avoid him, but he didn’t know why. Did she have a lover she didn’t want catching his attention, or was she still pissed off about the woman he’d bedded one night a few weeks ago? Damned hard to tell with her lately.

“Is there trouble?” Daemon asked.

“No, but I’ve already postponed this visit twice while waiting for the witchling to be born.” Lucivar reached for the baby. “Let me have her.”

Daemon took a step back. “Why?”

“Since I helped make her, I get to hold her.”

“You’re sharing.”

Lucivar narrowed his eyes. “Fine. But if she messes her diaper, you’re not handing her back until you clean her up.”

Daemon looked at Titian, who began grinning again the moment she had his full attention. “Tch,” he said. “You have a silly papa. He thinks I’m going to be scared off by a little poop.”

Lucivar snorted. “Suit yourself.”

Daemonar bounded into the parlor. “I get to hold her now.”

“No,” they said.

“Yes, I can,” Daemonar insisted. “Mother said I can.”

“No,” they said.

“Why not?”

“Because we’re older than you, and we outrank you,” Lucivar said. “So we get to hold her.”

“Neither of those things are true about me,” Saetan said as he walked into the parlor. “Hand her over.”

Daemon hesitated, but the gleam in his father’s eyes warned him not to start this particular pissing contest. So he transferred Titian into Saetan’s arms.

“Come on, boyo,” Saetan said to Daemonar. “You can sit over there with me, and we’ll both admire your sister.”

Daemonar gave his father and uncle a surly look that was just shy of an actual challenge. Then he turned his back on them and followed his grandfather.

Daemon held his breath while he watched Saetan cross the room. He didn’t realize Lucivar had done the same thing until he heard his brother’s careful sigh.

“Coffee?” Lucivar asked.

Daemon nodded, then said, “We’ll be in the kitchen if you need us.”

“We’ll be here,” Saetan replied dryly enough to tell them both they had been dismissed.

They retreated to the kitchen.

Plenty of food, Daemon noted as he eyed the various dishes on the counters. “Anything you need?”

“Besides help eating all this before it spoils?” Lucivar asked, letting out a huff of laughter. He poured coffee into two mugs. “No, we have plenty, even if we’re feeding a young male who claims to be hungry again before the dishes from the previous meal leave the table.”

“Judging by the look he gave us, he’s clearly left childhood behind within the past few weeks,” Daemon said, accepting the mug of coffee.

“Yeah, he’s in the ‘push until he gets his ass kicked’ stage, so I can look forward to a couple of decades of continuous pissing contests while he’s making the transition from boy to youth. Once his brain starts working again and he’s allowed the privileges of a young adult male, the pissing contests should lessen to one a week instead of several times a day. Or so I’m told. At first Marian sympathized with him about getting into an argument with me about every damn little thing, but she’s feeling less generous now that she finds herself dealing with a young Warlord Prince trying to fuss over her and give her orders instead of being around a son who takes orders.”

Laughing, they both leaned back against the counter.

“Marian is all right?” Daemon asked. He’d arrived at the eyrie an hour ago and he hadn’t seen her yet.

“She’s fine. Tired, but that’s to be expected. No reason for her not to get some sleep when we’re all here to watch the baby.”

“No reason at all.” Daemon studied Lucivar. “But something is wrong.”

Lucivar turned his head toward the window that looked out over Marian’s garden. “How long are we supposed to pretend, old son?”

“Pretend what?”

“That we don’t know there is something wrong with Father.”

He knew Lucivar would be the one to ask the question, to finally say the words.

“He’s old, Prick.”

“Yeah, I know that, Bastard. He’s old. But it’s showing now. Has been for the past few months.”

“I don’t feel him at the level of the Black anymore,” Daemon said quietly. “I’m not sure if that’s significant or not, but when I was with him at the Keep’s library a few weeks ago, I realized I was the only one standing in the abyss at the depth of the Black.”

Lucivar looked at him, a silent question.

“I’ll talk to him,” Daemon said.

Daemonar bounded into the kitchen. “Mother is going to feed Titian. Want to watch?”

“No,” Lucivar said firmly, “and neither do you.”

“Yes, I do!”

Lucivar stared at his son until Daemonar hunched in on himself.

“Another time,” Lucivar said, “but not today.”

“Yes, sir.” The subdued posture lasted until Daemonar focused on the covered dishes on the counter. “If I can’t watch Mother feed Titian, can I have a nutcake instead? And milk?”

“Fine. We’ll all have something. Sit down, puppy.”

Daemonar pulled out a chair at the big kitchen table and sat—and looked much too innocent.

*He wasn’t interested in watching his sister have a meal, was he?* Daemon asked Lucivar.

*Sure, he was.* Lucivar set his mug down and began pulling plates out of the cupboard. *But he’s smart enough to realize he could negotiate getting a treat for himself if I wouldn’t let him watch.*

Daemon held the coffee in his mouth until he was sure he could swallow without choking. Then he looked at the archway and noticed Saetan. The hint of sadness in the old man’s eyes was hidden the moment Saetan realized he was being watched.

*I’ll be back,* Daemon told Lucivar. Setting his mug in the sink, he looked at Saetan. “You’re leaving?”

“I think our Ladies could use some quiet time,” Saetan replied.

“In that case, I’ll go with you.”

A raised eyebrow to indicate a father knew an excuse when he heard one. But there was wariness now in Saetan’s gold eyes.

They left the eyrie and rode the Red Wind back to the Keep.

Daemon made no comment about the choice of Winds. He said nothing at all while he followed Saetan to one of the sitting rooms. He watched his father like a predator coming to some conclusions about the prey.

“Do you need fresh blood?” Daemon asked.

“No,” Saetan replied.

“Yarbarah?”

“No. Why do you ask, Prince?”

“Because the daylight hours are draining you in a way they didn’t before. Because you need the support of a cane more often than not these days.”

“I’m a Guardian,” Saetan said testily. “The daylight hours have always been draining. And I’ve had a bad leg for a lot of years.”

Watching. Studying. And then knowing.

“When was the last time you drank a glass of yarbarah, Prince SaDiablo?” Daemon asked softly.

Saetan tensed at the choice of title but didn’t correct it.

“When was the last time you had any fresh blood?”

Saetan turned to face him. “I haven’t had yarbarah or fresh blood since the day after my daughter died.”

“That was seventeen years ago.” A chill went through Daemon, but he couldn’t tell if it was temper or fear. “You haven’t drunk yarbarah or fresh blood for seventeen years?”

It began making sense—the slow decline, the absence of the Black Jewels that Saetan no longer wore, his seldom being available anymore during daylight hours.

“You’re changing from Guardian to demon-dead, aren’t you? You’ve lied to us for seventeen years?”

Saetan’s eyes glazed with temper. “I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

“Oh, yes, you do. And we both know why, don’t we, Prince SaDiablo?”

“Yes, we both know why,” Saetan replied with a snarl. “But I’m not the only one who has kept a secret, am I, High Lord?”

Daemon rocked back on his heels. Then he glided from one end of the sitting room to the other, too restless to stand still.

“I didn’t want that for you,” Saetan said quietly. “I didn’t expect that from you. To manage the family estates, yes. But not that.”

“I am my father’s son,” Daemon said just as quietly as he glided past. “Is that why you’ve let yourself decline? Because I intruded?”

“No, Daemon. No. Witch was the daughter of my soul. She was the reason I became a Guardian and extended my years for so long. I never intended to live beyond her.”

When he reached his father again, Daemon stopped. “But it’s different now. You have children who still need you, grandchildren who need you.”

“The same can be said for every father who loves his children. We all die—and we all have to let go, both the dead and the living.”

It’s not fair! But that was a boy’s cry, a response to losing someone he loved. The man who had been cautiously exploring Hell for the past few decades understood why the dead needed to be kept away from the living most of the time.

“How long before you make the transition to demon-dead?” Daemon asked.

“A few months.”

“And how long after that before the final death?”