Twilight's Dawn

“Actually I stopped by to bring you this.” Rainier called in a wrapped package and handed it to her.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “You finished your shopping?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ve got all the damn presents wrapped? Hell’s fire. If I don’t have more luck finding things to buy—and how do you buy things for a family like mine?—I may be wrapping the presents moments before I hand them out.”

His smile was brittle. “I’m usually run off my feet just before Winsol and don’t have time to shop. There’s a traditional court dance that’s only performed during Winsol. There’s always a group of people who want to brush up on the steps—and there are the young men each year who figure out that males who know that dance get a lot more attention at the parties, and they want lessons.”

“You’ll teach them again next year.”

The brittle smile turned bitter, and he said nothing.

“So you’re delivering packages early because . . . ?”

“I’m going to spend Winsol with my family.”

“Why?”

A pained laugh. “Because they felt obliged to ask me, and this year I didn’t have the excuse of being too busy to come until the last days of Winsol.”

“You can still be too busy. I’ll get some paper. We’ll make a list.”

“Surreal.”

I don’t know how to fix this, Surreal thought, hurting for him. Does anyone know how to fix this pain that’s killing the heart of who and what he is?

“Well,” Rainier said, getting to his feet. “I’d best be on my way. I have some things to do before I head to Dharo.”

She met him at the sitting room door and hugged him.

“Happy Winsol, Surreal,” he said, his voice husky.

“Happy Winsol, Rainier,” she replied, wishing she could say something more.

SIX

The day before Winsol began, Daemon walked into a sitting room in the family wing of the Hall and stopped abruptly.

“Mother Night,” he said. “Where did you find such a magnificent—and perfect—evergreen tree?”

Jaenelle grinned at him. “It did turn out well, didn’t it?”

It dazzled his eyes and tugged at his heart. Little balls of color shone among the branches, which looked like they had been given a light dusting of gold on the tips of the evergreen needles. Crystal icicles hung from the branches. And the smell . . .

Daemon frowned and walked toward the tree, baffled. The evergreen scent should be filling the room.

He touched a branch. His fingers went right through it.

“If it fooled you, it will fool anyone,” Jaenelle said.

“It’s an illusion?” He tried to touch another branch, unwilling to believe.

“Yes. I made it. Marian and I decided to limit the number of trees that the family would cut down for Winsol.”

Lucivar and I didn’t get a say in this?

He caught the tip of his tongue between his teeth. He hadn’t participated in a typical Winsol celebration here at the Hall, so maybe he wasn’t supposed to make many—or any—decisions.

“We took a couple of trees whose elimination would benefit the surrounding trees,” Jaenelle said. “We’ll use the branches to create wreaths or other decorations. That will add the scent to the room.” She edged toward the door, then stopped as if listening to something beyond the room. “Oh, good. Marian is here.”

Which meant Lucivar was also here. *Prick?* he called on a psychic spear thread.

*Let me stash the little beast and I’ll meet you,* Lucivar replied.

“All right,” Daemon said to Jaenelle. “Since Marian is here, I’ll—”

“Stay here,” Jaenelle said, heading for the door. “I need to pee, and someone needs to guard the gifts until they’re all properly shielded.”

Daemon looked at the gifts stacked around the tree. “Huh?”

“I’ll be back in a few minutes. Don’t leave the room.When I get back, Marian and I will sort the gifts and put on the appropriate shields.”

“What are you figuring is going to happen to them?”

She just looked at him.

“Fine,” he said, trying not to grumble. “I’ll guard the gifts.”

She was almost out the door when she stopped and looked at him over her shoulder. “Papa arrived a little while ago, but I haven’t seen him yet.”

Then she was gone, and he felt as if he’d been shuffled to a back room and given a senseless task just to keep him out of the way. Hell’s fire, his father and brother were in the Hall. He should be spending time with them instead of guarding boxes. Or he should be in his study, working. He still had some work to do. Not much, but some. And even if he didn’t have work and just stretched out on the couch and read a book, he wouldn’t feel like a stray puppy that someone had forgotten. Not if he was in his study.

A quick knock on the door. Before he could say anything, a maid and two footmen entered the room, their arms full of boxes.

“Excuse us, Prince,” the maid said. “We were told to bring these gifts here.”

Daemon smiled at them and stepped aside.

“Are you going home for Winsol?” he asked.

“We’re drawing lots tonight to see who’s working which days,” the younger footman said.

They stacked the packages in front of the tree. Moments after they walked out the door, Lucivar walked in.

“Hiding already?” Lucivar asked. “Winsol hasn’t officially started.”

“I’m guarding the gifts,” Daemon replied.

“From what? You didn’t put any food under there, did you? You never put food gifts under the tree. I did that one year, and the younger kindred found the boxes of fudge and the boxes of rawhide strips. What a mess.”

“If there’s food under the tree, I didn’t put it there.”

“Good. There’s something I want to show you. I had it made for Daemonar and—”

A quick knock on the door, and another maid entered the room.

“I was told to put these packages under the tree,” she said.

“They’re going to be in and out of here for the rest of the day,” Lucivar muttered as soon as the maid left. “Let’s find another room. We need a couple of minutes in private.”

“I’m supposed to guard the gifts,” Daemon said.

“Tch. The little beast is in the playroom, enthralled by jingling puppies, so the room will be fine. We won’t go far. Besides, he doesn’t know which room has the presents.”

Since Daemon thought guarding the gifts was a pointless exercise anyway, it didn’t take much persuasion. He and Lucivar hurried along the corridor, sneaked around the corner, and slipped into another sitting room.

“Do we ever use this room?” Daemon asked, looking around.

“Male sanctuary,” Lucivar replied. “Used to use it when the coven lived here most of the time. Gave the boyos breathing room to talk among themselves while still being close by if they were needed.” He waved a hand, dismissing further interest in the room. “Look at this.” He called in a rectangular wood-and-glass box.

Daemon obediently leaned over to look into the box.

“It’s a bug-in-a-box,” Lucivar said, grinning.

From one end of the box, a little black beetle emerged. As it made its way to the other end, it grew and grew and grew until . . .

Pop!

There were sounds. Daemon wasn’t sure a beetle actually made sounds that were a cross between insect noise and cranky grumbling, but it added to the appeal. Or the disgust. He had a strong suspicion the emotion of the person viewing this little toy would depend on whether that person had a penis or breasts.

“You have that box shielded, don’t you?” he asked.

Lucivar made a huffy sound of disbelief. “I’ve got it triple shielded. There is no way Daemonar is getting that bug out of the box.”

“If he does . . .” Daemon looked at his brother.

Lucivar sighed. “The only question will be whether Marian tries to kill me before she divorces me or after.”

“As long as you know the risks.” He grinned. Couldn’t help it. “Daemonar will love it.”

“Yeah, he will.”

Picturing Daemonar’s face when the boy opened that gift reminded him of where he was supposed to be. “I’d better get back to guarding the gifts.”

Lucivar vanished the box. “I’ll go with you. If I look like I’ve got something to do, maybe I won’t get cornered into doing something.”

They hurried back to the other room, opened the door—and froze just inside the doorway.

Hell’s fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful.

“He wasn’t anywhere near this room when we left,” Lucivar said. “I swear by all I hold dear, he wasn’t anywhere near this room.”

Well, the little beast was in the middle of it now, sitting on the floor surrounded by various-sized boxes and drifts of torn wrapping paper.

“Papa!” Daemonar cried. “Unka Daemon! Lizzen!”

Bang bang bang. The sound of box on floor.

And the sound of something delicate—and no doubt expensive—breaking inside the box.

Daemon felt his face muscles shift into a tight smile—or maybe it was a grimace. Must have been the appropriate response, because Daemonar grinned at him and went back to banging the box on the floor.

“Whatever is inside is already broken,” Lucivar said. “No point taking it away from him now. He’ll just grab for something else.”

“We’ll have to figure out who brought it and get it replaced.” Sweet Darkness, please don’t let it be something that was commissioned and was one of a kind.

Lucivar stared at the boy and the mess, looking more and more baffled. “Marian wants another one of those.”

“Another one of what?”

Lucivar lifted his chin. “Those.”

Daemon looked at the little winged boy who was the reason Jaenelle was going to rip him into chunks and feed him to somebody, then back at his brother. “Why?”

Lucivar sighed. “I don’t know.” Then he narrowed his eyes. “But I’m pretty sure it’s your fault.”

He completely lost the ability to speak. He just stood there with his mouth hanging open, staring at Lucivar.

Lucivar nodded. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure it’s your fault.”

“Bt. Dt. Zt.” The sputtering sounds fired up his shocked brain. “Since I am not the one sleeping with your wife, it is not my fault.”

Lucivar was looking grimly pleased. “Yeah, it is. Marian’s been mentioning lately how much I value having a brother the same age.”

Daemon usually valued having a brother too, but that was beside the point.

“You can’t do this,” Daemon said.

“It’s not that hard,” Lucivar replied. “Just don’t drink the contraceptive brew during a woman’s fertile time, and it isn’t hard at all.” His voice changed when he added, “Besides, it might not be another little beast. It could be a cuddly little witchling. A miniature of her mother.”

There was a dopey look on Lucivar’s face.

“Ah, no,” Daemon groaned. “No, no, no. You’re being seduced by the possibility of a daughter.”

“Maybe.”