"Is it poison?" he asked.
Hekatah vanished the cup and leaned back, her eyes widening in surprise. "Do you really think I would poison a man who's loyal to me? And you are loyal to me, aren't you, darling?" She shook her head sadly. "No, darling, this is just a little aphrodisiac brew."
"S-Safframate?" He would have preferred poison.
"Just enough to make the evening interesting," Hekatah replied.
He sat there, helpless, while she caressed skin that began to quiver at the slightest touch. Groaning, he wrapped his arms around her, no longer noticing the smell of decay, no longer caring about who or what she was, no longer caring about anything except using the female body that was sitting on his lap.
When he tried to thrust his tongue into her mouth, she pulled back with a satisfied laugh.
"Now, darling," she said while she caressed him, "you're going to bring one of those whores up here."
The lust-fog cleared a little. "Up here?"
"We still have to take care of your punishment," Hekatah said gently, viciously. "Get one that has golden hair and blue eyes."
The lust became fierce, almost painful. "Like Jaenelle Angelline."
"Exactly. Think of this as a little rehearsal for the day when that pale bitch has to submit to me." She kissed his temple, licked the throbbing pulse. "Will it excite you if I sip a little blood while you're locked inside her?"
Jorval stared at her, wildly aroused and terrified.
"I'll drink from her, too. By then you won't care if you're mounting a corpse, but I won't do that to you, darling. This is just a rehearsal, after all, for the night when you'll have Jaenelle under you."
"Yes," Jorval whispered. "Yes."
"Yes," Hekatah echoed, satisfied. She stood up and slowly walked to the bedroom door. "Don't worry about the whore telling anyone about our little game. I'll fog the bitch's mind so that she'll never be certain about anything except that she was well used."
Rising, Jorval moved unsteadily to the outer door, painfully aware that Hekatah watched him.
"The pretty boy will be the appetizer and the dessert," Hekatah said. "Fear gives blood such a delightfully piquant taste, and by the end of the evening, he'll be fully ripened. So don't spend too much time making your choice, darling. An appetizer doesn't take long to consume, and if I become impatient, we may have to adjust your punishment. And you wouldn't want that, would you?"
He waited until the bedroom door closed behind her before whispering, "No, I wouldn't want that."
A warm hand gently squeezed his shoulder.
"Daemon," Lucivar said quietly. "Come on, old son. We've arrived."
Daemon reluctantly opened his eyes. He wanted to withdraw from the world, wanted to sink into the abyss and just disappear. Soon, he promised himself. Soon. "I'm all right, Prick," he said wearily. It was a lie, and they both knew it.
Getting stiffly to his feet, Daemon rolled his shoulders. His muscles hummed with tension while a violent headache gathered behind his eyes. "Where are we?"
Saying nothing, Lucivar guided him out of the Coach.
Surreal stood just outside the Coach's door, staring up at the massive, gray stone building. "Hell's fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful. What is this place?"
Prince Aaron grinned at her. "SaDiablo Hall."
"Oh, shit."
The ground spun under Daemon's feet. He flung out an arm. Lucivar grabbed him, steadied him. "I can't," he whispered. "Lucivar, I can't."
"Yes, you can." Holding his arm, Lucivar led him to the double front doors. "It'll be easier than you think. Besides, Ladvarian's been waiting to meet you."
Daemon didn't have the energy to wonder, much less care, why this Ladvarian wanted to meet him, not when the next step might bring him face-to-face with the High Lord again—or Jaenelle.
Lucivar pushed the doors open. Daemon followed him into the great hall, the rest of the immigrants crowding behind him. They'd only gone a few steps when Lucivar stopped suddenly and swore under his breath.
Daemon glanced around, trying to understand the flash of wariness he'd picked up from Lucivar. At the far end of the hall, a maid knelt under one of the crystal chandeliers, wiping the floor. A few feet away from them stood a large Red-Jeweled Warlord dressed in a butler's uniform. His expression was more icy than stoic.
Eyeing the butler, Lucivar said cautiously, "Beale."
"Prince Yaslana," Beale replied with stiff formality.
Lucivar winced. "What—"
Someone giggled. They all looked up.
High overhead, a naked Eyrien boy, barely more than a toddler, balanced precariously on the nearest chandelier.
Lucivar glanced at Beale, sighed, and took a couple of steps forward. "What are you doing up there, boyo?"
"Flyin'," the toddler said.
"Take a guess," the maid growled as she dropped her cloth into a bucket and got to her feet.
"Slipped past your keepers, did you?" Lucivar muttered.
The toddler giggled again and then made a very rude noise.
"Come down, Daemonar," Lucivar said sternly.
"No!"
Tears stung Daemon's eyes as he stared at the boy. He swallowed hard to get his heart out of his throat.
Lucivar took another step forward and slowly spread his dark, membranous wings. "If you don't come down, I'll come up and get you."
Daemonar spread his little wings. "No!"
Lucivar shot into the air. As he passed the chandelier, he made a grab for Daemonar, who ducked and dove. The boy flew like a drunken bumblebee trying to elude a hawk, but he managed to stay out of reach.
"Boy's got some good moves," Hallevar said approvingly, moving to the front of the crowd.
Surreal glanced at the older Eyrien Warlord. "He seems to be getting the better of Yaslana."
Hallevar snorted as Lucivar swept past Daemonar and tickled his foot, making the boy squeal and dodge. "He could have caught him on the first pass. The young one will have to concede the battle, but it'll stay in his mind that he put up a good fight. No, Lucivar understands how to train an Eyrien warrior."
Daemon barely heard them. Hell's fire! Couldn't Lucivar see the boy was getting tired? Was he going to push until the baby fell to the floor?
As the toddler headed toward him, he stepped forward, reached up, and grabbed one chubby leg.
Daemonar shrieked and furiously flapped his little wings.
Pulling down gently, Daemon wrapped his other arm around Daemonar, drawing the boy against his chest.
A small fist smacked his chin. The other small hand grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked, making his eyes water. An indignant shriek lanced his ear and made his head vibrate.
Lucivar landed and rubbed the back of his hand against his mouth. It didn't quite erase the smile. Hooking his left arm around the boy's middle, he carefully pried open the small hand. "Let go of your Uncle Daemon. We want him to like you." He stepped back quickly, then he tethered the boy's feet with one hand and growled, "That's not a good place to kick your father."
Daemonar made a rude noise and grinned.
Lucivar looked at the squirming boy and said ruefully, "At the time, you seemed like a good idea."
"Yeah!" Then Daemonar noticed the woman holding the little girl. "Baby!" he shouted, squirming to get loose. "Mine!"
"Mother Night," Lucivar muttered, turning to block Daemonar's view.
Two wet, disheveled women entered the hall. One of them held up a large towel. "We'll take him, Prince Yaslana."
"Thank the Darkness." With a little effort, Lucivar and the two women got Daemonar bundled up in the towel and out of the great hall.
Watching them, Daemon's heart ached. The boy looked like Lucivar. He wasn't sure if he felt regretful or relieved that there was no hint of sapphire in the child's gold eyes, no lightening of the black hair and brown skin, no trace of the mother's exotic beauty.