He could taste her slight bafflement before she said, "All right."
"I don't want to wear the Consort's ring anymore."
A slash of pain, quickly stifled. "All right."
"I want a wedding ring in its place."
A flash of joy, immediately followed by sorrow. She smiled at him at the same time her eyes filled with tears. "It would be wonderful."
She meant that. So why the sorrow, why the anguish? He would have to deal with that when he got back.
His temper was already getting edgy, dangerous. "I'll take that as a 'yes.' There are things I'll need that I can't create well enough for this game."
"Just tell me what you need, Daemon."
He didn't want to do this. Didn't want to go back to that kind of life, not even for seventy-two hours. He was going to mutilate the life he'd begun to build here, and the coven, the boyos, they would never—
"Do you trust me?" he snapped.
"Yes."
No hesitation, no doubts.
He finally stopped moving and faced her. "Do you know how desperately I love you?"
Her voice shook when she answered, "As much as I love you?"
He held her, held on to her as his lifeline, his anchor. It would be all right. As long as he had her, it would be all right.
Finally, reluctantly, he eased back. "Come on, we've got a lot of work to do."
"That's the last of it," Jaenelle said several hours later. She carefully packed the box that held all the spelled items she had created for him. "Almost the last of it."
Daemon sipped the coffee he had brewed strong enough to bite. Physically, he was tired. Mentally, he was reeling. As Jaenelle created each of the spells he had asked for, he'd had to learn how to use them—which meant she'd explained the process to him as she created one, then had him practice with it while she created the ones he would take with him. She'd reviewed his efforts, given more instructions on how to hone the effect—and never once asked him what he intended to do, for which he was grateful. Of course, he didn't know exactly what she was going to do either. There were some things one Black Widow did not ask another.
Jaenelle held up a vial about the size of her index finger that was filled with dark powder. "This is a stimulant. A strong one. One dose will keep you on your feet for about six hours. You can mix it with any kind of liquid—" She eyed the coffee. "—but if you mix it with something brewed like that it's going to have more kick."
"That's one dose?" Daemon asked. Then he bit his tongue to keep from laughing and wished he could have a picture of the look on her face.
"There are enough doses in here for the next three days and then some," she said dryly.
"Well, I'd better find out what it does." Daemon held out the mug of coffee.
She opened the vial, tapped it lightly over the mug. The sprinkle of powder dissolved instantly.
He took a sip. A little nutty, just a little sharp. Actually quite—
He wheezed. His body suddenly had a kind of battlefield alertness, a fierce need to move. His mind was no longer hazed by mental fatigue. After the first few explosive seconds, he felt himself settle down, but there remained that bright reservoir of energy.
He drained the mug, waited a few seconds. No physical changes, just the feeling that the reservoir got delightfully bigger.
Jaenelle carefully packed the vial into the box.
"Everything has a price, Daemon," she said firmly.
That sobered him. "It's addictive?"
The look she gave him could have cut a man in half. "No, it is not. I use this sometimes—which you will not mention to any of the family. They'd throw three kinds of fits if they knew. This will keep you going, even if you don't get any food or sleep, but if you don't renew the dose every six hours, your feet are going to go out from under you and you'd better be prepared to sleep for a day."
"In other words, if I miss a dose, I'm not going to be able to flog myself awake again no matter what's going on around me."
She nodded.
"All right, I'll remember."
She held up another vial, this one full of a dark liquid. "This is a tonic for Saetan. I figured he's going to be weakened physically, so I made it strong. It's going to have a kick like a team of draft horses. Add it to an equal amount of liquid—wine or fresh blood."
"If I use the stimulant, can I use my blood for that tonic?"
"Yes," Jaenelle said, almost managing to keep her lips from twitching. "But if you do use your blood, make sure you pour it down his throat before you tell him what it is because it'll kick like two teams of draft horses—and he will not be happy with you for the first couple of minutes."
"Fair enough." He just hoped Saetan would be in good enough condition that he could howl about being dosed.
Jaenelle took a deep breath, let it out slowly. "That's it then."
Daemon set the mug down on the worktable. "I want to supervise making up the food pack. It won't take long. Will you wait for me?"
Her smile didn't reach her haunted sapphire eyes. "I'll wait."
"Prince Ssadi."
Daemon hesitated, turned toward the voice. "Draca." She held out one hand, closed in a loose fist. Obediently, he put his hand under hers. When she opened her hand, colored bangles poured into his—the kind of bangles women sewed on dresses to catch the light.
Baffled, he looked at the bangles, then at her.
"When the time iss right, give thesse to Ssaetan. He will undersstand."
She knows, Daemon thought. She knows, but... No, Draca wouldn't say anything to the coven or the boyos. The Seneschal of Ebon Askavi would keep her own council for her own reasons.
As she walked away, he slipped the bangles into his jacket pocket.
Surreal jumped when the door to her room flew open.
"What in the name of Hell do you think you're doing?" Daemon demanded, slamming the door.
"What does it look like I'm doing?" Surreal snapped. Silently, she swore. A few more minutes and she would have been able to slip away undetected.
"It looks like you're about to ruin several hours of careful planning," Daemon snapped back.
That stopped her. "What planning?" she asked suspiciously.
He swore with a creative vileness that surprised her. "What do you think I've been doing since we got that gift this morning? And what did you think you'd be able to do, going in alone?"
"I've been an assassin for a lot of years, Sadi. I could have—"
"One-on-one kills," he snarled. "That's not going to get you very far in an armed camp. And if you unleash the Gray to get rid of the guards, you can be sure the four people you're going in for will be dead by the time you reach them."
"You don't know—"
"I do know," Daemon shouted. "I grew up under that bitch's control. I do know."
Her anger couldn't match his, especially when he'd been able to put his finger on every doubt she had about succeeding. "You have a better idea?"
"Yes, Surreal, I have a better idea," Daemon replied coldly.
Surreal licked her lips, took a careful breath. "I could help, create a diversion or something. Hell's fire, Daemon, those people are my family, too, the first family I've ever had. They mean something to me. Let me help."
Something queer filled his eyes as he stared at her. "Yes," he said in a silky croon, "I think you could be very helpful." His voice shifted, became irritated and efficient as he looked over the supplies piled on her bed. "At least you had the good sense to realize you would need to bring your own food and water since you won't be able to trust consuming anything that might be there." He headed for the door. "I'll need a couple more hours. Then we'll go."