“Tersa!” Daemon snapped. “Surreal is in trouble. I need your help.”
She cringed in response to his anger. Then she changed, and he saw a chilling lucidity in her eyes. He’d seen that look before. It never lasted more than a few minutes, and the effort to touch that place inside herself usually left her even more confused afterward, but in those minutes she was formidable. Whenever he’d seen that look, he’d wondered who she had been before she was broken—and before her mind had shattered into such confusion.
He released her arm and followed her into the parlor.
Allista hesitated, then shut the door, giving them privacy.
Tersa sat on the sofa. Daemon knelt in front of her.
Her mouth thinned in disapproval. “You’re a Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince. You kneel to no one but your Queen.”
He took her hands in his, a physical connection that would keep her grounded as long as she was able to hold on. “I kneel before my mother as a son pleading for her help.”
She frowned, and a little of that lucidity faded. Too little time to find out what he needed to know.
“You helped a man build a spooky house,” he said.
She nodded. “The Langston man. He was building a house like Jaenelle’s and said I could help. It’s going to be a surprise for the boy. And other children, too, but a surprise for the boy.”
He was losing her too fast. “Who else was helping the Langston man? Do you remember?”
Confusion. “I made surprises. One of them…” That lucidity was gone. She looked at him through the clarity of madness. “No. If I tell you, it won’t be a surprise.”
“Can you remember what the surprises are? Can’t you give me a hint?”
“No. You’ll spoil the surprise for the boy.” Now there was hurt in her voice.
He pressed his forehead against her knees, fighting to chain the frustration. “Tersa.” She’d worked to create those illusion spells and that bastard Jenkell had used her.
He raised his head and looked at her. “Tersa, the Langston man is a bad man. He lied to you. He used your spells for his spooky house, but he also had two other Black Widows making spells for him, and their spells are meant to hurt whoever goes into his house. He wasn’t making an entertainment for us like Jaenelle is making. He wants to kill us.” He rubbed his thumbs over her knuckles, trying to hold her to this room and his words. “Tersa, Surreal is caught in that house. I need your help to get her out before she gets hurt.”
He lost her. He’d told her too much—or not enough. No way to know with Tersa.
“Darling, is there anything you can tell me? Please.”
“They giggle,” she said, her voice barely audible. “They’re big and hairy and they giggle.”
What giggles? Daemon wondered, but he didn’t dare ask. She was pulling out whatever information she could. It would be up to him to figure out what it meant.
“Tippy-tap,” Tersa said. She pressed her lips together and made a popping sound. Then she said, “The Mikal boy knows. He’ll tell the boy about the surprises.”
She looked crushed, defeated. Even if Jenkell did no other harm, he was going after that son of a whoring bitch for the pain he’d just caused Tersa.
“Thank you, darling.” Daemon kissed her hands and rose. “Thank you.”
As he left the cottage and headed for the Queen of Halaway’s home, he wondered just how much damage he’d caused.
“Here, Tersa,” Allista said as she guided her Sister into a chair at the kitchen table. “Sit down and we’ll have our dinner. Manny made a lovely soup for us this evening and a chicken casserole. Sit down, and I’ll fetch the soup.”
No response. Just silent tears. Tersa hadn’t said anything since Prince Sadi left.
He was usually so careful with Tersa, so understanding about the fragile nature of sanity once a mind was shattered. So it was doubly cruel of him to rip Tersa up like this.
She would mention this in her weekly report to the Hourglass Coven, since caring for Tersa was part of her training, but what could they do? Daemon Sadi was the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan and a Black Widow. Who could reprimand someone like Sadi? Well, his father could. But she wasn’t feeling quite brave enough to send a complaint to the High Priest of the Hourglass about his own son. Maybe…
“He spoiled the surprise,” Tersa whispered sadly. “There won’t be any surprises for the boy.”
The surprises. Tersa had been working on these “surprises” for weeks.
“It doesn’t matter now,” Allista said. She put a bowl in front of Tersa. “Here, darling. Eat your soup.”
Tersa didn’t reply—and Allista watched a chilling lucidity fill the other woman’s eyes.
“He wanted to hurt the boy,” Tersa said softly. “The Langston man. He tried to use me to hurt the boy.”
The moment came and went. But as they ate the evening meal, Allista was sure there was a storm brewing behind Tersa’s quiet stillness.
Puffing from the effort to go up a few stairs, Surreal stood in the dark upstairs hallway and swore. This back hallway didn’t feel big enough to hold six other people, let alone keep her from running into them. And a single lamp or candle should blaze in this dark.
“Rainier?”
No answer. No sound of body or breath. No sense of his presence.
«Rainier?» she called again, switching to a psychic thread.
«Surreal! Where in the name of Hell are you?»
«I’m standing in the upstairs hallway.»
«No, you are not.»
Shit. He really sounded pissy about it.
On the other hand, he might be right. She couldn’t actually see where she was, and the stairs had seemed to go on too long and in a peculiar direction. «The candle went out, and I don’t have any matches. I’m going to have to use Craft to light it.» And close another exit when she did. She wanted his agreement, since she wouldn’t be closing another exit just for herself.
«Put a tongue of witchfire on the candle,» Rainier said. «Give it enough power when you make it to burn for several hours. You can light other candles with it when you find them, but at least you’ll know nothing can snuff it out.»
«Nothing but getting doused with more power than I give it,» Surreal replied. But he had a valid point. Witchfire was created with power and didn’t need fuel or air. A draft wouldn’t put it out. Neither would water. In fact, Marian sometimes shaped witchfire into a flower and floated it inside a glass vase filled with water. It was beautiful—and a little eerie—to see fire floating in the middle of water.
«All right,» she said. «I’ll—»
Something there. A soft scuffle and a new, faint scent competing with the hallway’s musty air.
She sidestepped to her right, away from the sound—and away from the possibility of someone shoving her down the stairs.
«Something’s here,» she said.
«What is it?»
«Don’t know. Haven’t made the witchfire yet.»
She raised the poker like a shield in front of her, took another step to the side, and banged her hip on a table. She pivoted to bring herself around the table, extending her left arm to set the candle down. In that moment she felt the rush of air as something lunged at her, felt the swipe of knife or claws aiming for her exposed left side.
And she hesitated a moment too long before she created a protective shield tight enough to be a second skin.
A double slice through shirt and skin in that moment before the shield formed around her. A shiver along nerves that were uncertain if they should send a message of pleasure or pain. Then…pain.