“At least tighten that one.” Daemon pointed to the leash made of chain and leather.
“I can’t. I’m sorry, Daemon, but I can’t. Not if you are going to stay sane and whole.”
“The Sadist . . .”
“A little more easily provoked, but there are things you can do to help yourself and the people around you.”
She seemed to be struggling to find the words, and that wasn’t like her. “Tell me.”
“You should arrange to have a . . . sanctuary . . . at the Hall, a place different from your bedroom suite. You need a place where you can retreat when people’s response to the sexual heat starts to scrape your temper, because now the aspect of yourself most likely to respond will be the Sadist. You should discuss this with a few people you trust without question, and it must be without question. You will give them an agreed-upon phrase that they will speak if they notice your control slipping. If you hear that phrase, you will not challenge their reason for saying it; you will retreat to your sanctuary and maintain solitude until your control gently returns. If you want a phrase in a language that wouldn’t commonly be spoken, I can help you with that.”
“Maybe the language of the Dea al Mon.” That language wouldn’t be known to many outside the borders of the Territory ruled by the Children of the Wood.
How much of that language had Surreal learned over the years?
“Who should know the phrase?” Witch asked.
“Beale and Holt at the Hall. Chaosti here at the Keep. Lucivar.”
He considered Tersa, since a woman might sense something in him a man wouldn’t, but that would be too much weight for her broken mind to bear. Besides, Tersa would tell him in her own way if she saw trouble. If he’d talked to her all those months ago when she’d first noticed he wasn’t well, maybe he wouldn’t have endured so much pain.
And he wouldn’t be in the Misty Place now, feeling a joyful sorrow at being with Jaenelle again, even in this limited way.
“And Marian,” he said. She had seen—and accepted. He could trust her.
Witch made no comment about him not including Surreal in the list.
He didn’t know what she searched for as she studied his face, looked into his eyes, but she must have found it, because she said, “You need to stay among the living, Prince. You need to stay connected to the living. Do you understand?”
Daughter. Brother. Maybe still a wife. Maybe. “Yes, I understand.”
“If you give me your word that you will do your best to stay connected, I’ll make you a bargain.”
“What bargain?”
“When you’ve set up your sanctuary and talked to the people you named, then we’ll discuss the bargain and what to do about the Black.”
Suddenly he was furious. Coldly, savagely furious. “What difference does any of this make?” He waved at the chalice, at the leashes, at the posts. “Dream. Vision. What difference does it make? The pain will still be there when I wake up. The misery will be there. But I’m expected to survive another day and the day after that and after that for centuries to come.”
“If I am still your Queen, then my will is your life, and, yes, Prince, I expect you to survive. To do more than just survive.”
“Bitch.” Wondering why his temper had slipped the leash—and wondering why it should matter—he turned away from her.
“You asked for my help—and I answered.”
“You’re usually kinder when I dream about you.”
A freezing silence. Then, too softly, “You think this is a dream?”
Something lightly brushed against his upper arm. Then he felt the shivering sensation of his skin parting moments before he felt the pain and . . .
Daemon tumbled off the bed.
Panting, he looked at his right arm, at the sleeve of his white silk shirt turning wet and red.
Witch’s midnight voice thundered up from somewhere deep in the abyss. ٭Remembrance. Reminder.٭
Shocked, he stumbled into the Consort’s suite, turned on the light in his bathroom. No slices in the shirt.
Stripping off the shirt, Daemon stood in front of the mirror and stared at the four bleeding wounds that had been made by Witch’s claws.
Remembrance. Reminder.
When Jaenelle Saetien was born, Surreal had ripped his arm with a taloned gauntlet, but those wounds had healed, leaving no scars.
He looked at his left wrist, at the only scar he carried. Tersa had given it to him on the day she told him that Witch walked among the living. And now . . .
Daemon sat on the edge of the bathtub and pressed the bloody shirt to his arm.
Not a dream. He’d been back in the Misty Place, talking to Witch. Arguing with Witch.
He didn’t know what sort of bargain she would make with him, but it meant he would see her again. Until then, he would set up his sanctuary, do what he could to repair his marriage, and help Lucivar deal with Jillian and her suitor. He would prove to his Queen that he was willing to do more than survive.
Swaying on his feet, Daemon washed his arm, then used healing Craft to close the wounds. Calling in the small cabinet he kept filled with healing supplies, he spread an ointment over the wounds before wrapping his biceps in gauze and putting a protective shield over the whole upper arm.
He knew with absolute certainty that those wounds would leave scars, because they were a reminder from Witch that he wasn’t alone. They were the message that he would see every single day for the rest of his life.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Still shaky from her crying jag and confession to Marian, Surreal finished dressing moments before Lucivar barged into the guest room, grabbed her left arm, and pulled her toward the door.
“We’re going to talk,” he snarled.
“Get your hand off me,” she snarled back as her right hand curled in preparation for calling in her favorite stiletto.
He turned on her, his hand tightening on her arm. “You call in a weapon, you’d better be ready to fight. And you’d better be ready for the pain that will follow, because I’ll hurt you, Surreal. Today, right now, I will hurt you.”
Mother Night. He means it.
She didn’t resist as he hauled her through the corridors. She caught a glimpse of Marian’s startled expression before Lucivar shoved her into his study and slammed the door. Ebon-gray shields barricaded the room. She couldn’t get out and no one could get in.
“You want to tell me—,” she began.
“Pretend I’m holding a weapon,” Lucivar said. “I’m pointing it at you. Threaten, threaten, blah blah blah.”
That stupid phrase sounded a lot more terrifying when he said it.
“We’ve already concluded the part where you threaten me, so what is this about?”
“You tell me. What in the name of Hell is going on between you and Daemon?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Considering what I heard this morning, it damn well is my business.”
“You . . .” Surreal felt the blood drain out of her head. She wanted to sit down but couldn’t afford to show any weakness. “Did you tell Daemon?”
“I didn’t have to.”
Hell’s fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful.
“You don’t know what it’s like to have the Sadist in your bed night after night!” she cried.
“Neither do you.” Lucivar spread his wings, then folded them halfway. “You have brushed against that side of Daemon’s temper over the years, and you have seen what he can do. But believe me, Surreal, you have never danced with the Sadist when he has been focused on you.”