The kind of life you would have chosen for yourself if you hadn’t been Witch, the Queen of Ebon Askavi. The kind of life we tried to have, at least some of the time, despite being who and what we are.
Knowing that made it a little easier to let his daughter go. No, not let her go; to share her and let her find a life beyond his shadow—and the shadow of Ebon Askavi.
“What’s the other thing you wanted to show me?”
She hesitated. He tensed.
“It has been pointed out to me that hooves are sharp, and the demon-dead can’t heal if they’re injured.” She wandered around the sitting room, as if putting some distance between herself and Daemon without his thinking she was putting distance between them.
“So . . . ?” He gave her a smile that made her tail twitch. Oh, she was nervous about something.
“So if my Self is going to be contained in a shadow that can touch and be touched, and we’re going to . . .” She blushed. “Well, not that but . . .”
“We’re going to cuddle in bed?”
“Yes.” She sounded relieved to hear his suggestion. “If we’re going to cuddle, it would be better if there wasn’t a chance of your legs being damaged if I . . .” More wandering. Agitated now.
“You still have nightmares about Briarwood?” he asked softly. “Even now?”
Her smile held quiet pain. “There is no cure for Briarwood. Not even for me.” A beat of silence before she added, “Especially for me.”
“What does that have to do with hooves?” He had a thought and wasn’t sure if he wanted to hear her say it.
She swept a hand in front of herself. “This is who I am, who I always was beneath the human flesh.”
“I know.”
“But a shadow that clothes the Self can take another shape.” Hesitation. “I thought . . .”
“Seventy.”
She frowned at him.
Daemon moved slowly toward her. “If you were about to suggest creating a shadow that looks like you did when you walked among the living, and if you were about to ask me the age that should be reflected by that shadow, then my answer is seventy.” He moved closer. Closer. “You were always beautiful, but you were exquisite when you were seventy. Your hair was a mix of silver and gold that shone in sunlight, and the lines on your face spoke of a good life. You were healthy.” His smile had enough heat to make her blush—something he hadn’t thought a shadow could do. “And you were still quite limber at that age.”
“Daemon!”
“Jaenelle?”
“Would you settle for sixty-five? Based on the paintings that were available, I didn’t see much difference.”
“Oh?” A drawn-out word. His heat slipped the leash a little. Not that she would notice. Or would she?
One moment he was looking at Witch, at the Self who had a gold mane that was more like fur than hair; who had a tiny spiral horn in the center of her forehead; who had sharp claws and sharp hooves. The next moment he was looking at Jaenelle as she’d been at sixty-five. A shadow that looked like the woman he had adored in every way through forty years of marriage when she had been that age.
He wanted almost beyond sanity to touch her. Then he considered what it would be like if people seeking an audience with Witch saw this lovely older woman instead of the dreams that had always existed beneath the human skin. Witch was feared now because her shape revealed the truth about her Self. In this form? Too many would come seeking an audience—and making demands—just as they had done when she had walked among the living.
Instead of reaching for her, Daemon stepped back and said, “No.”
She looked startled. “Daemon . . .”
“No.” He shook his head. “I’ve told you more than once over the years that I have never cared about the way you looked. I didn’t fall in love with you because of your physical body, and that has never changed. If my legs end up sliced to ribbons, so be it. Everything has a price. But you. This . . . manifestation of your true Self reflects the feral side of your nature—and the power you stored in the Misty Place. This shadow does not invite importuning people to come to the Keep expecting you to do them favors. Standing before Witch shouldn’t be a small thing. Hell’s fire, Jaenelle, you purged all the Realms of our enemies, and there are a few people—myself and Lucivar included—who understand that you could do it again. If you look human, if you look approachable, people will want what you shouldn’t have to give. Not anymore.”
She stared at him. Her lips twitched. “You’re spending too much time with Scelties. You’re sounding very bossy.”
“I’m a Warlord Prince. It’s my nature to be bossy.”
She looked amused. Had he missed something?
“I appreciate your feelings, Prince, and I agree with your reasons.”
Thank the Darkness for that.
“I was thinking that my Self could be in this human-shaped shadow here in our suites. Only here. Only with you.” Jaenelle looked toward the door that opened into the corridor. “Everyone else? Let them see Witch for who and what she is.”
When he saw her hesitate, he said, “Lucivar doesn’t care what form you take as long as he can talk to you, spend some time with you. Same with Daemonar—although I think he might miss seeing the tail if you started looking human again. It twitches faster when you’re irritated.” His heated smile had her taking a step back. “Or feeling wary.”
She disappeared. A moment later, she reappeared as Witch, spiral horn and hooves and all the rest.
“If you’ve spent time creating that other shadow, I must have miscalculated, and the horizon that marks my time among the living is much closer than I thought it would be.” All the more reason to be grateful that Butler would be there to help Saetien accept that day when it came. “How much time?”
Jaenelle looked sad. “A few years.”
He moved toward her, leaned toward her. Brushed her lips with his. “It’s enough time,” he whispered before kissing her again. “It’s enough.”
EIGHTY
Dear Papa,
Thank you for sending me to Butler.
Thank you for allowing me to stay in Scelt.
Love,
Saetien
EIGHTY-ONE
Daemon took his position in the great hall, prepared to welcome whichever youngsters chose to return.
He wasn’t surprised when Daemonar walked in, since Lucivar had given him a psychic tap the moment the Coach had set down on the landing web.
“Father wants to know if you bought some sheep for the Scelties,” Daemonar said.
“Those are rolly sheep, not real sheep. They used to live in the attic.”
“Okay. So no one is going to get upset about Jaalan playing stalk and pounce with them?”
Daemon shook his head. “Not unless he pounces on a sheep a Sceltie is riding at the time.”
Daemonar stepped up to him. “Uncle Daemon, we’ve only been gone a week.”
“I know that, boyo.” He smiled. “I’ve missed you.”
“Good to know.”
“Grizande?”
Daemonar grinned. “She’s been working on reading and speaking the common tongue, she prefers baking to cooking—I think it’s because she can pounce on dough and pummel it—and she had weapons practice with the men every day.”
Lucivar walked in—alone. Daemonar excused himself and went over to greet Holt and Mikal.
“Zoey just arrived, so Titian is outside talking to her,” Lucivar said as he walked up to Daemon.