“Shit!”
Daemon prowled his sitting room, trying to sort out the implications of what he’d just heard—and felt.
He’d spent three nights hunting through the Hall, looking for the spelled window Saetan had created as a lesson and a bit of payback for the shouting windows Jaenelle and the coven had made. Tonight he’d retired to his suite to sleep because he was giving Craft lessons tomorrow, and with thirty-six youngsters with varying ability in basic Craft, let alone things that required more skill, he did not need his mind clouded by fatigue.
The first night he’d chosen to sleep, and this was the night that the boy, trying to walk off a guilty conscience, stumbled upon the damn window!
Daemon called in the cuff link, stared at it a moment, then vanished it. He didn’t need to hear those voices again to know that something was very wrong. The spell Saetan had created as a lesson for the coven would not have had the feel of threat and violence, would not have felt . . . bloated . . . with intent. Saetan would not have aimed a spell filled with violence toward his daughter or the young Queens who considered him an honorary uncle.
Which meant something had gone wrong or the spell had been tampered with. Or . . .
Traps. Snares. Could there be demon-dead trapped in that window, looking for a way out in order to attack the living? He hadn’t sensed that kind of danger, but something about the feel of the spell reminded him of that damn spooky house a writer named Jarvis Jenkell had created to trap—and kill—members of the SaDiablo family. Except Jenkell hadn’t taken into account the one member of the family who wouldn’t play by the rules even before entering the house.
The one member of the family who might recognize whatever was in that window. If Lucivar’s solution was to blow out the whole damn wall, then so be it. They would deal with the structural challenges afterward.
Daemon looked at the tall freestanding clock. Considering the time, it would be courteous to wait a couple more hours.
Since Daemonar and Titian were in residence and that window posed a potential threat, Lucivar would thump him against a wall if he waited—and he would deserve the thumping.
Standing in the middle of his sitting room, Daemon closed his eyes and sent out a call on an Ebon-gray spear thread. *Prick?* He waited a moment. *Prick?*
*Bastard? What . . . ?*
He could picture Lucivar Yaslana slipping out of bed and out of the bedroom as the Eyrien’s temper rose hot toward the killing edge. *I need your help with a bit of Craft I found at the Hall.*
*Craft? Oh, Hell’s fire, what did they do?*
*The children? They blew a hole in a wall, but that’s not important. It’s a bit of Craft that Father created. Sweet Darkness, Prick, I hope this wasn’t what he’d intended, but . . . Well, you walked into that spooky house; I didn’t. If this is something similar . . .*
*Are you going to get any more sleep?* Lucivar asked.
*No.*
*All right. I’ll tell Marian where I’m going and give Rothvar his orders for the next couple of days. Then I’ll head out. I’ll be at the Hall in time to meet you for an early breakfast.*
*Good.* Daemon ended the link between them. Shivering, he called in a robe and added a warming spell. Then he rubbed his hands over his face and through his thick black hair.
Hell’s fire, he needed some sleep. Maybe that’s why he wasn’t seeing something obvious.
Then again, Saetan had created that bit of Craft, so maybe obviousness hadn’t been the point.
FOUR
*Wake up, boyo.*
That mental shove from Uncle Daemon had Daemonar lifting his head off the pillow. “Wha . . . ?”
*Your father’s here. I want you with us when we check out that window. If you want any breakfast, meet us in my sitting room.*
“Wha . . . ?” Daemonar kicked the covers out of his way and stood beside the bed, shivering. He’d forgotten to add power to the warming spells that kept his suite of rooms comfortable. Then again, getting up in the cold here wasn’t any different from waking up outside during an early spring or late autumn hunting trip.
At least he wasn’t responsible for maintaining the hot water tanks for this square of rooms. And no one else in this square would be up this early.
Hell’s fire. Who wanted to get up this early? Then again, his father had traveled here from Ebon Rih. He didn’t want to think about when Lucivar had gotten out of bed in order to arrive in time for breakfast. And which members of Mrs. Beale’s kitchen staff had been roused to make breakfast at this hour?
As long as it wasn’t Mrs. Beale herself, there was nothing to fear. Maybe.
The quick shower and hot water helped trick his brain into believing it was time to function.
The smell of coffee when he opened Daemon’s sitting room door a few minutes later convinced his stomach that it was time to eat, even if the windows barely showed a gray smudge of daylight trying to shoulder out deep night.
“Good morning,” he said, nodding to his father and uncle. Then he dropped into the empty chair that had been pulled up to a small rectangular dining table and lifted the lid that covered the dish. Bacon, a vegetable omelet, and a couple of pastries. There were also a basket of muffins and a bowl of soft butter on the table. Not much of a meal by the Hall’s standards, but it was early. “Who did you wake up to cook the food?”
Lucivar picked up the coffeepot and filled Daemonar’s mug before topping off Daemon’s mug and his own. “We didn’t wake up anyone. There is now a full auxiliary kitchen just across the corridor from this square, and your uncle and I both know how to cook.”
It might have been a full kitchen, but it had a limited menu that was prepared by the apprentice cooks on duty. Still, you could usually get a bowl of soup and a sandwich there throughout the day, as well as fresh fruit and cheese.
“You made pastries?” Daemonar took a big bite out of an apple and cinnamon pastry and decided not to mention that the pastry wasn’t light and flaky—and the flavor of the filling was a little off. Just enough that he doubted it would have been presented in the breakfast room for the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan’s official first meal. Which would be funny if Uncle Daemon had made the pastries. Or it would be funny as long as no one told Mrs. Beale that the Prince was eating substandard fare.
“Those pastries and the muffins were left over from yesterday’s baking lessons,” Daemon replied as he sipped his coffee.
Well, that explained why the pastries didn’t taste quite right. Since they weren’t inedible and he was hungry, Daemonar took another bite.
Daemon lifted the basket and held it out to Lucivar. “Muffin?”
“Thanks.” Lucivar took one.
Looking at their plates, Daemonar realized that Daemon and Lucivar had already finished their meals and were waiting for him. He probably had another five minutes before his father hauled him out the door, so he applied himself to eating while he could.
They gave him seven minutes. Daemonar figured Uncle Daemon was the reason he got the extra two minutes. But as soon as Daemon set his mug on the table, Lucivar was on his feet, and seeing the look in their eyes, Daemonar thought it was fortunate for everyone that those two men weren’t hunting for anything except a weird piece of window glass.