Anne Bishop - Queen of Darkness

she hurried the Dark Priestess to a well-deserved, and permanent, rest.

Pleased by that thought, Dorothea stopped prowling long enough to notice that Hekatah was preparing to go out. ”Where are you going?”

Hekatah smiled malevolently. ”To Kaeleer. It’s time to collect the first part of the bait that will give us control of Jaenelle Angelline.”

Finally admitted to Jaenelle’s sitting room, Andulvar studied her and thought of several things he’d like to do to Daemon Sadi. Damn it, the man was her Consort and should have been taking care of her. She was far too thin, and the skin under her eyes was faintly bruised from exhaustion. And there was a queer, almost desperate glitter in her eyes.

”Prince Yaslana,” Jaenelle said quietly.

So. It was going to be formal.

”Lady,” Andulvar replied stiffly. ”Since I’m obviously not here as your uncle, am I here as your Master of the Guard?” When she flinched, he regretted the harshness of his words. She didn’t look like she could endure too many more emotional blows.

”I-There’s something I need to tell you. And I need your help.”

He did his best to soften his tone. ”Because I’m your Master of the Guard?”

She shook her head. ”Because you’re the Demon Prince. After Saetan, you have the most authority in Hell. The demon-dead will listen to you-and follow you.”

He went to her and hugged her gently, afraid that if he held on to her the way he wanted to she would shatter. ”What is it, waif?”

She eased back just enough to look him in the eyes. ”I’ve found a way to get rid of Dorothea and Hekatah and the taint they’ve left in the Blood. But the rest of the Blood will be at risk unless the demon-dead are willing to help me.”

Thirty minutes later, Andulvar closed the sitting room door, took a couple of steps, then sagged against the wall.

Mother Night.

He didn’t doubt the plan would work. Jaenelle wouldn’t have said she could do it if she had any doubts. But… Mother Night.

He had fought in the last war between Terreille and Kaeleer. That war had devastated both Realms, and millions had died. And it had made no difference. They were standing on the edge of that same cliff, fighting against a greed and ambition that would simply go to ground again if it wasn’t finally, completely eliminated.

Like Mephis and Prothvar, he had known it would be futile to fight another war in the same way. Like them, he had looked around the table when the First Circle argued for a formal declaration of war and had wondered how many would still be among the living when it was over.

Jaenelle hadn’t wondered. She had known none of them would survive. Hell’s fire, no wonder she had been doing anything she could to keep them in the one place where they would be safe.

And now she had a plan that… Mother Night.

Even after she had told him, there was something about it that hadn’t felt quite right -as if she had glossed over something. Saetan would have known what it was, but Saetan…

She was right about that. The coven and the boyos would need Saetan’s wisdom and experience to mend the wounds already inflicted on Kaeleer. So he couldn’t tell his friend what Jaenelle intended to do, couldn’t take the chance that Saetan might choose to throw his strength in with the rest of them instead of staying behind. He couldn’t do that because, after everything was over, the High Lord would be needed by the living.

Ladvarian waited in the shadows until he was sure Andulvar was really gone. Then he slipped into Jaenelle’s sitting room.

She was staring out the window. He wanted to tell her it would be all right, even though he wasn’t sure it would be. Yes, he was. It would be all right. The kindred would not doubt. The kindred would be strong. But he couldn’t tell her that because this was a time for fangs and claws. This was a time for killing. And they weren’t sure she would be able to kill if they told her what was going to happen afterward.

But there was something else he had to tell her.

Jaenelle?

There was as much sadness as pleasure in her eyes when she turned and saw him. ”What is it, little Brother?”

I have a message for you-from the Weaver of Dreams.

She went absolutely still, and he was afraid Witch might look right into him and see what he wanted to hide.

”What is the message?”

She said the triangle must stay together in order to survive. The mirror can keep the others safe, but only if they’re together.He hesitated when she just stared at him. Who is the mirror?

”Daemon,” she replied absently. ”He’s his father’s mirror.”

She seemed lost for a moment, long enough to make him nervous. Do you understand the message?

”No,” she said, looking very pale. ”But I’m sure I will.”

Luthvian heard her bedroom door open, but she continued stuffing clothes into a travel bag and didn’t turn around. Damn Eyrien pup, coming up to her room without permission. And damn Lucivar for insisting that she come to the Keep and insisting that she have an escort. She didn’t need an escort-especially not Palanar, who was barely old enough to wipe his own nose.

As she started to turn around to tell him just that, a caped figure rushed at her. Instantly, instinctively, she threw up a Red shield. A blast of Red power struck her at the same moment, preventing the shield from forming, and the figure was on her. They tumbled to the floor.

Luthvian didn’t realize she’d been knifed until the enemy yanked the blade out of her body.

Being a Healer, she knew it was bad-a killing wound.

Furious, knowing she didn’t have long, she ripped the hood off her enemy and then stared for a moment, frozen. ”You.”

Hekatah rammed the knife into Luthvian’s belly. ”Bitch,” she hissed. ”I could have made something of you. Now I’ll just turn you into carrion.”

Luthvian tried to fight, tried to scratch and claw, but her arms felt too heavy to lift. She couldn’t do anything even when Hekatah’s teeth sank into her throat and her blood fed the vile bitch.

Nothing to be done for the body, but the Self…

Gathering her strength and her rage, she channeled it into her inner barriers.

Hekatah pounded against them as she fed, pounded and pounded, trying to blast them open to finish the kill. But Luthvian hung on, letting rage form the bridge between life and death as she poured her strength into her inner barriers. Poured and poured until there was nothing left. Nothing.

At some point, the pounding stopped, and Luthvian felt a grim satisfaction that the bitch hadn’t been able to break through.

Far, far away, she felt Hekatah roll off her. Somewhere in the vague, misty distance she saw sharp nails descending toward her face.

The hand stopped before the nails touched her eyes.

”No,” Hekatah said. ”If you manage to make the transition to demon-dead, I want you to see what I do to your boy.”

Movement. The bedroom door closed. Silence.

Luthvian felt herself fading. With effort, she flexed her fingers-just a little.

Her rage had burned through the transition without her being aware of it, without Hekatah being able to sense it. She was demon-dead, but she didn’t have the strength to hold on. Her Self would soon become a whisper in the Darkness. Perhaps, someday, when it had rested and regained some strength, the Self would leave the Darkness and return to the living Realms. Perhaps.

How many times had Lucivar told her to set up warning shields around the house? And every time he’d tried, she had dismissed it with a sneer. But she’d been secretly pleased that he had tried.