Anne Bishop - Tangled Webs

The door slammed shut.

Trist screamed. And screamed. And screamed.

Rainier reached the door a step ahead of her. He grabbed the knob and tried to open the door, but it was locked, sealed from inside.

“Do it!” she yelled.

Using Craft, Rainier ripped the door off the hinges and threw it aside at the same moment Surreal dropped the poker and leaped into the cupboard, calling in her stiletto since that was a better weapon for close fighting.

No one else inside the small space. Just shelves of old dishes.

But she could still hear the boy screaming and then she heard…

She knew those sounds. She’d made enough kills to know what those sounds—and the sudden lack of screams—meant.

Rainier lobbed the ball of witchlight through the doorway.

She saw the wet spot growing on the wall between a tureen and another serving dish. Pushing them aside, she touched two fingers against the spot, then withdrew her hand and held it so Rainier could see the fresh blood.

A plopping sound. Movement on the shelf had her jolting back a step.

Then something small rolled off the shelf and landed on the floor between her and the door.

She stared at it—and felt that stillness inside her grow sharper and more deadly.

As she stepped over the freshly plucked eye, something inside her snapped. Rainier saw it, recognized it—and moved aside.

Kester, on the other hand, moved toward her when she walked out of the storage cupboard. His fists were clenched, and his expression was a blend of fear and fury.

“You bitch!” he yelled. “You’re supposed to protect us!”

There was something about that blend of fear and fury….

Knowing she was too close to using it on the boy, she dropped the stiletto. Then she grabbed Kester by the shirt, swung him around, and slammed his back against the narrow piece of wall between the cupboard and the passageway.

“Listen to me, you little piece of shit,” she snarled. “You were told there is danger, you were told someone is trying to hurt all of us, and you were told to stay away from that door. But you had to play ‘Who’s got the biggest balls?’ and you dared your friend to open the door. And now he’s dead. So listen up, sugar. That little fool shouldn’t have disobeyed me. Have you got that? If he had done what I’d told him to do, he would not have died. Not here. Not like that.”

She let go of Kester and stepped back. “I hope he’s dead. I really do. But if the rules of this house hold true, you’ll see him again because now he’ll be one of the things that will be trying to kill you .”

She spun around, grabbed the lamp off the table, then strode down the passageway.

His hand shook so much with excitement, he had to force himself to slow down. No point taking notes if he couldn’t decipher them, and this particular dialogue was too good to waste.

Oh, yes. This exchange was excellent.

But one thing did worry him.

Seeing how easily she handled a knife, he began to wonder if maybe, just maybe, the Surreal bitch hadn’t been lying when she’d told the children she used to be an assassin.

Surreal passed the back stairs and ended up in the kitchen. She set the lamp down on the worktable and looked around—and wondered if whoever had prepared this house had been foolish enough to leave any knives she could use.

On the other hand, she’d walked into a strange room, alone, with only a lamp. She’d dropped the poker when she’d leaped into the cupboard. And she’d dropped the stiletto too. So who was the real fool?

Stupid boy. Stupid, stupid boy to die that way.

Her eyes filled. Her throat closed.

No. No. No tears. No grief. Not here. Not yet. But…

The boy had disobeyed. He’d defied a straight order. What in the name of Hell had he been thinking? That this was a game? Well, it was that. A bloody, vicious game. The rest of them knew that now, didn’t they?

That won’t save them from getting killed, she thought. Won’t save Rainier and me either.

She looked around the kitchen and said too softly, “I’ll find you, you son of a whoring bitch. I may not still be among the living when it happens, but I will find you. And when I do, I will rip you into small pieces and feed you to whatever you’ve put into this house.”

She laughed, barely making a sound. “You don’t think I can do it? Sugar, I skinned my own father and fed him to the Hell Hounds. If I can do it to him, I can do it to you.”

Lucivar stared at the messenger and didn’t laugh. Didn’t even grin. The effort hurt his muscles, but he kept a straight face as he accepted the shielded message from the heavily shielded young Warlord.

“Thank you, Warlord,” he said.

“It was my pleasure, Prince.”

I doubt it, Lucivar thought as he watched the messenger walk across the courtyard—and then scamper down the stairs to the landing web. Maybe he’d sounded a little too threatening the last time the pup was at the door.

He frowned as he closed the door and locked it for the evening. There had been a message.

The one he held now was in Daemon’s handwriting, but not the careful script he was used to seeing.

He looked at the back side of the message. Official SaDiablo crest pressed into the red wax.

He broke the seal and opened the paper.

Lucivar,

If you’re home, stay there until you hear from me.

Daemon

“Stay there” had been underlined three times.

“Wasn’t planning to go anywhere,” Lucivar muttered, walking toward the kitchen, where Marian was putting away the remains of their meal.

Something niggled his memory. Something about Marian and a message.

Then his darling hearth witch turned away from the sink and looked at him.

“Who was that?” she asked.

“A message from Daemon. He told me to stay home this evening.”

“Why?”

“No idea.” Although…He almost knew. The message almost made sense.

Then Marian took a step toward him. Something about the look in her eyes. Something about the way her wings flexed open slightly and then closed. Something about her psychic scent—and her physical scent. Something that had changed in the time since she’d come home.

He vanished the paper as his hands caressed the sides of her hips and urged her closer until their bodies were just brushing. He gave her a lazy smile. “Want to snuggle?”

She rolled her hips, pushing into him as her arms wrapped around his neck.

His blood went from warm to sizzle in a heartbeat.

“I was hoping you’d want to do more than that.” She slid one leg along the outside of his, then hooked that leg behind his thigh, pushing herself up against him even more. Opening herself for him.

As her tongue caressed his mouth, demanding entry, he counted days and put the pieces together. She became a bold, aggressive lover during her fertile days. He was pretty sure she didn’t realize there was a pattern to the times when she sought him out for sex instead of him issuing the invitation, but it was a pattern he recognized—and thoroughly enjoyed. Since they weren’t ready to have another baby, he needed to steep his contraceptive brew a little longer for the next few days. Just to be safe.

Then he opened his mouth for her—and lost his ability to think.

“Marian?” he gasped when she broke the kiss and clamped her mouth on his neck. “Come with me, sweetheart. I’ll give you whatever kind of ride you want.”

She nipped him. “I thought we could start here and work our way to the bed.”

Hell’s fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful.