Anne Bishop - Tangled Webs

“A girl named Anax claimed Jenkell was her father,” Witch said. “But she has claimed a variety of men as her father, so it was difficult to judge her sincerity. However, based on the description I was given, she is like Yuli in that most of her heritage does not have its roots in the Dhemlan race.”

“Jenkell was originally from Little Terreille.”

“Anax and several other children from the house have ‘run away’ over the past few weeks.”

He turned his head in the direction of the house, even though he couldn’t see it through the walls of the Coach. “Maybe they didn’t run far.” He turned over the pieces of information and found more and more reasons to hone his temper. “Did you find out anything about the spells wrapped around the house?”

“The Black Widows were strong and quite talented. And they anticipated someone trying to pick their webs apart.”

“So we can’t work from the outside.”

“Not if we want Surreal and Rainier to remain among the living. I’m still looking for a way to get around the trap spell without triggering the death spells.”

He took Jaenelle’s hand and kissed her palm.

Among the Blood, there was no law against murder. But that didn’t mean payment wasn’t extracted when required. While riding the Black Wind back to this village, he’d tallied up all the things he’d learned about this haunted house and what must have been done to create such a place. So he knew what would be required to pay the blood debt owed to him as the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan and to the people whose lives had been taken without good reason.

Since Jaenelle had told him they needed a Coach that would accommodate several people, they had used the one that was big enough to be a flying two-story flat.

“I have some work to do.” He gave her hand one last kiss and stood up. “I’ll work in one of the upstairs bedrooms so I don’t disturb you or the boy.” That wasn’t the reason, but it was one of those lies that was understood for what it was—a public excuse for a private matter.

He didn’t want to tell her what he intended to do. Didn’t want to argue with her about it. The first stage of the punishment he was about to design would be brutal, but it was also just. And it was a side of him he was never comfortable letting her see.

His foot touched the first stair to the upper story when her voice stopped him.

“You should use the thicker-weight spider silk,” Witch said. “It will hold up better for those kinds of spells.”

Marian drifted around the kitchen, feeling soft and delicious and powerful and female. She’d been so hungry for the man, and Lucivar had been so wonderfully male last night. And this morning.

It had been so satisfying to slide on top of him, and so flattering that his only response at first had been to wrap his arms around her. For a man with Lucivar’s past, trusting a woman so much that he wasn’t pulled from sleep when her body covered his told her how deeply he loved her. When she sheathed his morning-hard cock, she kept her movements quiet and controlled, enjoying the easy ride. And then she felt the excitement building as she watched his slow rise from sleep until he was fully awake and aware just moments before she was milking him with her climax.

She looked at the chair pushed back from the table and felt her body ready itself for a man.

Then she heard Daemonar’s laughing squeals, followed by playful “papa growls” from Lucivar.

Time to be a mother instead of a lover.

Trying to focus on something besides the chair and what she had done with Lucivar in the kitchen last night, she fixed her eyes on the corner cabinet. Years before, when she’d still been Lucivar’s housekeeper, Jaenelle had decided Marian needed that corner cabinet—mostly because Jaenelle, who was incapable of doing something as simple as boiling an egg, had no idea what was needed in a kitchen. She hadn’t been sure she’d ever use the thing, but now the shelves held little trinkets that warmed her heart—a pretty stone Daemonar had found for her; a seashell Lucivar had kept for her during a rare overnight stay he’d arranged with the dragons who lived on the Fyreborn Islands; and other things that reminded her each day that she was more than she’d thought she could be.

Because she was focused on the cabinet, she noticed the triangle of white sticking out from underneath it. When she pulled it out, she flushed with embarrassment that an invitation had gotten shoved under the cabinet. Lucivar never paid attention to such things, leaving it to her to decide what she’d like to attend or what he had to attend.

She read the invitation. Then she read it again.

She looked up when she felt his presence in the archway.

“Lucivar, what…?”

He flinched. Her strong, powerful, arrogant, Eyrien Warlord Prince husband flinched.

“Marian…I can explain.”

His distress was unnerving, especially when she didn’t know why he was reacting so strongly to something that was, in the end, a simple miscalculation.

“It was sweet of you to prepare the invitations,” she said, and then added silently, Even if the wording needs to be softened. “But, Lucivar, the spooky house isn’t ready yet. We’re still working on the last room and—”

“That son of a whoring bitch.”

It was like watching a storm heading toward you. She could almost taste the violence that scented the air as he took the invitation from her.

“It’s a trap,” Lucivar said softly. “And he knows it’s a trap. That’s why he sent the message last night, telling me to stay home.”

Marian said nothing. Just watched his eyes glaze as he rose to the killing edge and made the transition from fumbling husband to lethal predator.

“Pack a bag,” Lucivar said. “Enough clothes for you and Daemonar for a couple of days. Do it now. I’ll escort you to the Keep.”

“And then?” she asked when it seemed like he wouldn’t say anything more.

“And then I’m going to Dhemlan to have a chat with my brother.”

“If you need to go, I can take Daemonar to the Keep as soon as we’re—”

“No.”

She looked into his eyes and saw the agony that still haunted him from the memories of what happened in Terreille last year. She was supposed to go to the Keep then too. Instead she and Daemonar had been abducted and taken to Terreille as hostages. Daemon had managed to keep them safe by playing out some savage games, but the emotional price for both Daemon and Lucivar had been brutally high.

She wouldn’t risk her son again by thinking she was far enough removed from danger. And she couldn’t risk the heart of either man.

“Give me ten minutes,” she said.

He turned aside to let her pass. He didn’t touch her. She didn’t dare touch him. He understood something about that invitation that she didn’t. Whatever he was facing, whatever he had to do, she wasn’t going to be used as a knife held to Lucivar’s throat.

Not again.

Surreal stirred, winced, swore softly. She didn’t snarl at him when Rainier braced a hand on her shoulder and pushed until she sat up straight.

“How does your side feel?” he asked.

“Like I got ripped by some bitch with razor-sharp nails,” she replied.

He slipped a hand under her shirt. She did snarl at him for that.

He ignored her, which was ballsy of him, since even without using Craft, she could do a considerable amount of damage to him before he could get out of reach.

Then she sucked in a breath as his fingers delicately brushed over the shield above the wound.

“Feels hot,” he said, his green eyes filling with worry. “Might be infected.”