Anne Bishop - Tangled Webs

“I am not without skills,” he growled.

“They know that.”

He snorted. “Do they? One son sends a message to you , asking you to lock me in the Keep—and sends the message with Khardeen, who latched on to me last night like a Sceltie who had found a meaty, unguarded soup bone. The other son shows up this morning and tells me to my face that he’ll break my legs if I don’t promise to stay here.”

Draca made a soft sound that might have been laughter. “Lucivar hass alwayss been more direct.”

You’re amused. How delightful.

Draca reached out and touched his arm, a rare gesture for her. “Lucivar brought hiss wife and sson here becausse you are here. He dependss on you to protect what he holdss dear.”

“And Daemon?” Saetan asked. “What is he protecting?”

“More than Lucivar, Daemon needss a father who undersstandss him. By keeping you here, he iss protecting hiss own heart.”

Daemon put away the spider silk and the rest of his supplies, then vanished the debris, leaving no trace of his night’s work.

Three tangled webs sat on a table, carefully protected by shields. These webs offered no visions. Nor were they simple dreams.

They were nightmare illusions combined with shadows. They were alluring and lethal—and exquisitely brutal. They would extract the debt owed to the SaDiablo family down to the last drop of blood and the last heartbeat of fear.

Now all he needed to do was find Jarvis Jenkell.

He vanished the tangled webs and went downstairs. They could all use some breakfast, and it would be better for the boy if Jaenelle was working on her second cup of coffee before Yuli woke up.

Then he felt the thunder rolling through the abyss.

He looked at Jaenelle.

She said, “Lucivar is here.”

The only thing behind the door was a dining room that wasn’t the same as the one they’d seen last night. Nothing in the back passage, nothing on the stairs. No shadow illusions of dead boys. No Black Widows trying to take another slice out of her.

No damn beetles in the bathroom.

Surreal would have felt better if a hairy, giggling spider had been climbing up a wall or a skeleton mouse had been scurrying in the hallway.

The lack of small surprises could mean they were getting close to something big—and a lot more dangerous.

Daemon rushed out of the Coach and saw Lucivar walking along the outside of the wrought-iron fence, looking at the house and the land around it.

Looking relaxed, unconcerned, even friendly.

And underneath a surface that gave no warning, the man was so furious, he was capable of ripping a person’s arm off before anyone realized his smile was feral and not friendly.

The fact that that particular flavor of Lucivar’s temper seemed to be aimed right at him wasn’t a good way to start the morning.

“Hell’s fire,” Jaenelle muttered as she joined Daemon outside. “He’s really feeling pissy this morning.”

Lucivar stopped at the gate and waited for them.

The lazy, arrogant smile. The glazed eyes. The explosive temper dancing one step away from the killing edge.

“Lucivar,” Daemon said.

“Because you’re my brother and I love you, I’m going to let you tell me why I shouldn’t break your face.”

“Lucivar,” Jaenelle said.

He snapped his fingers, pointed at her, and snarled, “Stay out of this, Cat.”

She blinked and actually took a step back in surprise. Then her eyes changed, the blue becoming a deeper sapphire. And suddenly Daemon could see his breath as the air around them turned cold.

“And put a warmer coat on,” Lucivar snapped, still glaring at her. “It’s cold out here.”

«The cold has nothing to do with the weather, Prick,» Daemon said on a spear thread.

«I don’t give a damn. Cold is cold, and she’s not dressed warmly enough to be standing out here.»

“Prince Yaslana,” Jaenelle growled.

“Don’t get bitchy with me, or I’ll knock you on your ass.”

«Have you forgotten that I’m standing here?» Daemon asked.

«No, it just means I’ll have to knock you down first.»

Yes, he knew that flavor of Lucivar’s temper, and he knew the man. Lucivar was primed for a fight—and right now, the opponent didn’t much matter.

“Lady,” Daemon said, never taking his eyes off Lucivar. “Prince Yaslana and I need a few minutes alone.”

She studied both of them for a long moment, then walked away, muttering something about snarly males that he couldn’t quite hear. She stopped halfway between them and the Coach—out of earshot but close enough to quickly rejoin the discussion.

“Who’s in that house?” Lucivar asked.

“What makes you think anyone is in there?”

“You’re here, and it’s still standing.”

Daemon tipped his head to acknowledge the accuracy of that assessment. “Surreal and Rainier—and seven landen children.”

Lucivar stared at him. “You knew it was a trap. Last night when you sent the message, you knew. ”

“Yes, I knew,” Daemon replied, letting his own temper sharpen. “Jaenelle figured it out before I did, but I knew it was a trap when I told you to stay home. I was afraid you’d just march in there if you found out Surreal and Rainier were caught in the spells that had been spun around this place.”

“I am going in,” Lucivar said.

“You can’t .” He called in the paper that had the spooky house rules and waved it at his brother. “Damn you, Lucivar, according to the rules of this place—”

“Since when do we play by anyone else’s rules?”

The words felt like a bucket of ice water thrown in his face.

Lucivar moved closer, until there was no distance between them. “Tell me, Bastard. Since when do we play by anyone else’s rules?”

He floundered. Felt like he’d lost his footing, but he couldn’t quite figure out why.

“This place was built as a trap to kill the three of us,” he said, sure of at least that much. “You, me, and Surreal.”

“Understood. What else?”

“We’ve figured out—or are almost certain, anyway—that Jarvis Jenkell is behind the creation of this place. He’s recently discovered that he’s Blood, and it seems he wants to test his newfound skills against the SaDiablo family.”

“Which only proves he’s a clever idiot. What else?”

Daemon held out the paper. “Read this.”

Lucivar glanced at the paper, then looked at the house. “You read it.”

“Lucivar…”

“Read it.”

Daemon took a breath, ready to argue that Lucivar was perfectly capable of reading the rules by himself. Then he paused. Considered. This wasn’t about Lucivar’s resistance to anything “bookish.” This was about what he absorbed from words when he heard them.

THERE ARE THIRTY EXITS FROM THE SPOOKY HOUSE, BUT YOU WILL NEED TO LOOK CAREFULLY TO FIND THEM, FOR THEY ARE WRAPPED IN DANGER. EVERY TIME CRAFT IS USED, AN EXIT IS SEALED, AND THAT WAY OUT IS LOST. WHEN THE LAST EXIT IS SEALED, YOU WILL BECOME PART OF THE HOUSE—AND STAY WITH US FOREVER.

Lucivar looked at the house, at the land, at the sky.

“Again,” Lucivar said.

Daemon read it again—and watched his brother. That look. That stance. What was Lucivar looking at when he considered that house as a battleground? More to the point, what was Lucivar seeing ?

Lucivar took a couple of steps away from him. “Read it again.”

He read it a third time, then waited.

Lucivar took a deep breath and let it out in a gusty, annoyed sigh. Frustration filled his eyes, and Daemon recognized the feeling washing the air between them—their mutual desire to grab each other and shake some understanding into the other one’s head.