Anne Bishop - Tangled Webs

“We still have a few things to discuss.”

“What kind of things?” Jarvis asked as Daemon walked toward him. Such a beautiful man. It wasn’t just his face or the way his body was put together. It was the way he moved.

A temptation—even if a man wasn’t usually tempted by his own gender. A promise—but the sleepy gold eyes didn’t reveal all that was being offered.

“A seduction?” Daemon’s voice still purred, but it also held cold amusement.

When had Sadi circled around him, come up behind him?

He could feel the heat of the man pressed against his back, could feel the light prick of those black-tinted nails as a hand closed around his throat. Lips brushed his cheek as Sadi’s other hand slipped beneath his shirt and began a slow caress down his chest, down his belly, stopping when the fingers slipped just below his belt.

Delight? Shame? He wasn’t sure what to feel when his body responded, helpless to resist.

“Same game, Jarvis,” Daemon whispered. “But the rules have changed a little.”

No other warning before Sadi’s nails ripped his belly open, tearing through muscle, slicing his gut.

He screamed in pain and terror. Struggled to get away from the hand digging deeper into his gut.

He twisted, determined to land one blow before he died. His hands shoved at Daemon’s chest—and hit the wall.

He stared at his arms, which disappeared into Sadi’s chest. He felt the wall under his hands. He looked at those sleepy eyes.

Daemon smiled a cold, cruel smile.

“A sophisticated shadow,” Daemon said. “All part of the new game. You can’t touch me, but I”—a nail flicked, slicing Jarvis’s cheek—“can touch you.”

Jarvis backed away. One arm cradled his ruined belly, while the other hand touched his cheek. He looked at his fingers.

No blood.

He dared to look down.

No wound.

“Feels real enough, doesn’t it?” Daemon said pleasantly. “But it’s all illusion. Well, the pain is real. The wounds are not.”

“What’s the point of that?” Jarvis asked.

Daemon looked surprised. “I did guarantee that nothing in this house would kill you. The predators you brought into this place might hurt you if they catch you, but I’ll prevent them from killing you.”

“Lucivar killed them all.”

“Oh, no. Most likely, he ripped them up enough to take them out of that fight. Since his main interest was getting Surreal and Rainier out of the house, he wouldn’t have bothered to finish the kill.”

“But they’re all still…” In pieces, Jarvis finished silently.

Daemon sighed and gave him an amused smile. “Jarvis, darling, a demon-dead witch who was beheaded will have to use Craft to float on air, but as long as there is some power still burning within her, she can hunt. And she does have teeth.”

Jarvis shuddered. How was he supposed to survive something like that ? He’d hole up in the protected passageways. He had food and water, a mattress and blankets, even a few chamber pots. He could hold out for the seventy-two hours required, and then he would be free. Debt paid.

“About those things we need to discuss,” Daemon said. “Since most of the original webs were destroyed when Lucivar punched free of the house, I’ve replaced them with my own illusion spells. You won’t find my tangled webs, so don’t waste your time searching. But I will tell you that one of them feeds into the hidden passageways. Yes, Lucivar did tell me about the writer-mouse’s hidey-holes. So in our new game, those passageways will still keep you safe from your own predators, but not from mine. Not from me.”

“Yours won’t kill me?”

“I demonstrated what mine are going to do.”

Another shudder went through him. Would the pain be any less because he knew the wounds weren’t real? Or would it be worse when he knew that no attack would kill him, no matter how vicious?

“My darling, I think you’re beginning to understand.” Daemon drifted toward the sitting room door. “The next thing you should know is that using my tangled webs to fuel the game shuffled the exits. There are still thirty of them, although only two remain open, and they’re still where they were. But the order in which they open was shuffled.”

“But that means…”

“You’re going to have to check every one of them in order to find the two that are still open.”

He’d have to travel through the whole house—all three buildings—with the demon-dead hunting him, and Sadi…

“You wanted to dance with the Sadist,” Daemon said too softly. “Now you will.”

He’d wanted to observe the Sadist, which was altogether different.

“What else?” Daemon tapped a finger against his lips. “Ah, yes. My mother wanted me to tell you that she made some changes to her illusions. They’re connected to my webs, and her little surprises are now more in keeping with your intentions for this house.”

“And that means…?”

“They all have teeth.” Daemon smiled. “You wanted to play games with my family. Now we’ll play, you and me.” As the shadow Daemon faded, he added, “Watch out for the cat. He doesn’t like humans—except when he’s using them for a toy or having them for dinner.”

Jarvis stood in the hallway, uncertain what to do or where to go. If he went into the sitting room, would the shadow Daemon still be there, waiting to play another round of the game? There was an exit in the sitting room. Maybe he should check the exits at the back of the house first. Or…

A rumble on the stairs, a sound that vibrated in his bones.

The white cat filled the stairs, and Jarvis wondered which was going to be worse—the illusions that couldn’t physically hurt him or the predators that could.

Daemon stepped out of the Coach and felt some of the tension ease out of his muscles as he looked at SaDiablo Hall.

Jaenelle joined him, slipping her arm through his.

«How bad is it really?» He’d been busy with other things while they’d remained in the village, and then had to focus on driving the Coach home, so he hadn’t asked before. Hadn’t been ready to be told.

«They’ll both heal.»

«Rainier was a dancer.» He remembered Lucivar’s words before they parted. With help from a good Healer, severed muscle will heal; a completely severed limb won’t, no matter how good the Healer is.

«He’s still a dancer,» Jaenelle said. «He’ll hobble for a while, but he’ll dance again. I’ll make sure of it.»

«And Surreal?»

After deciding that the four surviving children would be better off staying with their parents rather than being taken to another strange house, Jaenelle had quickly made up four packets of a mild sedative that would let the children sleep through the night. While Tersa looked after Surreal and Rainier, and Jaenelle dealt with the healings, Daemon and Lucivar had returned the children to their parents, and then went to the orphans’ home to pick up Yuli’s belongings.

A pathetically small bundle. A diminished life for a bright boy. Who was Yuli’s mother, his father? Had they hidden him away because he had the potential to be Blood or because he didn’t? Would he become a bitter man someday because his heritage hadn’t been acknowledged?

Daemon could have sympathized with Jarvis Jenkell. He might have enjoyed discussing stories with him if they had met at a party. Or he might have hated the man for being a pompous ass. Either way, he would have acknowledged Jenkell as Blood.

If the man hadn’t played out this game.

Even then, he might have been willing to overlook—to some degree—the man’s suicidal attempt to play games with some of the darkest Blood in the Realm.

If the man hadn’t killed children to do it.