Dreams Made Flesh

Noticing the way Tassle sniffed the air, Lucivar made a “go forward” gesture with one hand. “Go on. Go explore. If you stay around here, you’ll end up getting washed and polished.”



*You come too?*



He hadn’t had a chance yet to really walk the land around the eyrie and get a feel for it, but leaving right now felt a bit too much like running away—and it went against his nature as an Eyrien Warlord Prince to run from a battleground. “You go on. I’ll keep an eye on things here.”



As he watched Tassle trot off to mark the home territory, he felt the weight of the eyrie at his back and wondered if it really would be running away to get out of sight while all of those women cluttered up his home. Besides, if his presence wasn’t a distraction from the allure of buckets and mops, his absence wouldn’t be noted either. Which should have pleased him. The fact that it didn’t was an annoyance he’d think about later.



“I’d wish you a good morning,” a deep, amused voice said, “but I’m not sure that’s appropriate.”



Turning, he watched the slender, brown-skinned man cross the rock-strewn ground with feline grace. The movement lifted the edges of the knee-length black cape, revealing the red lining and providing slashes of color to accent the black tunic jacket and trousers.



His brother Daemon moved with the same feline grace.



He tried not to think about Daemon too much, tried not to wonder too often if his brother had found a way out of the madness the Blood called the Twisted Kingdom. There was nothing he could do for Daemon, wherever he was.



He pushed those thoughts aside and focused on the man settling on a stone that time and the elements had weathered into a natural seat. He looked like a handsome man at the end of his prime, his black hair silvered at the temples and faint lines around his golden eyes—an aristo Hayllian male who would be in his element at a dinner party and wouldn’t know what to do on a killing field.



Looks could be deceiving. This was Saetan Daemon SaDiablo, a Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince who was the Prince of the Darkness, High Lord of Hell, Warlord Prince of Dhemlan, Steward of the Dark Court at Ebon Askavi ... and his father.



It was the last title that made Lucivar wary. There weren’t any clear rules when it came to sons dealing with fathers. Not that he paid much attention to rules, but it would have been nice to know when he was about to do something that would stomp on Saetan’s toes and end with them yelling at each other. Which he did know, actually. Every time Jaenelle said, “Lucivar, I have a wonderful idea” and he went along with it, he could pretty much count on ending up in Saetan’s study to receive a blistering lecture. Too bad he enjoyed squaring off with his father as much as he enjoyed getting into trouble with the golden-haired, sapphire-eyed witch who was Saetan’s adopted daughter—and, therefore, his sister. The fact that Jaenelle was the Queen of Ebon Askavi and they both served in the First Circle of her court just added spice to their shouting matches.



“It’s none of my business, but I am curious,” Saetan said. “Why are you standing out here displaying your assets?”



“I’m standing out here because my home has been invaded by two dozen women with brooms and buckets—”



“Two dozen? I wasn’t aware Helene brought that many from the Hall.”



“She didn’t. Some of the women from Riada showed up right after Helene did. And this is how I was dressed—”



“—or not dressed,” Saetan murmured.



“—when they showed up.” Lucivar took another gulp of coffee and shuddered. “And getting dressed after I’d been assured I wouldn’t be a distraction seemed like . . . bragging.”



“I see. Who told you this?”



“Helene. She said she’d seen just as good.” Lucivar eyed his father.



Saetan shook his head. “No. I will not indulge in a pissing contest with you to appease your curiosity. Besides, you’ve seen me naked.”



True enough, but he’d only noticed Saetan looked damn fit for a man who’d seen over fifty thousand years. He hadn’t paid attention to particulars.



“So Helene said you wouldn’t be a distraction,” Saetan said, looking more amused. “And you believed her because . . . ?”



“Well, Hell’s fire, she’s your housekeeper.”



“She’s also a woman in her prime who is, in fact, only a few centuries older than you.”



Lucivar stared at Saetan. “She lied to me?”



Saetan’s gold eyes gleamed with suppressed laughter. “Let me put it this way: Your floors won’t be swept, but you’ll have the cleanest windows in Ebon Rih—at least on this side of the eyrie.”



Lucivar spun around. Female faces were pressed against every window, watching him. Oh, there were cleaning rags pressed against the windows, too, but nothing was being done with them—until the women realized he’d seen them. Then there was a lot of vigorous polishing.



Swearing under his breath, he used Craft to vanish the coffee mug and call in a pair of leather trousers. As he pulled them on, he snarled, “It was easier when I could use my fists. If this was Terreille, I would have thrown the lot of them off the mountain.”



“You still can.”



It surprised him that the words hurt.



“You’re the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih,” Saetan said quietly. “You are the law here and answer to no one but your Queen. If you want to use your fists, there’s no one who will stop you. No one here who can stop you since you wear the Ebon-gray Jewels.”



“What happened to that code of honor you live by and insist is followed in the court?” Lucivar snapped, letting temper ride the crest of wounded feelings. “What happened to the lines that are drawn for what a Blood male can and can’t do? If I hurt them for no good reason, what does that say to every other man? That he can strike out for the least little thing? We serve. We’re the defenders and protectors. I’ve hurt women, and I’ve killed women. They were the enemy and the court was the battleground. But I will not be the kind of man women cower from because they’re afraid of being brutalized.”



“I know,” Saetan said. “You’ll decide what is and isn’t acceptable in Ebon Rih, and you’ll stand as defender and protector. As volatile as your temper is, as physical as your responses are most of the time, I’ve never worried about you hurting the coven. If you’re pushed, you push back. That’s not a bad thing. I’m sure there were times in the past three years when something scraped a nerve and reminded you too much of what it was like living in Terreille, but you didn’t lash out automatically. You won’t now.”



The temper faded, but his feelings were still raw. “Then why did you say that?”



Saetan smiled. “Because you needed to hear yourself draw the line. You’re the strongest living male in this valley. The strongest Blood, regardless of gender, when Jaenelle isn’t at the Keep or staying at her cottage. Having that much power isn’t easy.”



He would know, Lucivar thought. Saetan wore the Black Jewels. Until Daemon made the Offering to the Darkness and came away wearing the Black, Saetan had been the only male in the history of the Blood to wear that Jewel. If anyone knew the price that came with that much power, it was the High Lord.



Lucivar glanced at the eyrie. “What should I do about them?”



“Hire a housekeeper.”



He winced. “Hell’s fire. Then I’ll have a female underfoot all the time.”



“From where I’m sitting, your choice is one hearth witch who works for you or dealing with this lot two or three times a week.”



Lucivar felt his knees weaken. “Two or three—Why? How many times can they polish the same few pieces of furniture?”



Saetan just looked at him pityingly. “If you hire a housekeeper, your home is her domain, and if she’s worth what you pay her, she’ll be territorial enough to take care of any unwanted help without you having to do a thing.”



That didn’t sound bad. But he sighed. “I don’t know how to hire a housekeeper.”



Saetan stood up and arranged the folds of his cape. “Why don’t we go to the Keep and discuss it over breakfast?” He looked back at the eyrie. “Or were you planning to stay here and get in the middle of the tussle over who would cook it for you?”



“I can cook my own damn breakfast.”



“You could try, boyo, but the odds are against you.”



Oh, yeah. If he walked back in there now, somebody would be pissed off at him before he even got close to a piece of toast, let alone something more substantial. “Let’s go to the Keep.”



“A wise choice.”



As they walked back to the eyrie to inform Helene that they were leaving, Lucivar said, “If I’m so wise and so powerful, tell me again why I have to hire a housekeeper I don’t want?”



“Because you’re not a fool,” Saetan replied. “And given your choices, only a fool would put up with this any longer than he had to.”



“This is more than I bargained for when Jaenelle appointed me the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih.”



“Everything has a price. This is yours. Deal with it.”



Lucivar sighed and gave up. So he’d have to put up with having one little hearth witch underfoot. How bad could it be?



TWO



Saetan stepped out of the carriage and walked away from the Hall, wanting a few minutes to savor the sweet night air. It had been a pleasure escorting Sylvia to see her oldest son’s debut theater performance. Watching her play the role of “Queen enjoying an amateur production put on by her village’s theater group” had been more entertaining than the play. No one would have guessed she was a nervous mother—unless she’d been grabbing that person’s hand and squeezing his fingers numb every time Beron came onstage.



He enjoyed spending time with Sylvia. They’d clashed sometimes, but she’d offered support and understanding—and, occasionally, a caustic tongue—while Jaenelle was an adolescent, and they’d become friends in the process. So it gave him pleasure to stand as her escort when she needed the company of a friend who wouldn’t expect her to act like Halaway’s Queen.



But it also had produced a dull ache inside him to watch Sylvia’s face while she watched her son, to see her eyes shine with pride and remember the times when his wife, Hekatah, had sat beside him during an amateur performance, her face set in bored tolerance, or when the seat beside him had been empty because she wouldn’t make an appearance at something so common—not even for one of her sons.



When he’d first met her, Hekatah had given a performance to rival any actress on the stage. She’d made him believe she loved him. But she’d never loved the man, just the dark power he wielded. She’d never loved her sons. She’d never loved anything but herself and her ambition.



He locked those thoughts away, as he locked so many away. He didn’t want to think about Hekatah and a past that was long gone—and still had the power to hurt.