Dreams Made Flesh

“We’ll get settled in our suite, then I’ll make the appointments for our pampering.”



“Maybe just—”



“No.”



“But—”



“You’ll love it. Trust me.”



Jaenelle gave Surreal a narrow-eyed stare. “You think painting your toenails is normal.”



“And your point is?”



Sighing, Jaenelle slipped her arm out of Surreal’s and turned away from the registration desk just as a trim man returned to the desk from the other direction.



“Good morning, Ladies,” he said, giving them a warm smile.



Returning the smile, Surreal gave him her name—and watched hostility flash across his face before he managed to hide it behind a neutral mask.



“I am sorry, Lady Surreal, but there are no rooms available.”



You’re not sorry at all, you spineless little prick. “I made a reservation, which was confirmed. Check your book.”



“There’s no need. I assure you—”



“Don’t fret about it, Surreal,” Jaenelle said quietly, turning back to face the registration desk—and the man. “If an error was made, we can stay at the family town house. There are other shops in Amdarh, and I’m certain this establishment isn’t the only place that has people skilled at trimming and styling hair.”



She wasn’t sure which was more fascinating—the way Jaenelle bloodlessly gutted the little prick with a few words or the way the little prick scrambled to rectify his error when he recognized the golden-haired woman standing in front of him.



A minute later, Surreal tucked the key into her pocket, linked arms with Jaenelle to provide support without being too obvious, and headed for their suite of rooms.



“He didn’t want us here,” Jaenelle said quietly.



“Oh, he was thrilled to have you,” Surreal replied. I’m the one he looked at as if I was shit on his shoes. Now why is that, I wonder?



The ground-floor suite had its own small, heated pool off the sitting room as well as two bedrooms with private bathrooms. At least the little prick was smart enough to give them one of the best suites.



“Why don’t you rest for a bit while I go make the appointments?” Surreal said as she walked to the door.



“Are you going to take care of things, Surreal?”



Thinking Jaenelle hadn’t heard her, she turned—and saw the look in Witch’s eyes. And understood Jaenelle wasn’t talking about appointments.



She smiled. “You can count on it.”



She grabbed the first official-looking person she met, swung the other witch into a tiny alcove, and had the tip of her favorite stiletto tucked under the woman’s chin before her prey had a chance to react.



“Listen up, sugar,” Surreal said softly. “My cousin has spent months recovering from brutal injuries. Now that she’s well enough, I brought her here for the kind of pampering I heard you specialize in. You understand me so far?”



“Y-yes,” the witch stammered.



“Wonderful. So here’s the deal. Whatever problem you have with me, you bury it while she’s here, and you give her the best you’ve got. Because if you do anything to spoil this first outing, I’m going to tell her father, her brother, and her lover that you made Jaenelle very, very unhappy. By the time those three are finished expressing their displeasure, I sincerely doubt there will be anything in this place big enough to qualify as a pebble. Is that clear enough?”



The woman nodded.



“Good. I’m going to set up some appointments and give you a little time to pass the word.” Surreal vanished the stiletto and stepped back into the corridor. “And, sugar? Jaenelle’s male relatives aren’t the only ones who are dangerous.”



“My toes will be rose?”



“You’ll love it. That polish will complement the sapphire jacket and trousers I saw in one of the shops we passed on the way to this room. We’ll go there next so they’ll have time to make any alterations by this afternoon.”



“But . . . rose toenails? Who’s going to see them?”



Daemon will when he’s nibbling his way down your legs.



But there wasn’t any reason to mention that right now.



“Mud? They’re going to put mud on my face?”



“You’ll love it.”



“Whenever the kitties and I played stalk and pounce and we ended up muddy, everyone frowned about it.”



Surreal grunted softly. Only Jaenelle referred to Jaal and Kaelas, a full-grown tiger and an eight-hundred-pound Arcerian cat, as “the kitties”—or voluntarily played games with them to keep their predatory skills honed.



“So why is this mud different?” Jaenelle grumbled.



Stretched out on the other table, Surreal turned her head and opened one eye. “It’s expensive.”



Whispers rose and fell, an ebb and flow of sound as they went to their various appointments throughout the day. They pretended not to notice the way conversations stopped when they entered a room, pretended not to see the uneasy glances. It wasn’t the fun, relaxing experience Surreal had wanted it to be, but it served its purpose. By late afternoon, Jaenelle’s hair was trimmed and styled, her nails—all of them—were painted, and they’d found enough clothing in the shops to suffice as a wardrobe for a few weeks.



Now, waiting for Jaenelle to return from the dressing room, Surreal studied a display of shawls. Two of them had the right colors to blend nicely with Jaenelle’s new clothes and provide extra warmth if it was needed.



Her lips twitched. Well, extra warmth when Daemon wasn’t wrapped around his Lady.



“I heard you were here,” a voice said.



Turning, Surreal studied Zhara, who was staring at her with an expression that was close to dislike but hadn’t quite crossed that line. “And you’re here, too. Busy place.”



Interesting, Surreal thought as Zhara moved closer. She doesn’t want to talk to me, doesn’t want to get close to me, but something is pushing her.



“I’ve heard some disturbing rumors,” Zhara said.



“Really? Are you going to share them, or are you going to be another bitch whispering behind her hand?”



Temper flared in Zhara’s eyes. “Remember who you’re talking to.”



“You’re the Queen of Amdarh. And I’m a witch who wears Gray Jewels. If push comes to shove, sugar, you’re a corpse. So you want to tell me in plain words what’s bothering you, or do you want to keep dancing around in the shit?”



“There’s a rumor that Daemon Sadi . . . that he . . .”



“What about Daemon?” asked a midnight voice.



Reading the discomfort and embarrassment in Zhara’s eyes before they both turned to face Jaenelle, Surreal suddenly had a good idea of what kind of rumors were going around. Hell’s fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful. There were better ways of committing suicide than starting a rumor like that about a man the Blood in Terreille had called the Sadist.



Of course, pissing off Witch wasn’t a great idea either. Especially when that deadly anger was back in Jaenelle’s sapphire eyes.



“What about Daemon?” Jaenelle asked again, as if Zhara’s expression hadn’t told her plainly enough the reason for the whispers that had followed them all day.



“I—I’m sure the rumors aren’t true,” Zhara said.



Jaenelle’s smile was razored ice. “So am I.”



“Where are you going?” Surreal asked as Jaenelle headed out of the shop.



“I’m going to talk to Daemon.”



She didn’t try to stop Jaenelle, and she didn’t offer to go with her. She didn’t want to be around either one of them during that discussion.



“Well, that was fun,” she said, looking at Zhara. “You planning to do anything else today to create a firestorm in the city? I was thinking of doing something dull like reading or sleeping, but if you’ve got your heart set on starting a gut-spilling slaughter, I’m willing to play.”



“What are you talking about?” Zhara snapped.



You don’t know who . . . and what . . . he is, Surreal thought. She shook her head. “Never mind.” It’s too late anyway.



3



Daemon prowled the town house’s sitting room. He would have preferred walking through the city to being caged in this room, but he couldn’t tolerate one more cold look, one more silent condemnation.



The hurt went deep. The fear went deep. But the rage went much, much deeper.



Damn them all to the bowels of Hell. He’d tried to fit in. Knowing the Queens in Dhemlan would be wary of a Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince, he hadn’t worn the Black when he came to Amdarh. At least, not in public. He’d been courteous and civil, had done all the proper things a man was permitted to do when he was in an established relationship—and only the things a man was permitted to do. What had that courtesy and civility gotten him? At the first slur to his reputation, they’d condemned him of thinking more of his cock than the woman who had given everything she had to defend and protect all of them.



Jaenelle should have let them all die, should have let them all choke in the twisted, vicious cruelty Dorothea had spawned in Terreille before Witch had cleansed the taint of Dorothea and Hekatah out of the Blood. She should have—



“Is this the response of a Warlord Prince, to tuck his tail between his legs and hide in his lair instead of standing up for himself?”



That wonderful, chilling midnight voice shivered over him. Despair clawed his heart, leaving it bleeding, as he turned around.