Dreams Made Flesh

Daemon glided back to the ballroom. He had to find Jaenelle and get them both out of this house. He was a danger to everyone around him right now. The kill had cleared his mind enough to give him back a fragment of control, but not enough for him to be sure he wouldn’t leave these rooms strewn with corpses.



Unfortunately, Jaenelle was waiting near the door, waiting for her cue to begin the quarrel.



“Where have you been?” she asked, handing her glass of sparkling wine to Surreal.



Hell’s fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful. It stabbed at him that her power was so much less that she hadn’t been able to tell that he’d descended to the Black, that he was struggling not to go cold again.



He walked past her, not quite knowing what to do. He didn’t want to quarrel with her. Couldn’t quarrel with her. If he said anything that hurt her . . . Mother Night, he’d destroyed entire courts in Terreille when his temper had been riding this edge. If he hurt her, his control would snap completely, and the killing wouldn’t stop until he’d exhausted his body and his power.



“Where have you been?” Jaenelle raised her voice enough to have conversations throughout the ballroom stutter to a halt.



He pivoted to face her, enough space between them to explain the raised voices. As he looked into her eyes, relief swept through him so fiercely he felt light-headed. She knew. Whatever her reasons for going through with this “quarrel,” she knew he was too close to the killing edge and would take care not to push him back into a lethal rage.



He saw Lucivar walk into the ballroom, saw Surreal hand over Jaenelle’s glass of sparkling wine. Hoping those two would have the good sense to stay out of this, he focused on Jaenelle, who, along with everyone else in the room, was waiting for his answer.



“I wasn’t with another woman, if that’s what you’re asking,” he snarled.



He felt a flash of frustration from her as she tried to find some way to respond to his words that wouldn’t hurt either of them.



Balling her hands into fists, she shouted something at him. The fact that Lucivar choked on the wine confirmed the words were Eyrien, but he didn’t know what she’d said. Which gave him a clue how to provide the tone of a quarrel without wounding.



Unfortunately, there was only one phrase he could think of that no one else would understand. So he bared his teeth and said the words he’d intended to say out of love, in the heat of passion. Words in the Old Tongue.



Her eyes widened in shock. She clamped a hand over her mouth to muffle the mewling noises. Then she whirled and rushed out of the ballroom.



Startled by her response, he hesitated. Play out the game, old son. Struggling to look irritated and slightly disgusted, he shook his head and left the ballroom to find Jaenelle.



She’d made it as far as the conservatory, where large ferns shielded her, giving her some privacy. He approached quietly, pained to see her shoulders hunched and her hands over her face. She gasped for air between sobs.



“Jaenelle,” he said, brushing a hand over her shoulder—and bracing himself for her rejection of his touch. Mother Night, she sounded close to hysterical.



She lowered her hands and looked at him.



She was close to hysterical . . . because she was laughing so hard she could barely stay on her feet.



“I—I—I eat cow brains?” she gasped.



Shocked, his mouth fell open. “What? You do?”



“N-n-no. You do.”



He gripped her upper arms to keep her upright. “What? No, I don’t.”



“Th-that’s what you said. ‘I eat cow brains.’ ” She collapsed against him, howling with laughter.



That was so far removed from what he’d intended to say it was embarrassing—and he could imagine how much worse it would have been if he’d whispered those words in the middle of hot lovemaking. “That wasn’t—It wasn’t what I thought I said.” Feeling his face heat, he wrapped his arms around her and pressed her face against his chest to muffle her laughter.



“Oh, g-good.” She gulped air and made an effort to regain some control. “What did you mean to say?”



Oh, no. He wasn’t about to embarrass himself that much. “Never mind.” He paused. “So what did you say to me?”



“Oh. Well.”



“Come on, fair is fair.” He tugged on her hair. “What did you say?”



“I said you had the feet of a pig and smelled like a goat.” She burst into laughter again.



Daemon sighed. “Well, we certainly descended fast enough to barnyard mudslinging, didn’t we?”



“We did. Oh, we did.”



Her laughter broke his temper better than anything else could have. “Let’s get out of here.”



She gulped and wiped the tears from her face. “I’m not sure I can.”



He picked her up. “Just keep your face turned away. I’ll get us to the carriage.”



“Are you going to look all snarly and fierce?” she asked, fighting against another burst of laughter.



He rolled his eyes. “I’ll do my best.” And if he didn’t get them away from here in a hurry, they were both going to be rolling on the floor, laughing like fools.



After contacting the carriage driver they’d hired for the evening, he strode out of the conservatory—and almost ran into Surreal. The look in her eyes told him she was primed for a fight. She couldn’t take him, but he respected her as an adversary—and she’d fight him until he killed her if she thought Jaenelle needed the protection.



“I’m taking her home,” Daemon said. “She’s hysterical.”



“I am,” Jaenelle bubbled. “I really am.” She turned her head to look at Surreal.



“Yeeesss, I can see that,” Surreal said, narrowing her gold-green eyes.



Because he didn’t want Surreal to worry about Jaenelle, he shifted his bundle of witch, drawing her attention to his hands. Then he dropped the sight shield around his wedding ring for a moment.



Brushing past Surreal, he said, “I’ll send the carriage back for you and Lucivar.”



“You do that,” Surreal muttered.



No one else tried to stop him, no one else even dared speak to him as he walked out of the house and settled his Lady in the carriage. Jaenelle might find his fierce and snarly look amusing, but the rest of the Blood at the party finally began to realize he was a male they should fear. And very soon, they would understand why.



Surreal stood just inside the conservatory, wanting a few moments alone to ponder.



Had she really seen what she thought she’d seen? Sadi . . . wearing a wedding ring? He and Jaenelle. Married?



“Surreal?” Lucivar stepped into the conservatory.



“He took her home. She was hysterical.”



Grim worry filled Lucivar’s eyes. “Hysterical?”



“She was laughing so hard, I don’t know what else to call it.”



The grimness faded but the worry remained.



Wanting to ease the worry, she said, “So what did Jaenelle say that made you snort wine out your nose?”



He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m not sure I should repeat it.”



She tipped her head to one side. “You tell me what she said, and I’ll tell you what I just found out.”



So he told her, and when she managed to stop laughing, he growled, “What did you find out?”



She took his left hand and tapped a finger against the gold band. “Daemon’s wearing one of these.” She wasn’t sure how she expected Lucivar to respond, but she hadn’t expected his concern to increase. “What’s wrong?”



He stared over her shoulder. “Do you know the only thing more dangerous than a Warlord Prince? A married Warlord Prince who has someone playing games with his life that could threaten his marriage.”



Suddenly nothing was amusing. Provoked, Daemon was dangerous enough. Pushed to defend something, or someone, who truly mattered to him . . .



She shuddered. “What do we do?”



“I don’t know. I really don’t know.”



“Let’s split up. Maybe we can learn something that will help end this.”



Lucivar shook his head. “Daemon may already have all the information he needs.”



Shit. She had a good idea what that meant. “I’m going to the ladies’ lounge and freshen up. I’ll meet you at the front door. I think I’d rather wait for the carriage outside.”



He headed back to the ballroom to talk to Rainier, and she headed for the lounge. It had struck her as odd that a private home would have a “lounge” until she discovered the owners often “loaned” out the downstairs rooms for a “monetary gift.” She didn’t know why they couldn’t just say they rented out their ballroom, but the lounge made sense, and right now, she was glad to have the privacy.



After taking care of personal needs, she sat down on a padded bench and closed her eyes.



“Are you feeling all right?”



Damn. She must be more tired than she thought. She hadn’t even heard the woman enter.



She opened her eyes and studied the woman who stood nearby, looking concerned. The face looked vaguely familiar, but she was certain she’d never met the other witch. She was also certain there was something about the woman that wasn’t quite . . . right. Something that put her on edge. Something that made her want to call in a knife.



She smiled and wrinkled her nose. “Just cramps,” she lied. “Sometimes they’re wicked mean.”



“I know the feeling. Let me get you something to drink.”



“No, that’s all right.” She shifted on the bench, prepared to get up and leave.



“It’s no trouble. Really.”



Suppressed excitement in the voice. A feverish glint in the eyes.