Twilight's Dawn

“What do we do now?”



Linking his arm through Daemon’s, he led his son back into the Keep. “You’re going to go home, take a sedative, and get some sleep.”



“Maybe I should—”



“You’re the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan, not the High Lord of Hell.” Saetan put enough bite in his voice to clear the glassy look from Daemon’s eyes. “You did your part in this, Prince. Now it’s time for me to do mine.”



“And your part is?”



“To sift through what is left of his mind for the names of his victims before releasing him to the final death. I’ll send you the list. I’m sure you’ll know how to quietly pass on the information to the people who need it.”



“What happens after that?”



“He is demon-dead,” Saetan said gently. “After his Self returns to the Darkness, the meat will be left for the flora and fauna of Hell.”



SEVEN



A week after No Face had been destroyed, Saetan walked into the sitting room where Sylvia was reading, and sat down in a ladderback chair next to her wheeled chair.



“It’s time for us to talk,” he said.



She marked the page in her book and set it aside. She’d known this was coming, but she hadn’t expected it to come this soon. Even with the heartache and worry about her sons, there had been comfort in his presence. She felt the drag of daylight as soon as the sun rose, and went to bed to avoid the drain in her power. She would wake for a moment when he joined her later in the morning, and then sleep again, cradled in his arms, until they both rose at sunset.



“It’s hard for the living to let go of the dead, and it’s hard for the dead to let go of the living. That’s why my rules about interaction between the living and the demon-dead are so strict, and that’s why I’m so harsh when those rules are broken.”



“Did you live by your own rules, Saetan?” She knew the man, so she already guessed the answer.



“Everything has a price,” he said softly. “When I became a Guardian, I made a choice. It wasn’t prudent to let some things, like Dhemlan Kaeleer, leave my control, but the personal things ...” He sighed. “I never met Mephis’s wife. I never knew his children. I never held them or played with them or read them stories. I straddled the line between living and dead, so I didn’t belong with them. I had contact with Mephis only here at the Keep. He was a grown man, and it was necessary because we were all waiting for the promised dream to become flesh. But I kept my distance from his family, asking no less of myself than I required of the other citizens of Hell.”



“But you know Daemonar,” she said.



He let out a pained laugh. “Yes. Well, Lucivar is not Mephis. When I gave Mephis an order, he obeyed it. When I give Lucivar an order, half the time he ignores it and pisses on my foot. When Daemonar was born, Lucivar told me he didn’t give a damn about my rules. The boy was going to know his grandfather.” He paused, then added, “And things changed after Jaenelle came into our lives. The boundaries didn’t exist with the people she touched. That’s why I know that while the rules I’ve set for the citizens of Hell must be strictly enforced most of the time, there can be exceptions.”



She felt a zing that had nothing to do with her body and everything to do with her heart. “I can see my boys one more time?”



“If that’s what you want,” he replied. He leaned forward and took her hands, rubbing his thumbs over her knuckles. “Prince Sadi denied your father custody of your sons.”



“Why?”



“For one thing, your father doesn’t feel it’s appropriate for the boys to see you anymore. You’re dead. They need to accept that and rebuild their lives without you. Normally I would agree with him, but not this time. You are strong enough to let them go—and they will go, Sylvia. The day will come when they need you to be nothing more than a good memory. But for now, Daemon and I are willing to sanction, and chaperon, a visit twice a month here at the Keep in Kaeleer. You, Beron, and Mikal can spend the evening together. You’ll have the reassurance that they’re being taken care of.”



By whom? she wondered. “Everything has a price.”



“And this is no exception.”



“What is your price, High Lord?”



“I want to show you something.”



Using Craft, he floated her above the chair. She straightened her legs so that her long skirt just brushed the floor. Linking her arm through his, she floated beside him as he made his way through the Keep’s corridors until they reached the Dark Altar. After he opened the Gate, he led her to a landing web, wrapped a shield around her, and caught the Black Winds.



When they dropped from the Winds to another landing web, she looked around. “This is SaDiablo Hall, but it’s . . .”



“In the Dark Realm. At one time, I ruled in all three Realms, so I built the Hall in all three Realms.”



“Mother Night.” She couldn’t imagine what it had cost to build one of the Halls, let alone three.



She’d expected the place to be empty. It was a hive of activity. She saw caution in every eye when the demon-dead spotted the High Lord, but there were also smiles and pleasantries. He held what was left of their lives in his hands, and they didn’t forget that.



Just as he now held hers.



“Most of the demon-dead remain near the Gate closest to where they lived,” Saetan said quietly. “Some go to specific territories that have been claimed by a particular group, like the Harpies or the cildru dyathe. And some have unfinished business—the novel they never found time to write or the dream of learning to paint that they gave up out of duty to family. Some want to learn to play a musical instrument. Unfinished business. Not with the living; with themselves. I provide a place for them to live, a modest amount of yarbarah for sustenance, and the materials they need. In turn, they take care of this place, and the stronger look after the weaker when it’s needed.”



“It’s a community of artists,” she said, wishing he would slow down so she could get a better look at the paintings. Some were hung out of kindness. Others were stunning and beautiful.



“This is what I wanted you to see.” He opened a door and guided her inside.



The room was divided in half. There were scribbles and colored handprints and primitive drawings covering the set of folding panels that separated the room.



*It’s less frustrating than trying to clean the walls all the time,* Saetan said.



Since he was clearly moving to keep them out of sight of whoever was on the other side of the panels, she stifled a laugh.



“It’s a pretty nice place,” a young male voice said. “There are toys and games and lots of books to read for fun. There are also chores and studies, but those are interesting too. Some of the time.”



Sylvia smiled. That sounded so much like Mikal.



Saetan slipped his arm out of hers. After making sure she was steady, he stepped back. *Go ahead. Take a look.*



Taking hold of the edge of the panel, she eased herself into a position to see the room.



Thirty children, if not more. None of them had reached adolescence, whatever their race. Among them was a Dhemlan boy sitting on the floor, hugging a stuffed toy.



Sylvia looked back at Saetan. *Is that . . . ?*



*Haeze’s brother? Yes.*



She listened for a minute as the boy in charge explained the rules everyone had to follow in order to be a resident of the Hall.



Pushing against the panel, she floated back to Saetan. *Who is the Keeper of the Rules?*



*The first cildru dyathe to choose to live here instead of on their island. Daemon rescued him from the spooky house several years ago and brought him to me. In his way, he’s made the same choice another cildru dyathe made long ago—to be the leader of this band of children and help the others adjust and survive and let go when they’re ready.*



She caught something the boy said, and looked more closely at the man. *You can’t help the ones who don’t trust adults enough to accept help, but you help these children, don’t you? You’re the one who comes to read them stories or listen to them or give them a hug. Aren’t you?*



*Some came from loving homes. Others never knew the comfort of a hug. Not from a father or a mother.*



Everything has a price. Suddenly she knew what he was asking of her in exchange for spending time with her own sons—to be a maternal presence for the children who had never known any. To help them with their unfinished business. To give them a sense of family. With him.



Linking her arm with his, she tipped her head toward the door. He took them out of the room, then waited for her to indicate a direction. Instead she just looked at him.



“I asked you once, and I understand better now why you gave me the answer you did,” she said. “But everything has changed, so I’m going to ask again. Will you marry me, Saetan?”



She saw shock in his eyes, swiftly followed by joy, which was just as swiftly followed by caution.



“Can you promise me that you won’t stay one day longer than you truly want to?” he asked.



“I promise you that.”



“Then I will be honored to be your husband for all the days that come before that day.”



She threw her arms around him and held him as tightly as he held her.



“What kind of wedding would you like?” he asked.



She eased back enough to look at him. “A fast one.”



EIGHT



Sylvia had to wait a week for her wedding because Jaenelle wouldn’t allow Beron to travel to the Keep until every tiny part of his ears, eyes, and throat had healed completely. She chafed about the delay, but approved of the reason.



The Priestess from Riada came to the Keep to perform the marriage ceremony. The food for the living guests had been provided by Mrs. Beale from the Hall and Merry from The Tavern.



Sylvia’s father and brother had been invited. They weren’t able to smudge that line between the living and the dead and had refused to attend. But her sons were there, along with Marian and Lucivar, Daemonar, Jillian and Nurian, Tersa and Manny, Surreal and Rainier, Daemon and Jaenelle, and plenty of kindred who were also members of this pieced-together family.



Saetan slipped an arm around her waist and held out a ravenglass goblet of yarbarah. “How are you doing, Lady Sylvia?”



Accepting the goblet, she narrowed her eyes. “Mikal and Daemonar are about to get into some mischief. They’ve got that look.”



“You think so?” he asked, laughing softly.



The boys had barely taken a step before they were flanked by Scelties and blocked by Kaelas. In that moment, Sylvia saw three male heads turn in that direction—Daemon, Lucivar, and Rainier.



She pressed her lips together to keep from laughing aloud, since Mikal looked so annoyed at having his fun stopped before it started.



She took a sip of the yarbarah, then handed back the goblet. “I appreciate the sentiment, and the dress is gorgeous, but Jaenelle shouldn’t have harassed the dressmakers to get it made for the wedding.” The wedding ring, a square-cut ruby with flanking diamonds, had come from Banard’s shop. It wasn’t custom-made like the dress, but it had been chosen with care.



“My darling, Jaenelle would never harass a dressmaker or be as demanding about fit and style.”



Sylvia brushed a hand over the rich red fabric. “Then who ... ?”



“Daemon, however, makes up for being demanding by knowing exactly what he wants—and being a very generous patron of some of Amdarh’s more exclusive establishments.”



She felt the room tip a little when she considered the rest of the wedding gift. “The lingerie? Jaenelle or Surreal chose that. Didn’t they?”



Saetan just looked at her.



“Oh, Hell’s fire.”



“Has it occurred to you yet that Daemon and Lucivar are now your stepsons?”



“Don’t threaten me on my wedding day, SaDiablo.”



He burst out laughing.



A minute later, Jaenelle came up to them and gave Sylvia a bright smile that would have scared her right down to her toes if she’d still had any.



“I need to borrow your wife,” Jaenelle told Saetan. “Lady Sylvia and I need to have a little chat.”