Sweetly was bad. Very, very bad. She didn’t sound like syrup unless she was really pissed off. Of course, her sounding cold was even worse. Potentially deadly.

Fortunately, he had the correct answer. “Yes, I did. I put a warming spell on my cape and another one around me. And a bubble shield for protection.”

Her lips twitched. “Worried about getting your ass kicked?”

He was more worried about her preventing him from visiting her anymore if he got careless with his body. “Maybe.”

“Go inside next time. Or stay in your own room, where you’ll be safe—and warm.”

“Yes, Auntie,” he said meekly.

Her silvery, velvet-coated laugh rang through the Misty Place. “Meek does not suit you, boyo.”

He grinned.

When she stood, so did he, knowing this visit had come to an end. He always wished to stay longer, but he understood that the Misty Place stood so deep in the abyss it wasn’t a safe place for him. For anyone. Except Witch.

“If I find the stone and it’s clear, can I tell Papa? He’d want to know that Mother will get better.”

Witch looked away and he wondered what she could see. Or what she had already seen.

“If you find the stone and it’s clear, let someone else explain it to him.”

“Who?”

“Oh, there are one or two people around who could explain it to him without getting into trouble—or having him ask awkward questions when it isn’t time for him to hear the answers.” She smiled. “Time for you to go, boyo.”

He bowed, a Warlord Prince acknowledging his Queen. “Lady.”

“Try to stay out of trouble.”

“But I only get to visit when I’m in trouble.”

She faded away, but her laughter lingered, surrounding him as the Misty Place also faded away.

 

* * *

 

* * *

Daemon stopped at the Keep to inform Draca and Geoffrey that Daemonar was missing and asked that they let him know if the boy turned up looking for shelter or a hot meal. If the boy was still missing by sunset, Draca would inform any of the demon-dead currently in residence and they, too, would join the search.

He didn’t think it would be necessary. He knew where he would have gone for the illusion of comfort—where he still went several times a year.

He dropped from the Winds and landed in front of the cabin Saetan had built for Jaenelle Angelline when she was an adolescent—a solitary place on the outskirts of Riada where she could be Jaenelle instead of Witch or the Queen of Ebon Askavi. During the years when he and Jaenelle had been married, whenever they needed a couple of quiet days to be nothing more than a man and woman in love, they came here. Since her death, on the nights when he stayed here, he still dreamed that he slept with her, still smelled her unique scent on the sheets when he woke, even though he knew that wasn’t possible. It didn’t matter if it was self-delusion; the nights when he dreamed of nothing more than Jaenelle being there with her body lightly pressed against his back quieted something inside him that nothing else could—not even being with Surreal, despite his love and respect for the woman who was now his wife. In those dreams he felt that he could stretch a part of himself that was usually coiled and tightly leashed, could purr and show the claws he usually hid from the rest of the Blood.

In those dreams he could be everything he was in all of his terrible glory.

Sometimes he caught Lucivar looking at him, studying him, and knew his brother feared the day when the dreams stopped and nothing would quiet all that he was.

Pushing those thoughts aside, Daemon tried the front door and frowned. Still locked. He scanned the porch, letting a touch of his Birthright Red power drift over the floor and furniture in case the boy thought a Green sight shield would keep him hidden.

Nothing on the porch, but he did sense the Green nearby.

Since he wasn’t about to wade through knee-deep snow to go around the cabin, Daemon used Craft to air walk above the snow, a neat trick Jaenelle Angelline had taught him long ago.

He found the boy curled up against the back door, unmoving. Taking the step that brought his foot just above the narrow back porch, he reached out, relieved to feel the Green shield—and frustrated, because he didn’t want to destroy the shield unless the boy was hurt.

“Daemonar.”

Daemonar raised his head and looked at him with eyes that held a familiar mix of emotions—grief, guilt, and, most of all, relief. And that made him wonder if, in this place, he was the only one who dreamed.

“Am I in trouble?” Daemonar asked.

“Let’s just say your disappearance has exercised your father’s temper.”

“Everything has a price,” the boy muttered as he stood up, his movements stiff from the cold.

Relieved that the boy hadn’t done himself any harm, Daemon allowed annoyance to fill his voice. “Hell’s fire, why didn’t you go inside instead of staying out here to freeze?”

“No one is allowed to use the cabin.”

The boy had a point. Daemon welcomed no one to this cabin, not even Lucivar, and barely managed gratitude and grace when Marian cleaned the cabin or left food for him. Of course, she didn’t give him any choice. Cleaning the cabin had been one of the services she had performed for the Queen of Ebon Askavi. As long as the cabin stood, Marian would continue performing that service.

Daemon pointed to what looked like a slice of a tree trunk nailed to the side of the cabin. He pressed his fingers to the center. Using basic Craft, he lifted the inside half of the trunk, the separation skillfully made along one of the tree’s rings so that it went unnoticed. He took out the key hidden in the back of the removed section and held it up.

“Key to the back door. Next time, use it.” Daemon looked at his nephew and let some of his power whisper between them. “But only you. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

Satisfied that the boy really did understand, Daemon replaced the key and fit the center piece of the trunk back into place. “You used a warming spell?” He hadn’t sensed any Craft except the shield, but the warming spell could have been used up.

“Yes, sir. Two of them.”

Since the boy was all right, it was time to contact Lucivar. ٭Prick? I found him. He’s fine.٭

٭He won’t be when I kill him flatter than dead.٭

Flatter than dead had become a family catchphrase that indicated annoyed relief rather than true anger at a child’s misbehavior.

٭We’re going to stop for a hot drink and something to eat before returning to the eyrie,٭ Daemon said.