That other leash cut into the fourth post, which looked soft, bloated. Sick. Pus oozed from splits and created a kind of carapace. Once it covered the whole post, he wasn’t sure anyone would be able to break through without breaking . . .

No. He couldn’t think of that. Wasn’t going to consider that.

“He fights to survive,” Tersa said, pointing to the bloated post. “He fights with instinct, not knowledge.”

Couldn’t someone provide the knowledge?

“Will he win?” Lucivar asked.

“No. The sand is running in the glass.” An hourglass appeared on the altar, the sand draining into the lower half. “When the last grain falls, not even she will be able to save him.”

“She? You mean Surreal?”

“It is too late for the girl to save him.”

“Then who . . .” Lucivar stared at Tersa. Felt his heart soar for a moment before he considered the danger.

Had the trouble started between Daemon and Surreal when Witch made an appearance at Jaenelle Saetien’s Birthright Ceremony? He’d had the impression that the meeting between Daemon and his Queen, the love of his life, had eased something inside him, had been responsible for Daemon’s ability to be a warmer, more loving husband.

But a onetime meeting wasn’t the same as Witch’s continued presence—assuming that was possible.

How could it be possible?

“Dreams made flesh cannot become demon-dead,” he said. “Saetan was sure of that.”

Tersa watched him.

A presence, but not flesh. They had all believed even that wasn’t possible. Daemon had certainly believed it wasn’t possible.

“If Witch comes back in any way, it will change things between Daemon and Surreal,” he said.

“Everything has a price,” Tersa replied. “And things have already changed. That is why it’s too late for the girl to help him.”

Lucivar studied the bloated post. He’d call in his biggest knife and slice through that leash without giving a damn what would come afterward, but he suspected breaking that leash wouldn’t help anything now. “Who did this to him?”

“He did it to himself. First he did it to help the girl, but everything he could do wasn’t enough. Now he does it to survive.”

He considered every person standing on this particular battlefield—and what it might cost each of those people. Then he considered what would happen to Daemon and to the Realm of Kaeleer if they lost this battle.

Only one choice, no matter the price. “How do I find Witch?”

“If the boy asks for her help, she will answer. But only if he asks.”

“Then we have to tell him.”

“We have tried to warn him. He isn’t ready to listen.”

“Then I’ll explain it to him.” With a brotherly fist to the ribs if that was what it took. “He has to ask.”

“What will he ask of her?” Tersa set a bloody knife on the altar. “What will he give, thinking that is the path back to her?”

Lucivar eyed the knife. “He wouldn’t hurt Surreal.”

“Not to ease his own pain, no.”

He felt hemmed in, chained in a way that was far worse than anything he’d endured while he was a slave in Terreille.

“What do we do, Tersa? What can I do?”

“The girl can’t help him now, but she will free him to ask.”

He swallowed frustration. “So we wait and watch them both suffer?”

“Wounds must fester before they are lanced.”

A flash of his temper, hot and pure, filled the room.

Lucivar staggered, spread his wings for balance, and breathed in air that felt like needles of ice stabbing his lungs.

Hell’s fire, it was cold!

And dark.

Creating a ball of witchlight, Lucivar lobbed it toward the center of the room and looked around.

Tersa wasn’t in the room. Not anymore. But there were footprints in the dust, and a tangled web, crumbling to ash now, sat on a table that had been moved to the center of the room.

Tersa had told him what she could.

“We have tried to warn him. He isn’t ready to listen.”

Daemon might not be ready to listen, but he was—and there was another Black Widow within easy reach who might be able to give him answers.

Late that night, while everyone slept, Lucivar flew to the Keep to have a chat with Karla.

 

* * *

 

* * *

“Seeing a problem in a tangled web isn’t the same as being able to fix the problem,” Karla said. She’d hoped Daemon would be the one looking for answers, because Lucivar was not going to accept the unpalatable truth.

“You’re a Gray-Jeweled Black Widow,” Lucivar snapped as he prowled a reception room at the Keep. “Why can’t you fix the problem? If it’s a matter of convincing Daemon to let you do some kind of healing, I will haul his ass to the Keep and hold him down for you.”

“I can’t fix this because I wear Gray and he wears Black. He’s beyond my reach, Lucivar. He’s beyond yours. He’s beyond everyone’s reach except his own.” After Lucivar’s description of the vision Tersa showed him, she wasn’t sure that was true anymore. What should have been light, and natural, self-control had turned into something ugly—a kind of self-mutilation. Every tangled web showed Daemon’s condition worsening with frightening speed.

“Tersa said Surreal couldn’t help him now, but she would free him to ask for the help he needs.” Lucivar’s eyes held a cold and bitter look. “Assuming he survives long enough to ask for that help.”

“You can buy him some time by convincing him to drain some of the reservoir in his Black Jewel and keep it drained,” Karla said. “Surreal would be able to help that much unless he’s already draining her Gray prior to her moontimes. You can help him find more ways to use the Black.”

“Sure. He could turn a city or two into rubble. He’d probably sleep much better for a few weeks after unleashing that much of the Black.”

“You could teach him that trick you have of making wood tapers.”

Lucivar didn’t scoff at the idea, which she found encouraging.

“Everything that uses the power Sadi is currently transforming into unneeded sexual heat will slow down the physical damage, maybe even reduce the headaches.”

“Yeah,” Lucivar said. “Slow down the damage, reduce the headaches. Until the thing that pushes him over the edge.”