"Be careful what you ask for. You may get it."
She laughed and arched her back, her nipples showing through the thin fabric of her blouse. It wasn't until he uncoiled from his chair with predatory speed and had her pressed against him with her hands locked behind her back that she realized the danger of taunting him. Pulling her hair hard enough to bring tears to her eyes, he forced her head up. His hand tightened on her wrists until she whimpered from the pain. Then he kissed her.
She expected a brutal kiss, so the tenderness, the softness of his lips nuzzling hers frightened her far more. She didn't know what to think, what to feel with his hands deliberately hurting her while his mouth was so giving, so persuasive. When he finally coaxed her mouth open, each easy stroke of his tongue produced a fiery tug between her legs. When she could no longer stand, he took her to the bedroom.
He undressed her with maddening slowness, his long nails whispering over her shivering skin as he kissed and licked and peeled the fabric away. It was sweet torture.
When she was finally naked, he coaxed her to the bed. Psychic ropes tightened around her wrists and pulled her arms over her head. Ropes around her ankles held her legs apart. As he stood by the bed, Surreal became aware of the cold, unrelenting anger coiling around her . . . and a soft, controlled breeze, a spring wind still edged with winter, running over her body, caressing her breasts, her belly, riffling the black hair between her legs before splitting to run along the inside of her thighs, circling her feet, traveling up the outside of her thighs, past her ribs to circle around her neck and begin again.
It went on and on until she couldn't stand the teasing, until she was desperate for some kind of touch that would give her release.
"Please," she moaned, trying to shake off the relentless caress.
"Please what?" He slowly stripped off his clothes.
She watched him hungrily, her eyes glazing as she waited to see the proof of his pleasure. The shock of seeing the Ring of Obedience on a totally flaccid organ made her realize the anger swirling around her had changed. His smile had changed.
As he stretched out beside her, his warm body cool compared to the heat inside her, as his living hand began to play the same game the phantom one had, she finally understood what was in the air, in his smile, in his eyes.
Contempt.
He played with deadly seriousness. Each time his hands or his tongue gave her some release, the gauze veils of sensuality were ripped from her mind and she was forced to drink cup after cup of his contempt.
When he brought her up the final time, she thrust her hips toward him while pleading for him to stop. His cold, biting laughter tightened around her ribs until she couldn't breathe. Just as she started sliding into a sweet, unfeeling release, it stopped.
Everything stopped.
As her head cleared, she heard water running in the bathroom. A few minutes later, Daemon reappeared, fully dressed, wiping his face with a towel. There was a throbbing need between her legs to be filled, just once. She begged him for some small comfort.
Daemon smiled that cold, cruel smile. "Now you know what it's like to get into bed with Hayll's Whore."
She began to cry.
Daemon tossed the towel onto a chair. "I wouldn't try using a dildo if I were you," he said pleasantly.
"Not for a couple of days anyway. It won't help, and it might even make things much, much worse." He smiled at her again and walked out of the apartment.
She didn't know how long he'd been gone when the ropes around her wrists and ankles finally disappeared and she was able to roll over, her knees tucked tight to her chest, and cry out her shame and rage.
She became afraid of him, dreaded to feel his presence when she opened a door. When they met, he was coldly civil and seldom spoke—and never again looked at her with any warmth.
Surreal stared at the gauze canopy. That was fifty years ago, and he had never forgiven her. Now . . .
She shuddered. Now, if the rumors were true, there was something terribly wrong with him. There hadn't been a court anywhere that could keep him for more than a few weeks. And too many of the Blood disappeared and were never heard from again whenever his temper frayed.
He had been right. There were many, many ways for a man to die. Even as good as she was, she still had to make some effort to dispose of a body. The Sadist, however, never left the smallest trace.
Surreal stumbled into the shower and sighed as her tight muscles relaxed under the pounding hot water.
At least there didn't seem to be any danger of stumbling upon him while she stayed in Beldon Mor.
4 / Hell
Even the fierce pounding on his study door couldn't compete with Prothvar's unrestrained cursing and Jaenelle's shrieks of outrage.
Saetan closed the book on the lectern. There was a time, and not that long ago, when no one wanted to open that door, let alone pummel it into kindling. Easing himself onto a corner of the blackwood desk, he crossed his arms and waited.
Andulvar burst into the room, his expression an unsettling blend of fear and fury. Prothvar came in right behind him, dragging Jaenelle by the back of her dress. When she tried to break his grip, he grabbed her from behind and lifted her off her feet.
"Put me down, Prothvar!" Jaenelle cocked her knee and pistoned her leg back into Prothvar's groin.
Prothvar howled and dropped her.
Instead of falling, Jaenelle executed a neat roll in the air before springing to her feet, still a foot above the floor, and unleashing a string of profanities in more languages than Saetan could identify.
Saetan forced himself to look authoritatively neutral and decided, reluctantly, that this wasn't the best time to discuss Language Appropriate for Young Ladies. "Witch-child, kicking a man in the balls may be an effective way to get his attention, but it's not something a child should do." He winced when she turned all her attention on him.
"Why not?" she demanded. "A friend told me that's what I should do if a male ever grabbed me from behind. He made me promise."
Saetan raised an eyebrow. "This friend is male?" How interesting.
Before he could pursue it further, Andulvar rumbled ominously, "That's not the problem, SaDiablo."
"Then what is the problem?" Not that he really wanted to know.
Prothvar pointed at Jaenelle. "That little . . . she . . . tell him!"
Jaenelle clenched her hands and glared at Prothvar. "It was your fault. You laughed and wouldn't teach me.
You
knocked me down."
Saetan raised one hand. "Slow down. Teach you what?"
"He wouldn't teach me to fly," Jaenelle said accusingly.
"You don't have wings!" Prothvar snapped.
"I can fly as well as you can!"
"You haven't got the training!"
"Because you wouldn't teach me!"
"And I'm damn well not going to!"
Jaenelle flung out an Eyrien curse that made Prothvar's eyes pop.
Andulvar's face turned an alarming shade of purple before he pointed to the door and roared,"out!"
Jaenelle flounced out of the study with Prothvar limping after her.
Saetan clamped a hand over his mouth. He wanted to laugh. Sweet Darkness, how he wanted to laugh, but the look in Andulvar's eyes warned him that if he so much as
chuckled, they were going to engage in a no-holds-barred brawl.
"You find this amusing," Andulvar rumbled, rustling his wings.
Saetan cleared his throat several times. "I suppose it's difficult for Prothvar to find himself on the losing end of a scrap with a seven-year-old girl. I didn't realize a warrior's ego bruises so easily."
Andulvar's grim expression didn't change.
Saetan became annoyed. "Be reasonable, Andulvar. So she wants to learn to fly. You saw how well she balances on air."
"I saw a lot more than that," Andulvar snapped.
Saetan ground his teeth and counted to ten. Twice. "So tell me."
Andulvar crossed his muscular arms and stared at the ceiling. "The waif's friend Katrine is showing her how to fly, but Katrine flies like a butterfly and Jaenelle wants to fly like a hawk, like an Eyrien. So she asked Prothvar to teach her. And he laughed, which, I admit, wasn't a wise thing to do, and she—"
"Got her back up."
"—jumped off the high tower of the Hall."
There was a moment of silence before Saetan exploded.
"What?"
"You know the high tower, SaDiablo. You built this damned place. She climbed onto the top of the wall and jumped off. Do you still find it amusing?"
Saetan clamped his hands on the desk. His whole body shook. "So Prothvar caught her when she fell."
Andulvar snorted. "He almost killed her. When she jumped off, he dove over the side after her.
Unfortunately, she was standing,
on the air,
less than ten feet below the ledge. When he went over the side, he barreled into her and took them both down almost three quarters of the way before he came out of the dive."
"Mother Night," Saetan muttered.
"And may the Darkness be merciful. So what are you going to
do!"
"Talk to her," Saetan replied grimly as he flicked a thought at the door and watched it open smoothly and swiftly. "Witch-child."
Jaenelle approached him, her anger now cooled to the unyielding determination he'd come to recognize all too well.
Fighting to control his temper, Saetan studied her for a moment. "Andulvar told me what happened.
Have you anything to say?"
"Prothvar didn't have to laugh at me. I don't laugh at Mm."
"Flying usually requires wings, witch-child." "You don't need wings to ride the Winds. It's not that different. And even Eyriens need a little Craft to fly. Prothvar said so."
He didn't know which was worse: Jaenelle doing something outrageous or Jaenelle being reasonable.
Sighing, Saetan closed his hands over her small, frail-looking ones. "You frightened him. How was he to know you wouldn't just plummet to the ground?"
"I would have told him," she replied, somewhat chastened.
Saetan closed his eyes for a moment, thinking furiously. "All right. Andulvar and Prothvar will teach you the Eyrien way of flying. You, in turn, most promise to follow their instructions and
take the training in
the proper order.
No diving off the tower, no surprising leaps from cliffs . . ." Her guilty look made his heart pound in a very peculiar rhythm. He finished in a strangled voice, ". . . no testing on the Blood Run
... or any other Run until they feel you're ready."
Andulvar turned away, muttering a string of curses.
"Agreed?" Saetan asked, holding his breath.
Jaenelle nodded, unhappy but resigned.
Like the Gates, the Runs existed in all three Realms. Unlike the Gates, they only existed in the Territory of Askavi. In Terreille, they were the Eyrien warriors' testing grounds, canyons where winds and Winds collided in a dangerous, grueling test of mental and physical strength. The Blood Run held the threads of the lighter Winds, from White to Opal. The other ...
Saetan swallowed hard. "Have you tried the Blood Run?"
Jaenelle's face lit up. "Oh, yes. Saetan, it's such fun." Her enthusiasm wavered as he stared at her.
Remember how to breathe, SaDiablo."And the Khaldharon?"
Jaenelle stared at the floor.
Andulvar spun her around and shook her. "Only a handful of the best Eyrien warriors each year dare try the Khaldharon Run. It's the absolute test of strength and skill, not a playground for girls who want to flit from place to place."
"I don't flit!"
"Witch-child," Saetan warned.
"I only tried it a little," she muttered. "And only in Hell."
Andulvar's jaw dropped.
Saetan closed his eyes, wishing the sudden stabbing pain in his temples would go away. It would have been bad enough if she'd tried the Khaldharon Run in Terreille, the Realm furthest from the Darkness and the full strength of the Winds, but to make the Run in Hell . . . "You will not make the Runs until Andulvar says you're ready!"
Startled by his vehemence, Jaenelle studied him. "I scared you."
Saetan circled the room, looking for something he could safely shred. "You're damn right you scared me."
She fluffed her hair and watched him. When he returned to the desk, she performed a respectful, feminine curtsy. "My apologies, High Lord. My apologies, Prince Yaslana."
Andulvar grunted. "If I'm going to teach you to fly, I might as well teach you how to use the sticks, bow, and knife."
Jaenelle's eyes sparkled. "Sceron is teaching me the crossbow, and Chaosti is showing me how to use a knife," she volunteered.
"All the more reason you should learn Eyrien weapons as well," Andulvar said, smiling grimly.
When she was gone, Saetan looked at Andulvar with concern. "I trust you'll take into account her age and gender."
"I'm going to work her ass off, SaDiablo. If I'm going to train her, and it seems I have no choice, I'll train her as an Eyrien warrior should be trained." He grinned maliciously. "Besides, Prothvar will love being her opponent when she learns the sticks."
Once Andulvar was gone, Saetan settled into his chair behind the blackwood desk, unlocked one of the drawers, and pulled out a sheet of expensive white parchment half filled with his elegant script. He added three names to the growing list: Katrine, Sceron, Chaosti.
With the parchment safely locked away again, Saetan leaned back in his chair and rubbed his temples.
That list disturbed him because he didn't know what it meant. Children, yes. Friends, certainly. But all from Kaeleer. She must be gone for hours at a time in order to travel those distances, even on the Black Wind. What did her family think about her disappearances? What did they say? She never talked about Chaillot, her home, her family. She evaded every question he asked, no matter how he phrased it. What was she afraid of?
Saetan stared at nothing for a long time. Then he sent a thought on an Ebon-gray spear thread, male to male. "Teach her well, Andulvar. Teach her well."
5/Hell