Tangled Webs (15 page)

Near the stairs. But where…?

Using a few drops of her Birthright Green power, she created a ball of witchlight—and frowned as a gong sounded somewhere in the house. But the sound was forgotten when the light revealed a door under the stairs. No obvious knob, but there had to be a latch that was easy enough to find and open. Otherwise, the space would have no use.

As she moved closer, the smell got stronger.

Yes, there was the latch, made to look like a knot in the paneling. She shifted the witchlight so she could see inside as she opened the door and…

“Well, shit.”

“Did you find the clue?” Rainier asked, crossing the hallway to join her.

She pulled the door open a little farther so they could both see inside. “I don’t know if it’s a clue, but I did find a body in a closet.”

TEN

D
aemon approached the Consort’s suite with weary eagerness. He usually enjoyed the business side of ruling Dhemlan and taking care of the family property and wealth, but today each thing had felt like a handful of grit being sprinkled over him. Before he gave himself to the best part of the day—those hours he would have with Jaenelle—he wanted a long, hot shower. No. A bath. The luxury of soaking away all the nattering voices he’d dealt with throughout a long morning’s worth of meetings and all the paperwork he’d waded through during the past few hours. The Dhemlan Queens were still nervous about dealing with him, and he understood that. When Jaenelle’s life had been threatened by a witch obsessed with having
him
, he’d made it brutally clear what he would do to protect someone he loved. So he understood why the Province Queens were anxious to assure him that they
did
have control over the territories they ruled within his Territory.

But he really didn’t need to know all the damn details.

And he really didn’t need anyone else trying to wheedle an invitation out of
him
to the private viewing of the spooky house, which everyone seemed to know about. Except him because, after all, why should
Jaenelle’s husband
know about a private viewing? Hell’s fire! He’d come back to the Hall to find a note from Lord Khardeen, who wanted to talk to him about the damn place—and Khary lived on the other side of the Realm!

Rumors, he reminded himself. Just rumors, which were to be expected. Everyone was curious about this entertainment Jaenelle and Marian had created.

When he saw the envelope on the dressing table, he huffed out a sound that was part sigh, part annoyance. No doubt it was another invitation to some kind of autumnal festivity. He’d have to ask Jaenelle how many of these things she was willing to attend. Even better, he’d ask the High Lord how many the ruler of Dhemlan was
required
to attend.

He picked up the envelope, noting it was good-quality paper, then turned it over. Just a simple, decorative seal pressed into the wax. Nothing that belonged to an aristo family or a court. At least, not one he recognized. The writing had been done by an unfamiliar male hand.

He opened the envelope and withdrew the invitation. Moments later, his anger arrowed toward one mind. «Beale!»

While he waited for the Hall’s butler to answer the summons, he paced around the room, too upset to stand still and yet feeling more and more caged by his own need to move. Damn and damn and damn!

The knock on the door was tentative, which told him how much his lash of temper had unnerved Beale.

Since it was too tempting to rip through the door—and then rip through the man—he forced himself to stand still and used Craft to open the door with obvious control.

“Prince?” Beale said when he entered the room. No sign of nerves in voice or stance, but in the eyes…Yes, there were nerves. After all, a Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince could do a vicious amount of damage to a Red-Jeweled Warlord—especially if the intent was to maim rather than kill.

“Explain this.” Daemon held out the invitation.

Beale came forward just far enough to take the invitation and read it. Then he glanced at the small clock on the dressing table. His skin turned gray as he looked at Daemon in horrified apology.

“I have been down in my study doing paperwork for the past several hours,” Daemon said through gritted teeth. “I was home, Beale. I have no excuse for ignoring this invitation.” Summons, actually. They both understood what the wording meant.

“The messenger was quite specific,” Beale said, stammering.

“The invitation was to be delivered to the Consort’s
room
. He specified a place, not the person. So I thought, since it was for the
Consort
, the Lady was planning a private evening and had asked a friend to address the envelope so the contents would be a surprise for a little while longer.”

Hell’s fire. Beale was a romantic. Who would have guessed? He’d brought up the message thinking the Queen wanted a sensual evening with her
Consort.

Daemon took a moment to consider the implications of that. “Dinner?”

“Since we weren’t expecting you downstairs this evening—”

Or even out of bed,
Daemon added silently.

“—Mrs. Beale planned some dishes that would not be spoiled if the meal was…interrupted.”

He really didn’t want to think about Beale and Mrs. Beale discussing his sex life.

“I
am
sorry, Prince,” Beale said. He turned his head, and the slight change in his expression indicated he was talking to someone on a psychic thread. Then he relaxed a little as he turned back to Daemon. “Mrs. Beale is packing up the meal. I had already selected some bottles of wine, so she’ll pack those as well. You will arrive a little late, but perhaps a celebratory moonlight picnic will be sufficient apology?”

They both heard it at the same time—the sounds of someone moving around in the next room.

Jaenelle was home. The fact that she was here instead of overseeing the first viewing of her precious entertainment meant his absence had been noticed and he was in for a rough night.

Don’t do that,
he warned himself.
Don’t smear her with the memories of how other women would have reacted.

It was a fair warning, but it didn’t lessen his feelings of bitter unhappiness.

“I will explain to the Lady,” Beale said, squaring his shoulders.

“No.” Daemon took the invitation. “No matter the reason, I’m still the one who is accountable.”

“But—”

“No.” He hesitated. “I do appreciate the offer, Beale.”

He waited until Beale left before he approached the connecting door and knocked.

“Come in.”

As he walked into the room he usually thought of as their bedroom and now hesitated to think of at all, Jaenelle gave him a puzzled look, then turned her attention back to the dress box on the bed. “I stopped in Amdarh on the way home. I wanted to see if the dress was finished, and it was.” She seemed happy and excited as she tossed the top of the box aside. “Why were you knocking?”

“I wasn’t sure if I would be welcome.”

She stopped unwrapping the dress, straightened up, and faced him. Her sapphire eyes were filled with a chilling blankness.

They were still working through some difficult patches in their relationship, raw spots created during the months she had been healing—when neither of them had been sure of still being wanted by the other. So his words were a warning that he had done something that could end with her locking him out. Forever.

“Meaning what?” she asked too softly.

He felt a desperate need to hold her, to assure himself that it was, after all, a small mistake. But it wasn’t. Not for a Blood male who wore a wedding ring. Not when the marriage was so new he still wasn’t accustomed to the feel of that ring on his finger—or the joy of knowing that it was there at all.

So he couldn’t touch her as he wanted to. Couldn’t even beg to be forgiven until he received some sign from her that she would permit him to beg. Because it wasn’t just his wife he had disappointed; it was his Queen.

He held out the invitation. “I’m sorry.” Inadequate words, but all he could offer at the moment.

She stared at the invitation for a long time. Then she looked at him.

Her sapphire eyes blazed with anger, but it was the icy slash of temper swirling deep in the abyss, almost to the level of the Black, that told him he was in serious trouble.

Sweet Darkness, she was
pissed
at him.

“Do you know where this village is located?” she asked, handing the invitation back to him.

He nodded.

“Then get a Coach ready. Something big enough to accommodate several people. I need to gather a few supplies.” She headed for the door leading to the corridor.

“Jaenelle…”

“
Now,
Prince.”

Her voice made his heart race as the sound sizzled down his spine like cold lightning. There were caverns and sepulchres—and a whisper of madness—in that voice.

Midnight whispered in that voice.

Witch, not Jaenelle, had just issued that command. And the Lady wasn’t pleased.

Since there was nothing he could do about her anger, he went downstairs to prepare the Coach so they could ride the Winds to the landen village where that damn spooky house was located.

“That’s not a fresh kill,” Rainier said, holding a hand over his nose and mouth.

Surreal stared at the body in the closet. “Nope. Been here long enough to start to smell. But someone wearing the illusion of that face let us into this house and passed me just a minute before he went through the door at the end of the hallway.” The shields had kept the smell to a minimum until she opened the door. Now there was no doubt they were looking at carrion.

“What door?” Rainier asked.

She looked at the end of the hallway. “The door that’s no longer there.”

“Hell’s fire,” Rainier muttered. “What’s going on here? And where are Jaenelle and Marian?”

She shook her head, then took a step closer to the body. Was that…? Yes. There was a folded piece of paper tucked between the dead caretaker’s thigh and hand. Naturally it was between the body parts farthest from the door.

She reached in, pulled the paper free, shook off a couple of maggots, and then stepped back, closing the door to cut down on the smell.

“It’s getting dark outside—and even darker in here,” Rainier said. “Let’s go into the sitting room and light a couple of lamps before we have to deal with frightened children.”

“We’re going to be dealing with frightened children whether we light lamps or not,” Surreal replied.

“I just don’t understand what Jaenelle and Marian were thinking.”

Surreal waggled the paper. “Since I think I found the first clue, let’s light the lamps and find out.”

The moment they walked back into the sitting room, Dayle said, “Where is the spooky stuff? This place is boring.” Then she poked her lower lip out in a pout.

Maybe landen adults thought pouting was cute. As far as Surreal was concerned, if you were old enough to stand up by yourself, you were too old to pout and have it look cute.

«Don’t even consider it,» Rainier said.

«I wasn’t considering anything.»

«You were going to tell her to open the door under the stairs.»

Of course she was. «If she doesn’t stop pouting, I’m going to put maggots in her hair.»

A hesitation. Just long enough to tell her he was picturing the possibility—and enjoying it.

Since that cheered her up, she waited while Rainier used Craft to light two of the oil lamps in the room.

Somewhere in the house, a gong sounded twice.

Rainier held one lamp while she opened the paper.

THERE ARE THIRTY EXITS FROM THE SPOOKY HOUSE, BUT YOU WILL NEED TO LOOK CAREFULLY TO FIND THEM, FOR THEY ARE WRAPPED IN DANGER. EVERY TIME CRAFT IS USED, AN EXIT IS SEALED, AND THAT WAY OUT IS LOST. WHEN THE LAST EXIT IS SEALED, YOU WILL BECOME PART OF THE HOUSE—AND STAY WITH US FOREVER.

“What in the name of Hell…?” Rainier said, following Surreal as she moved away from the children.

“The gong,” she whispered once they were standing near the door. “It sounded twice when you created the tongues of witchfire and lit the lamps. I heard it when I made the witchlight.” Which was still floating in the hallway.

“When I checked the time, I called in and vanished the pocket watch,” Rainier whispered back.

“So that’s five times we’ve used Craft since we went through that gate in the fence.”

“Five times that we remember.”

He had a point. The Blood—especially darker-Jeweled Blood—were so accustomed to using Craft as a way to siphon off the power that flowed within them, they weren’t even aware of using it half the time.

“The gong must be a signal that Craft was used,” Surreal said, glancing at the children to make sure she and Rainier were still out of hearing.

“Or a signal that one of those exits closed because Craft was used.” Then Rainier added on a psychic thread, «But communicating like this doesn’t appear to trigger…whatever this is.»

They waited, but no gong sounded.

She read the note again and considered the implications.

«Rainier…I couldn’t have been the only one to receive an invitation.»

«An invitation to a trap, from the looks of it.»

«Yeah.» She gave him a moment to consider that. «The others haven’t shown up yet, and we don’t know how many invitations were sent.»

«Fair bet invitations were sent to Yaslana and Sadi. And the caretaker, or whoever he is, did say there were twelve visitors per tour.»

«Doesn’t mean twelve of us were expected.» She studied the note. «Every time Craft is used, an exit is sealed, and there are thirty exits. That sounds like the total number of times Craft can be used between all of the Blood in the house. Which means the more Blood in this place, the less chance we have of finding a way out while there still
is
a way out.»

«Agreed,» Rainier said. «What are you suggesting?»