“Do I?” Peyton shoved away from the desk. “Do you think I care about our precious bloodline? Do you think it makes any difference to me that she’s a musician and earns her living by using the talents she has? Do you think I give a damn that she doesn’t come from an aristo family?”
“How could you think those things would matter to me?” It was a heartfelt cry that went unheard.
Peyton returned to the desk, placed his hands on the glossy surface, and leaned forward. “You got what you wanted, High Lord—”
“It’s not what I wanted!”
“—but you aren’t going to get everything.” Peyton stepped away. “I lost Shira—and you lost me.” He turned and walked toward the door.
“Peyton!” His legs were shaking too much to hold him. He braced his hands against the desk.
The Warlord Prince who turned to face him was no longer the son he loved, wasn’t anyone he recognized.
“I’m leaving,” Peyton said quietly. “The only way you can stop me is by killing me.”
He sank back into the chair as his son walked out of the study, walked out of the Hall . . . walked out of his life.
Saetan closed his eyes and concentrated on breathing. Just breathing.
The split between him and Peyton had shattered the family for months. It was Mephis who finally realized who had been whispering the poisoned, honeyed words that had made Shira run away from the man she’d loved.
He’d been so devastated by Peyton’s accusations, he hadn’t thought of Hekatah. Mephis and Peyton had been children when he’d divorced her after she’d tried to shatter his friendship with Andulvar Yaslana by seducing his closest friend and flaunting the pregnancy that had come from that seduction. Instead, Andulvar had kept the child, and Saetan had severed his marriage to a woman who had loved nothing but the power she thought she could control through him.
When the boys were young, he’d refused to let her see them anywhere except the Hall, where they would be under his watchful eye and protection. But once they’d made the Offering to the Darkness and were old enough—and strong enough—to protect themselves, he hadn’t interfered whenever they wanted to spend time with their mother.
So he hadn’t thought of her—and he should have. He should have. Hekatah wouldn’t have tolerated her bloodline being fouled by a musician from Dharo, and once Mephis got him to think past the heartache, he’d realized running had saved Shira’s life. Because Hekatah wouldn’t have hesitated to destroy anything or anyone who didn’t suit her own schemes and ambitions.
And even after Mephis convinced his brother that it had been Hekatah and not Saetan who had slashed love into pieces, even after Peyton began returning again to visit, there was a distance between them neither of them could quite bridge . . . because he was the High Lord of Hell. And because Peyton never loved that deeply again. He’d watched from a distance as Shira made a life for herself, watched her love again enough to accept another man as her husband and the father of her children. Watched those children grow and have children. And when the war came between the Realms of Kaeleer and Terreille, Peyton hadn’t stayed in Dhemlan Terreille to help Mephis defend that Territory. He’d gone to Dharo in Kaeleer to defend the family of the woman who had died centuries before—and had taken his heart with her.
Now there was another son who was falling in love—and another mother whose intentions were suspect.
He didn’t go around to the gate in the wall at the front of the house. He simply used Craft to pass through the stones and walked straight to the kitchen door. He didn’t drop the shields until a thought blasted the kitchen door open and he stepped across the threshold.
Luthvian dropped the dish she was holding when she saw him. He measured the fear dancing in her eyes and felt a grim pleasure in seeing it. At least he wouldn’t have to put up with her pretending she didn’t know why he was there. But he would give her a chance to defend her own actions. Considering what he was about to tell her, it was the least he could do.
“Why?” he asked too softly.
Luthvian licked her lips. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes, you do, but I’ll be specific since you want to pretend ignorance. Why are you trying to hurt Lucivar?”
She looked stunned, then offended. “I’m not trying to hurt Lucivar!”
“Aren’t you?”
Fear gave way to temper. “Of course not! He’s my son.”
“He’s my son, and I won’t tolerate you interfering in his life.”
“Interfering?” She stepped over the broken dish, coming closer to him. “I may be protecting him from acting rashly, but that’s hardly interfering.”
“Protecting him?” His temper slipped the leash enough that his voice became thunder. “You think undermining the bond he’s trying to build with a woman is protecting him?”
“She’s nothing but a hearth witch!” Luthvian yelled. “A nobody! Her family isn’t even a twig on an aristo family tree!”
“Who gives a damn if she’s aristo or not? Lucivar doesn’t. I certainly don’t. I came from a street whore who wasn’t even skilled enough to work in a Red Moon house, so I never had an obsession for bloodlines.”
“You may have come from a Hayllian slum,” Luthvian sneered, “but I can trace my line back to Andulvar Yaslana, and that means something!”
“More to the point, you can trace your bloodline back to Andulvar’s son, Ravenar. Which means you can trace your bloodline back to Hekatah—and it’s that bloodline that seems to be rising dominant in you.”
She staggered back as if he’d struck her. It was possible she’d never known that Ravenar hadn’t been pure Eyrien, but she had to have realized her bloodline wasn’t pure Eyrien. That’s why there were a few Eyrien women each generation who were born without wings. They were throwbacks to Hayllian or Dhemlan women who’d mated with Eyrien males. In Luthvian’s case, that woman had been Hekatah.
“You don’t know that,” she whispered.
“Oh, yes, I do,” he replied softly. As he looked at her, he knew it was time to finish it. She’d been a troubled young woman when he’d seen her through her Virgin Night. She was still a troubled woman—and there was nothing he could do to help her beyond providing her with this house to live in. But he could, and would, protect Lucivar.
“I lost Lucivar once because of you,” he said. “I won’t lose him again. So listen carefully, Luthvian, because I will only say this once. Stay away from Marian. Don’t interfere in Lucivar’s life. If they want each other, that is their choice, not yours. If you do anything to try to take her away from him, I will show you the darkest corner of Hell—and I will leave you there.”
“You’d—You’d kill me?”
His voice became viciously gentle. “No, my dear. You’ll still be among the living when I leave you there.”
She sank to the floor, shaking.
Satisfied that she understood he would leave her as prey for everything in the Dark Realm that relished fresh meat and hot blood, he walked out of the kitchen. He waited until he had passed through the low stone wall before he caught the Red Wind and rode it to the Keep. Tonight he needed that dark sanctuary while he wrestled with bitter memories that still had the power to hurt.
THIRTEEN
“No.” Unable to sit a moment longer, Lucivar sprang out of the chair. He didn’t like this. Didn’t like any of this. Especially the fact that Saetan had chosen the sitting area of his study as the place for this discussion. He wasn’t sure if he was talking to his father or the Steward of the Dark Court. Didn’t matter. He knew when he was being cornered. “Find someone else.”
“There is no one else,” Saetan said quietly.
Restless, he prowled from one piece of furniture to the next, never looking directly at Saetan but always keeping him in sight. “Why not ask Chaosti? He wears the Gray, and he’s First Circle.”
“He doesn’t, as yet, have enough experience in bed to handle something like this. And his physical relationship with Gabrielle is still too new for him to respond . . . appropriately. Besides, his feelings toward Karla are too familial.”
“And mine aren’t?”
“You have the maturity to handle this.” Saetan sighed. “I know sex is . . . difficult . . . for you—”
“You know nothing about it!” Lucivar shouted. “You have no idea what it was like, being used that way.”
Seeing Saetan flinch, he regretted the words, but not enough to stop himself from using whatever weapon he could to avoid this particular duty.
“Lucivar,” Saetan said, his voice painfully calm, “Karla is a Gray-Jeweled Queen. Her Territory is divided between the Blood who supported her uncle and the vile changes he was making in their society and the Blood who have waited desperately for Karla to come of age and stand as Glacia’s Queen. Until she has her Virgin Night, she is vulnerable and could be broken, could be stripped of the Gray. Without her strength, civil war could erupt in Glacia and devastate her people.”
He knew all of that, but it didn’t make it easier. “She doesn’t like men,” he muttered. “Not that way.”
“Which will make this even harder for her, since she doesn’t have interest in the male body to quicken her own body’s response.” Saetan rubbed his forehead. “If I was physically able to do this, I wouldn’t have asked you. I would have taken care of it—because it’s Karla.”
Lucivar stared at his father. When the coven first came to visit Jaenelle here at the Hall, they adopted Saetan as an honorary uncle. But over the five years since then, he’d become an uncle to all of them in heart, the man who had trained them in Craft the way no one else in Kaeleer could have, the man who had helped them with problems, disciplined them for mistakes, taught them about honor.
