Mother Night.
She started to bend down to pick up the ribbons, but Sage scooped them up and handed them to her. Thanking the girl, she perched on the arm of the overstuffed sofa, unwilling to sit on the cushions in case the mouse’s relatives were still in residence.
The paper with the warning about the nature of the spooky house was wrapped around the paperweight. The handkerchief was wrapped over the paper. Everything was tied securely with the ribbons.
“Now what?” Rainier asked.
“See if that window is still a window.”
She watched him pull aside the lace curtains—and then jump back, swearing viciously, when black, beetlelike things fell from the curtains as they shredded.
Her heart jumped in her throat as the damn things scurried into cracks in the baseboard. She couldn’t tell if the beetles were real or illusion—and since seeing them made her skin crawl, she really didn’t want to know.
“Still a window,” Rainier said, peering through the glass. “At least, I seem to be looking out over the front lawn.”
She moved until she was just a little more than an arm’s length from the window.
Rainier studied the glass panes. “We could open the window and climb out.”
“Which might trigger a spell that will put more than glass in our way.”
“It might.”
The look in his eyes. Assessing. Considering. Weighing his desire as an escort to get her out of danger regardless of the cost against his responsibility for getting the children out safely, since they were here because of his invitation.
Just as he was here because ofher invitation.
"We walked in together, Prince Rainier. We will leave together."
Another assessment. Then he nodded.
“Stand to the side as much as you can, but hold what’s left of that curtain out of the way,” she said.
“Surreal, maybe I should…” He looked at the paperweight and didn’t say anything more.
“You wear Opal; I wear Gray.” And there was the simple fact that the Dea al Mon side of her heritage made her a lot stronger than she looked.
“You’ve already taken a hit,” Rainier said.
“Yeah.” And that was pissing her off because breathing still hurt like a wicked bitch.
Not that far from the house to the wrought-iron fence. Fifteen paces at the most. She could throw a stone that far.
She waited while Rainier fetched the poker from the brass stand on the hearth. Hooking some of the material, he pulled back the remains of the shredded curtain.
She stared at the window. Dark outside now. She couldn’t see the fence or the street. Just her reflection in the glass. If she broke the glass…
A sensation at the back of her neck, like delicate legs brushing, crawling.
Letting instinct decide, she channeled her Gray power into her hand and then wrapped it around the bundle before she cocked her arm back and threw, using Craft to pass the bundle through the glass.
Somewhere in the house, the gong sounded.
“Did it get out?” Surreal asked, stepping closer to the glass. “Can you see if the bundle got past the fence?”
Her reflection in the night-darkened glass. And then it wasn’t her reflection. Another woman’s face stared back at her and…
The woman’s arm shot out of the glass. Her nails, shaped like dagger points, slashed at Surreal’s face.
Surreal turned her face away and flung up an arm as an instinctive defense. And felt those nails tear through her jacket sleeve before Rainier yanked her out of reach.
“Should have gone through the window,” the woman said, her voice a malevolent singsong. “Should-a, could-a, too late now. Find an exit and don’t use it, it’s gone forever. Gone gone gone. Like you’ll be. You’ll join me soon enough. And your face won’t look so pretty when you do.”
“Who are you?” Surreal asked.
“He paid me. And then he killed me. And then he chained me to this house. But he’s letting me play with all the tricks and traps. Don’t die too soon, Lady Bitch. Not until you’ve seen mybest surprises.”
“Who is he?”
“You’ll find out.” The woman’s face began to fade. “When you’re chained to the house too.”
Surreal stared at the window. Nothing in the glass now but her own reflection.
“We could have gotten out,” she said. “Could have opened the window and climbed out.”
“While trying to avoid the slashing nails?” Rainier countered.
“I doubt she would have watched us leave.”
“Assuming she wasn’t lying about that being an exit.” Surreal fingered the tear in her jacket. “What was she? Demon-dead? Illusion?”
“Both?” Rainier released a breath in a grim sigh. “Did she cut you?”
She shook her head. “Came close, though. Andthat wasn’t meant as a bit of fun.”
“Agreed.” He hesitated. “Does this seem familiar?”
“How so?” she asked warily.
“Body in a closet. Clues.”
They looked at each other.
“Ah, shit,” Surreal said. “Someone set us up in a mystery? We’re the dumb characters who walk into the Bad Place?”
“Looks like it.” Then Rainier added on a psychic thread, "And we helped by bringing victims with us. Fodder for the game."
"Then it’s time to stop thinking in terms of what we expected and really look at what we walked into."
Dropping down from the Black Wind, Daemon guided the Coach as it coasted the rest of the way to the landen village. It wasn’t hard to figure out where the spooky house was located. It was the only source of power pulsing through the village.
He and Jaenelle hadn’t spoken since leaving their—her—bedroom. But as he settled the Coach gently on the opposite side of the street from the house, he’d had enough of her silence and her anger.
She surged out of her seat and headed for the Coach door—and then stared at it when it didn’t open.
Moving with lazy, predatory grace, he rose from the driver’s chair—and smiled at her. “Can’t get through a Black lock?” he asked, his voice laced with nasty pleasantness.
“Open the door.”
“Not until a few things get said.” He moved toward her but stopped out of arm’s reach. She was still a powerful Black Widow, and he had no desire to get pumped full of her venom by accident or otherwise. “I’m sorry I missed the viewing. I am, but—”
“You think that’s why I’m angry with you? Because you didn’t answer the invitation?”
His temper grew fangs. “If that isn’t the reason, then why don’t you tell me why you’re so pissed off at me?”
Her sapphire eyes blazed. “I’m pissed off, as you so elegantly put it, because you think I am so shallow and so selfish that I would issue that kind of finger-snap summons and expect you to drop everything and obey.”
“What?” Femalewas an alien language, but he usually could translate it well enough to understand what was being said. But this…
“You must think I’m completely unaware of what is required to rule a Territory or oversee the SaDiablo family. You must think I’m ignorant of how much work you do or the demands that are now made on your time since you became the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan. Or do you have another explanation for being so damn stupid?”
His temper strained against a fraying leash.
“When did that invitation arrive?” Jaenelle demanded.
“This afternoon. It was brought up to the room instead of being delivered to me.”
“And if ithad been delivered to you, you would have dropped everything and run to obey.”
“I love you,” Daemon shouted. “What in the name of Hell is wrong with wanting to please you?”
“What’s wrong with it is that you never considered it odd that I would send such an invitation,” Jaenelle shouted back. “Instead of using your brain, you would have obeyed and walked into that house! Now open the damn door!”
Because he couldn’t think of anything else to do, he released the Black lock and opened the door. He was wrong. He still didn’t know why, but somehow he was wrong.
She barely waited for the door to open before she was out of the Coach—and he was barely a step behind her. He grabbed her arm, knowing full well another kind of woman would rip his face for touching her during a quarrel.
“Jaenelle…” He loosened his hold, making it easy for her to pull away from him if she chose. Angry and confused, he wasn’t sure if he should fight or surrender. And he wasn’t sure what either choice might cost him. “You’re angry because I would have answered the invitation?”
“Yes.”
The ice in her voice chilled his heart. “Why? Please tell me why.”
She pointed at the house across the street from where they stood. “Because that’s not my spooky house.”
ELEVEN
Cloaked in a sight shield, he watched them from the peepholes in the portrait, secure in the knowledge that he would remain undetected. These hidden corridors and his little hidey-holes weren’t bound by the spells constricting the use of Craft in the rest of his “entertainment.” He’d made sure of that before he settled his account with the Black Widow who had added the final, deadly layer to his version of the spooky house. Of course, she hadn’t intended to become part of that final, deadly layer.
Now that he’d taken care of all his “partners,” there was no one to connect him to this place. Well, he’d taken care of almost all of them.That one hadn’t shown up for her payment. Just as well. He’d sweated through the whole business of dealing with the Hourglass Coven, butthat one had been creepier than the others. Still, even if she did talk about making illusion spells for a spooky house, who wouldlisten to her, let alone believe her?
“All right,” Surreal said, hooking her hair behind her ears. “Someone has cast us as the lead characters in a mystery about a house that’s trying to kill us. Does that about sum it up?”