She rinsed out the pot and left it in the sink to wash later with the mug and bowl. As she turned to get a plate for the nutcake, she saw the stranger in her kitchen, standing close enough to touch.
She shrank back, a response to the foulness of his psychic scent rather than fear of his physical presence.
He grabbed her wrist, squeezing until she flinched in pain. “Where is the boy?” he snarled.
The boy? Wasn’t he supposed to ask her about the Mikal boy? “The boy is upstairs.”
“Show me.” He dragged her out of the kitchen and down the hallway. Then he released her wrist and gave her a hard shove toward the stairs. “Show me.”
She had promised Witch that she would play out this game so that all the boys would be safe. But something wasn’t right because this foulness was supposed to ask about the Mikal boy, not her boy.
Her boy would understand this confusion. He was playing Witch’s game too.
“Show me where he is,” the foulness whispered as it followed close behind her.
Tersa climbed the stairs and led him to the bedroom where her boy waited.
It took all the control Daemon had to stand still when that bastard shoved Tersa into the bedroom. The shadow Sceltie began barking, but Jaenelle had deliberately left out any commands to attack.
“You brat!” The Warlord’s voice sounded hoarse, as if his vocal cords had been damaged at some point and didn’t heal correctly.
Daemon stepped back, drawing the Warlord farther into the room and away from Tersa.
“You brat! When I’m through with you, even your own brother won’t recognize you!”
Tersa jerked as if struck, but Daemon didn’t have time to wonder why because the Warlord lunged, his hand reaching for where a boy’s arm would be.
Instead of scrambling back, Daemon stepped forward and clamped a hand around the Warlord’s wrist. As Jaenelle intended, contact with another male broke the illusion spell around Daemon. The release of her power in the spell also broke the illusion around the Warlord.
Scars on the throat. Hideous scars on the face. One cloudy eye.
A monster had begotten a monster. As Daemon looked into the man’s clear eye, he felt a stir of pity—enough pity that he decided it would be a swift execution rather than the slow one a monster deserved.
“You came to hurt the boy,” Tersa said, taking a step toward them.
Daemon glanced up and saw rage and a terrible kind of clarity in his mother’s eyes. “It’s done now.”
“You want to hurt my boy.”
“Tersa . . .” He was Black-shielded. There was nothing the Warlord could do to him and nothing the man could do to break free of him. But Tersa might still get hurt, especially now that she was standing directly behind the bastard.
“Jaenelle says it is like deboning chicken,” Tersa said in a singsong voice. “Just hook two fingers around the spine and pull.”
No time to say anything or do anything. One moment the Warlord was standing in front of him, caught in a bone-breaking grip. The next . . .
He felt the sharp tingle of Craft as the bones of hand and fingers passed under his grip. He tightened his hand to hold on to the man’s wrist, but there was nothing but soft flesh, and the Warlord’s hand swelled like a sausage casing when it gets squeezed.
Passing the bones through flesh and skin, Tersa whipped the skeleton free. Then witchfire, fueled by her fury, took the bones, charring them black.
For that moment, the blackened skeleton hung intact from her upraised arm. For that moment, the Warlord stood there, his good eye filled with horror and disbelief. Then the bones rained down on the floor like black hailstones, and the muscles and organs collapsed in on themselves, contained by a shapeless sack of skin.
Daemon stood there, holding one wrist, too stunned to let go.
The eyes lay on top of the fleshy sack, still staring at him.
He’s demon-dead, so he’s still in there, Daemon thought as his gorge rose. His Self is still in there and his mind is still aware.
Tersa dropped the spine on top of the rest of the bones and frowned. “Jaenelle doesn’t cook. Why would she know about deboning a chicken?”
Daemon looked at his mother. Then he released his hold on the Warlord’s wrist and ran for the bathroom.
“I’m sorry,” Daemon stammered. “I didn’t know what to do with it except bring it to you.”
Saetan stared at the skin sack filled with organs and muscles—and the brain. Daemon had thought to put a bubble shield around the sack before bringing it to the Keep. That was fortunate because the contents were starting to drain from the orifices.
Considering what the Warlord had done to his victims, it shouldn’t matter if the bastard heard them or not, but the man’s mind had broken under the horror of the punishment, so Saetan added an aural shield over Daemon’s bubble shield, and then hid it all in a mist so that neither of them had to look at it.
“I’ve walked the Realms for over fifty thousand years, and I’ve never seen this before,” he said as he walked over to the end of the courtyard where Daemon stood.
“He told Tersa to show him the boy, not the Mikal boy.” Daemon swallowed hard. “To her mind, he threatened me, not the illusion.”
“And she reacted.”
Daemon nodded.
“And Jaenelle told her how to do this?”
Another nod.
His boy was looking glassy-eyed and green, which matched how he was feeling. The speed with which it happened and the grotesque result would have unsettled both of them under any circumstances, but the feral natures and the tempers of the women involved scared the shit out of him. No matter what she’d told Tersa, Jaenelle had not learned to do this by deboning a chicken.
If the Darkness was merciful, he would never learn why or how his daughter had acquired this particular piece of Craft—and he hoped with all his heart that Daemon never learned why or how either.
“What do we do now?”
Linking his arm through Daemon’s, he led his son back into the Keep. “You’re going to go home, take a sedative, and get some sleep.”
“Maybe I should—”
“You’re the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan, not the High Lord of Hell.” Saetan put enough bite in his voice to clear the glassy look from Daemon’s eyes. “You did your part in this, Prince. Now it’s time for me to do mine.”
“And your part is?”
“To sift through what is left of his mind for the names of his victims before releasing him to the final death. I’ll send you the list. I’m sure you’ll know how to quietly pass on the information to the people who need it.”