“What happens after that?”
“He is demon-dead,” Saetan said gently. “After his Self returns to the Darkness, the meat will be left for the flora and fauna of Hell.”
SEVEN
A week after No Face had been destroyed, Saetan walked into the sitting room where Sylvia was reading, and sat down in a ladderback chair next to her wheeled chair.
“It’s time for us to talk,” he said.
She marked the page in her book and set it aside. She’d known this was coming, but she hadn’t expected it to come this soon. Even with the heartache and worry about her sons, there had been comfort in his presence. She felt the drag of daylight as soon as the sun rose, and went to bed to avoid the drain in her power. She would wake for a moment when he joined her later in the morning, and then sleep again, cradled in his arms, until they both rose at sunset.
“It’s hard for the living to let go of the dead, and it’s hard for the dead to let go of the living. That’s why my rules about interaction between the living and the demon-dead are so strict, and that’s why I’m so harsh when those rules are broken.”
“Did you live by your own rules, Saetan?” She knew the man, so she already guessed the answer.
“Everything has a price,” he said softly. “When I became a Guardian, I made a choice. It wasn’t prudent to let some things, like Dhemlan Kaeleer, leave my control, but the personal things ...” He sighed. “I never met Mephis’s wife. I never knew his children. I never held them or played with them or read them stories. I straddled the line between living and dead, so I didn’t belong with them. I had contact with Mephis only here at the Keep. He was a grown man, and it was necessary because we were all waiting for the promised dream to become flesh. But I kept my distance from his family, asking no less of myself than I required of the other citizens of Hell.”
“But you know Daemonar,” she said.
He let out a pained laugh. “Yes. Well, Lucivar is not Mephis. When I gave Mephis an order, he obeyed it. When I give Lucivar an order, half the time he ignores it and pisses on my foot. When Daemonar was born, Lucivar told me he didn’t give a damn about my rules. The boy was going to know his grandfather.” He paused, then added, “And things changed after Jaenelle came into our lives. The boundaries didn’t exist with the people she touched. That’s why I know that while the rules I’ve set for the citizens of Hell must be strictly enforced most of the time, there can be exceptions.”
She felt a zing that had nothing to do with her body and everything to do with her heart. “I can see my boys one more time?”
“If that’s what you want,” he replied. He leaned forward and took her hands, rubbing his thumbs over her knuckles. “Prince Sadi denied your father custody of your sons.”
“Why?”
“For one thing, your father doesn’t feel it’s appropriate for the boys to see you anymore. You’re dead. They need to accept that and rebuild their lives without you. Normally I would agree with him, but not this time. You are strong enough to let them go—and they will go, Sylvia. The day will come when they need you to be nothing more than a good memory. But for now, Daemon and I are willing to sanction, and chaperon, a visit twice a month here at the Keep in Kaeleer. You, Beron, and Mikal can spend the evening together. You’ll have the reassurance that they’re being taken care of.”
By whom? she wondered. “Everything has a price.”
“And this is no exception.”
“What is your price, High Lord?”
“I want to show you something.”
Using Craft, he floated her above the chair. She straightened her legs so that her long skirt just brushed the floor. Linking her arm through his, she floated beside him as he made his way through the Keep’s corridors until they reached the Dark Altar. After he opened the Gate, he led her to a landing web, wrapped a shield around her, and caught the Black Winds.
When they dropped from the Winds to another landing web, she looked around. “This is SaDiablo Hall, but it’s . . .”
“In the Dark Realm. At one time, I ruled in all three Realms, so I built the Hall in all three Realms.”
“Mother Night.” She couldn’t imagine what it had cost to build one of the Halls, let alone three.
She’d expected the place to be empty. It was a hive of activity. She saw caution in every eye when the demon-dead spotted the High Lord, but there were also smiles and pleasantries. He held what was left of their lives in his hands, and they didn’t forget that.
Just as he now held hers.
“Most of the demon-dead remain near the Gate closest to where they lived,” Saetan said quietly. “Some go to specific territories that have been claimed by a particular group, like the Harpies or the cildru dyathe. And some have unfinished business—the novel they never found time to write or the dream of learning to paint that they gave up out of duty to family. Some want to learn to play a musical instrument. Unfinished business. Not with the living; with themselves. I provide a place for them to live, a modest amount of yarbarah for sustenance, and the materials they need. In turn, they take care of this place, and the stronger look after the weaker when it’s needed.”
“It’s a community of artists,” she said, wishing he would slow down so she could get a better look at the paintings. Some were hung out of kindness. Others were stunning and beautiful.
“This is what I wanted you to see.” He opened a door and guided her inside.
The room was divided in half. There were scribbles and colored handprints and primitive drawings covering the set of folding panels that separated the room.
*It’s less frustrating than trying to clean the walls all the time,* Saetan said.
Since he was clearly moving to keep them out of sight of whoever was on the other side of the panels, she stifled a laugh.
“It’s a pretty nice place,” a young male voice said. “There are toys and games and lots of books to read for fun. There are also chores and studies, but those are interesting too. Some of the time.”
Sylvia smiled. That sounded so much like Mikal.
Saetan slipped his arm out of hers. After making sure she was steady, he stepped back. *Go ahead. Take a look.*
Taking hold of the edge of the panel, she eased herself into a position to see the room.
Thirty children, if not more. None of them had reached adolescence, whatever their race. Among them was a Dhemlan boy sitting on the floor, hugging a stuffed toy.