Telling himself to be satisfied with that—for now—Daemon walked over to the Coach and went in. The driver was warming some milk and talking softly to Haeze, who huddled in one corner of a short bench. The man tipped his head toward the driver’s compartment and made a face Daemon took to mean, There’s trouble in there.
More than trouble, he decided when he opened the compartment door and Surreal swiveled her chair to face him.
“Jaenelle wants to leave as soon as you’re ready,” she said. “She has Beron in the bedroom at the back of the Coach.”
He stayed in the door, assessing her temper. “Tell me.” Bad place for a fight, he thought, especially with Jaenelle doing a healing.
“There is some damage to Beron’s vision and hearing.” Surreal’s voice was low and savage. “That Healer wasn’t just destroying his ability to speak. She was destroying his ability to see and hear.”
Because she was so close to snapping, he kept his voice quiet and calm—and kept his own temper viciously leashed. “Could the loss of vision and hearing be conditions that had developed prior to—”
She shot out of the chair and stood in front of him. “There was nothing wrong with him before that bitch put her filthy hands on him. And I’m telling you now, Sadi, one way or another, she is not going to be among the living much longer.”
“We have other things to deal with first.”
He waited to see if she had any control left and was relieved when she nodded and blew out a breath.
“Yeah,” she said. “Yeah, we do.” She returned to her seat.
Daemon took off his winter coat and vanished it before closing the compartment door and taking the other seat.
They didn’t speak again until he lifted the Coach and used Craft to glide it through the air. Once they reached one of the village’s landing webs, he caught the Black Winds and headed for Halaway.
“Did you find any sign of Sylvia?” Surreal asked.
“Yes.”
She stared at him, then looked away. “Shit.”
“We take care of Beron, find out what Haeze knows about what happened and why, and figure out where Tildee took Mikal,” Daemon said.
“And Sylvia?”
He sighed. “I think the High Lord is more likely to find her before we do.”
TWO
Saetan lit the black candles on the Keep’s Dark Altar and opened the Gate between Hell and Kaeleer.
Sometimes it was damn hard not to interfere with the living, especially when children were involved.
Especially when some of them lately were arriving so mentally and emotionally damaged they couldn’t be allowed to stay on the cildru dyathe’s island, let alone be with the children now residing at the Hall in the Dark Realm. He’d given mercy to the ones who were too damaged, draining their remaining power to finish the kill, giving them what peace he could in the process.
It wasn’t his place to interfere or step in. He had held that line for thousands of years—at least most of the time. But that last mutilated child had come from Dhemlan, and he didn’t consider it interfering to inform the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan about that boy—not when the Prince was his own son.
*Saetan?*
A whisper of thought on a psychic thread, barely strong enough to reach him. But no matter how weak, he knew that voice, had loved that woman. *Sylvia? Where are you?*
*Landing web. Keep. Not sure which one.*
He left the Dark Altar and moved swiftly, straining the muscles in his bad leg as he moved through the corridors in the Keep.
*Draca,* Saetan called. *Sylvia is here. Something is wrong. We need to find her quickly.*
*I will inform Geoffrey,* Draca said. *We will look.*
It wouldn’t be just the Keep’s Seneschal and historian/librarian who would look. What guarded the Keep would be aware of Sylvia and would inform Draca. Meanwhile, he headed for the landing web most often used by people who didn’t live in Ebon Rih.
*Saetan?* Sylvia called again, her voice fading.
He found her sprawled on the landing web, trying to push herself to an upright position and too weak to do it.
He rushed over to her and dropped to his knees, lifting her enough to hold her against him. “Sylvia, what . . . ?”
Demon-dead. He knew the scent, knew the feel. How could he not know after ruling Hell for so many years? She was demon-dead and fading. Both of her Jewels, the Purple Dusk and her Birthright Summer-sky, hung around her neck and she wore both her rings. Only a drop or two of power left in each of them.
“Saetan.” Her voice was barely audible, but she still found enough strength to grab a fistful of his jacket. “I know how you feel about interfering with the living, but I’m begging you. Help me save my boys.”
He didn’t ask questions. He simply called in a small vial, flipped off the top, and closed his hand around it to give the contents a moment’s warmth. Then he pressed the vial against her lips and said, “Drink.”
She swallowed once, then tried to get away from him. He held her tight, and held the vial away from her to prevent her from knocking it out of his hand.
“Hell’s fire,” she gasped. “What is that?”
“A vial of Jaenelle’s undiluted blood,” he replied dryly. “If you think it’s bad now, you should have tried it when she wore Ebony. A couple drops of that used to feel like you swallowed lightning.”
“You’re a mean bastard.”
“And you want my help, so stop being a whiny girl. Just hold your nose and take your medicine.”
“I am not whining, you—”
He poured the rest of the blood down her throat. Since he and Geoffrey usually split one of those vials, he knew exactly what he’d done to the woman he loved—which was why he let her swear at him until she wound down enough to sound sane again.
He vanished the vial. “Let’s get you cleaned up. Then we can . . .”
That was when he realized what was wrong with her legs.
Using Craft to take part of her weight, he picked her up and headed for a guest room located near his own suite of rooms.
*Lucivar!* he called on a spear thread.