“More?” Daemon asked.

“No. Thanks.” The burn was kind of pleasant in a painful sort of way.

“We have a good idea of what Blyte did to Dillon, but what about what he did to the girls who came after her?” Lucivar said.

“He didn’t have sex with any girl who was still a virgin and refused to take any girl through her Virgin Night—which the girls thought was very romantic and proved his good intentions,” Surreal replied. “However, their aristo fathers, not wanting their families’ social standing soiled by association, preferred to pay Dillon to sneak out of town. Paying him to leave didn’t stop them from smearing his reputation further by implying—or saying outright—that he dallied with girls of good families and then left instead of going through with the handfast because he had no honor. In truth, he was driven out of some towns before he had a chance to unpack his trunk, so the actual number of girls he entangled was far fewer than you would have thought, based on what was said.”

“The spell he used on Jillian?” Daemon asked.

“I’m not sure how long he’d been using that spell, because no one but you realized he’d used one.” Surreal hooked her hair behind her delicately pointed ears. “I had the impression he used it more to convince the girls to lend him money than for anything more intimate. When he met Jillian . . .” She sighed and couldn’t look at either man. “I think he hoped having someone love him would give him a second chance at an honorable life.”

She felt a flash of pain rising up in the abyss before it was brutally smothered. That flash was enough confirmation that Daemon’s love for, and marriage to, Jaenelle Angelline had given him the same kind of second chance—and that, along with Jaenelle being the love of his life and the Queen he’d dreamed of serving, was the reason she would always be the presence he needed with him more than he needed breath or life.

She pushed out of her chair. “So that’s it. Jaenelle Saetien and I will be heading out in the morning. I think Manny and Tersa are ready to go home too.”

“And the Scelties,” Lucivar growled.

Two of them, anyway. She was not going to be the one who said anything about the Sceltie who was currently staying in Nurian’s eyrie.

“I’ll be home in a couple of days,” Daemon said quietly.

“We’ll be there.”

She walked out of Lucivar’s study and wondered if Daemon really would give her a second chance.

* * *

* * *

Daemon stared at the study door a moment longer before refilling his snifter and topping up Lucivar’s. He resumed his seat.

Lucivar called in a paper, then used Craft to float it across the desk. “The names of the bastards who maimed that Warlord to curry favor with the bitch.”

“If you have no objection, I’ll let Chaosti and his men take care of this. They would appreciate the fresh blood, and they’ll take the meat back to Hell for the hounds.”

“That’s fine with me.” Lucivar rested his head on the back of his leather chair and stared at the ceiling. “Hell’s fire, Bastard. I’m tired.”

He understood that kind of tired. “It’s not done yet.”

“I know. The spell to manipulate feelings was bad enough. Using it to compel a person to kill someone out of meanness or jealousy . . .” Lucivar sat up, stretched one side of his neck, then the other. “Whatever you want to do with Dillon, I’ll back you.”

“All right. I’ve made some inquiries already. Based on what we’ve discovered, I think he needs a fresh start someplace where he won’t run into bad memories.”

Lucivar nodded. “Coming to Kaeleer gave us that kind of fresh start.”

“It did. And so much more.”

Another nod. “And Jillian?”

“She needs a change of scenery too,” Daemon said gently.

“She’s so young.”

“She’s not that young, Prick. She’s outgrown what she can find here in Ebon Rih. At least for right now.”

He watched Lucivar struggle with the idea of letting a daughter fly beyond his protection. That was an internal battle every father faced.

“Where?” Lucivar finally said.

When Daemon told him, Lucivar groaned, “Mother Night”—and then laughed.

* * *

* * *

“My boy.”

Taking a step away from the eyrie’s front door, Daemon looked toward the shadows in one corner of the room.

He and Lucivar hadn’t expected Tersa to accompany Manny when the older woman returned to help Marian look after the children and the eyrie, but neither of them had suggested that the broken Black Widow go home. Manny provided practical help, but the White-Jeweled witch had no fighting skills in the event that Lucivar’s family was attacked during this investigation. Tersa, on the other hand, could be fiercely—and weirdly—lethal.

“Darling, it’s late. Why are you still awake?”

He watched her as she approached him—his mother, with her broken mind and extraordinary knowledge.

Tersa rested one hand against the side of his face. “Not well yet, but healing.”

“Yes. I’m healing.”

Her hand drifted from his face, down his shoulder, stopping at the wounds on his right arm that he’d hidden from everyone. “They will scar.”

“Yes. Remembrance and reminder. I will carry them with me, just as I’ve carried this one.” He pushed up his left cuff to show her the scar she’d given him all those years ago.

Tersa smiled. “She promised that if you asked for help, she would answer.”

It didn’t surprise him that Tersa had been the one to ask Witch for a promise—and receive one. What surprised him was that he’d never thought to ask his mother what she knew about the song in the Darkness. Maybe she’d known all along that some part of Witch was still at the Keep. Maybe that was a gem of knowledge mislaid in the Twisted Kingdom and recently found again because it was truly needed. He doubted she could tell him, and it no longer mattered.

He took her in his arms, rested his face against her head as she rested against his chest.

“I’m not whole, Mother,” he said quietly. “I might never be whole. But I will do my best to heal and stay with all of you for as long as I can.”

“I know.” She eased away from him. “Don’t turn away from help offered with love.”

“I won’t.”