The two boxes of cakes the Warlords had purchased floated over to the counter. The lids opened. The cakes rose out of the boxes and settled gently on the counter. Raising his right hand, Sadi flicked his index finger with his thumb, then made a motion as if the black-tinted fingernail was a small knife. He didn’t touch any of the cakes, but the eight small cakes were cut cleanly in half. He moved the first two fingers of that hand apart, and the halves of each cake separated.

Jillian and the two Warlords moved closer to the counter.

The woman stared at the gold coin sticking out of the middle of one of the cakes. “I don’t understand.”

“I had heard your shop was reselling cakes as new that had already been on the table. My young friend and I came in to find out if the rumor was true. I put the gold coin in one of the cakes that we didn’t eat. We weren’t given the option of taking the cakes with us. From what you say, the cakes should have been put with the remainders. But these Warlords just purchased as new a piece of cake that had a gold coin inside—a coin I put in as a test.” Sadi pointed to a cake that had been in the other box. The thumbprint the girl had put on the cake was clearly visible. “Cakes that were already purchased by customers eating in the shop are being resold at full price. Someone is pocketing the profit of selling the same food twice.”

The woman squared her shoulders. “Clearly, I haven’t been paying as much attention to the front of the shop as I should have been. That error will be rectified.”

Sadi tipped his head in the slightest of bows, walked out of the shop . . . and disappeared.

“Come along, Lady.” One of the Warlords touched Jillian’s elbow, gently urging her to get out, get away, even though the danger was past.

As she reached the door, she looked back and met the eyes of the girl. Shaken by the hatred she saw in those eyes, she rushed through the doorway.

“My thanks, Warlords,” Rothvar said to the two men. “I’ll see Lady Jillian home.”

They glanced at her but didn’t challenge the Eyrien Warlord. Either they recognized Rothvar and knew he was Yaslana’s second-in-command, or they realized they had no chance of surviving a fight with him.

“You all right?” Rothvar asked, leading her away from the shop. “You look pale.”

“I’m all right,” she said weakly.

٭No cake?٭ Khary asked. ٭Why is there no cake?٭

“I changed my mind.” She wanted to run home, wanted to hide. But she was Eyrien, and she had a connection to the Yaslana household—and no one connected to that name hid from trouble. She looked at Rothvar, who had asked no questions, made no demands for her to explain the part she had played in a Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince rising to the killing edge. “I still need to make a stop at the library.”

Rothvar studied her. “Do you need an escort?”

٭I am standing escort,٭ Khary said with a growl.

“A second escort,” Rothvar amended.

“No, thank you. We’ll be fine. I’ll be going home right after the library.” When Rothvar started to walk away, she said, “Why was Prince Sadi so angry about the cakes? It wasn’t right for the shop to sell the cakes twice at full price, but he seemed . . .” He would have killed the women in the shop. She was sure of it. Should she tell Rothvar that Khary thought the Prince was unwell?

Rothvar returned, standing close to her. She braced for a slap, then realized he stood that close to speak quietly.

“Something else was already riding his temper, and something besides the cakes pushed him to the edge. Yaslana asked us to keep an eye on him. I would have stepped in when he approached you, but it seemed to calm him.”

“He looked”—like a man in agony—“upset when he sat down to talk to me.”

“The thing to remember is that, even upset, Sadi didn’t lose control. A man who stands so deep in the abyss can’t afford to lose control of his power or his temper—not until he steps onto a killing field.” Rothvar looked puzzled. “If you suspected there was a problem at the shop, why did you tell Sadi instead of telling Yaslana?”

She couldn’t meet his eyes. “I didn’t want to cause trouble.”

TWENTY-SEVEN

Pain coiled around his chest, an ever-tightening chain that squeezed his heart and smothered every effort to take a full breath. But he didn’t ask for help. If he asked, help would be given. Maybe this pain, and where it would take him, would make things easier. After all, sexual heat was a burden placed on the living, not on the demon-dead.

Daemon glided through the corridors of the Keep, shrouded by pain. He saw no one, which wasn’t unusual. He was well-known to Draca and Geoffrey, the Keep’s Seneschal and historian/librarian respectively, and his presence didn’t attract the attention of whatever guarded Ebon Askavi.

Eventually he approached the airy metal gate that blocked the corridor leading to the rooms reserved for the Queen and her triangle—Steward, Master of the Guard, and Consort. He pushed one side of the gate and was surprised to find it unlocked and swinging open at his lightest touch. That was unusual. The gate to those rooms had always been locked. But, perhaps, since there was no longer a Queen in residence, there was no need for that symbolic protection.

How many years since he’d walked this particular corridor, opened the door of the Consort’s suite, stood in the room that had been his personal territory in this sprawling place? Thirty-five years? More? He’d expected dustcovers over the furniture and the bed stripped of linens and covering. But it looked no different from what he remembered. Looked as if he’d been gone no more than a week or two. Looked as if the years between today and the last time he’d made love to Jaenelle Angelline in the Queen’s suite hadn’t existed at all.

He wasn’t sure how much longer he could breathe, how much longer his heart would beat. Wasn’t that why he was here? Assisting Jillian had dulled the pain just enough for him to be able to catch the Winds and reach the Keep. Here, in this place where he’d been accepted, his heart could beat for the last time and he could step away from the pain he caused the living—and the pain the living caused him.

That’s a fair dose of self-pity, old son. Lucivar would kick your ass down the mountain and up again if he heard any of that.

Which didn’t make the truth any less true. Surreal might breathe a sigh of relief once the High Lord of Hell—and the Sadist—resided in Hell.

Crack.

“Prince?”

Turning, he saw Draca standing in the doorway.

“I’d like your permission to move back into this suite for a while,” he said quietly. He didn’t mention that he doubted he would need the rooms for long.