Dreams Made Flesh

was an annoyance he'd think about later.
    "I'd wish you a good morning," a deep, amused voice said, "but I'm not sure that's appropriate."
    Turning, he watched the slender, brown-skinned man cross the rock-strewn ground with feline grace. The movement lifted the edges of the knee-length black cape, revealing the red lining and providing slashes of color to accent the black tunic jacket and trousers.
    His brother Daemon moved with the same feline grace.
    He tried not to think about Daemon too much, tried not to wonder too often if his brother had found a way out of the madness the Blood called the Twisted Kingdom. There was nothing he could do for Daemon, wherever he was.
    He pushed those thoughts aside and focused on the man settling on a stone that time and the elements had weathered into a natural seat. He looked like a handsome man at the end of his prime, his black hair silvered at the temples and faint lines around his golden eyes…an aristo Hayllian male who would be in his element at a dinner party and wouldn't know what to do on a killing field.
    Looks could be deceiving. This was Saetan Daemon SaDiablo, a Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince who was the Prince of the Darkness, High Lord of Hell, Warlord Prince of Dhemlan, Steward of the Dark Court at Ebon Askavi… and his father.
    It was the last title that made Lucivar wary. There weren't any clear rules when it came to sons dealing with fathers. Not that he paid much attention to rules, but it would have been nice to know when he was about to do something that would stomp on Saetan's toes and end with them yelling at each other. Which he did know, actually. Every time Jaenelle said, "Lucivar, I have a wonderful idea" and he went along with it, he could pretty much count on ending up in Saetan's study to receive a blistering lecture. Too bad he enjoyed squaring off with his father as much as he enjoyed getting into trouble with the golden-haired, sapphire-eyed witch who was Saetan's adopted daughter…and, therefore, his sister. The fact that Jaenelle was the Queen of Ebon Askavi and they both served in the First Circle of her court just added spice to their shouting matches.
    "It's none of my business, but I am curious," Saetan said. "Why are you standing out here displaying your assets?"
    "I'm standing out here because my home has been invaded by two dozen women with brooms and buckets…"
    "Two dozen? I wasn't aware Helene brought that many from the Hall."
    "She didn't. Some of the women from Riada showed up right after Helene did. And this is how I was dressed…"
    "…or not dressed," Saetan murmured.
    "…when they showed up." Lucivar took another gulp of coffee and shuddered. "And getting dressed after I'd been assured I wouldn't be a distraction seemed like… bragging."
    "I see. Who told you this?"
    "Helene. She said she'd seen just as good." Lucivar eyed his father.
    Saetan shook his head. "No. I will not indulge in a pissing contest with you to appease your curiosity. Besides, you've seen me naked."
    True enough, but he'd only noticed Saetan looked damn fit for a man who'd seen over fifty thousand years. He hadn't paid attention to particulars.
    "So Helene said you wouldn't be a distraction," Saetan said, looking more amused. "And you believed her because…?"
    "Well, Hell's fire, she's your housekeeper ."
    "She's also a woman in her prime who is, in fact, only a few centuries older than you."
    Lucivar stared at Saetan. "She lied to me?"
    Saetan's gold eyes gleamed with suppressed laughter. "Let me put it this way: Your floors won't be swept, but you'll have the cleanest windows in Ebon Rih…at least on this side of the eyrie."
    Lucivar spun around. Female faces were pressed against every window, watching him. Oh, there were cleaning rags pressed against the windows, too, but nothing was being done with them…until the women realized he'd seen them. Then there was a lot of vigorous polishing.
    Swearing under his breath, he used Craft to vanish the coffee mug and call in a pair of leather trousers. As he pulled them on, he snarled, "It was easier when I could use my fists. If this was Terreille, I would have thrown the lot of them off the mountain."
    "You still can."
    It surprised him that the words hurt.
    "You're the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih," Saetan said quietly. "You are the law here and answer to no one but your Queen. If you want to use your fists, there's no one who will stop you. No one here who can stop you since you wear the Ebon-gray