Heir to the Shadows

into a sitting position. "You got me aroused. You have to service me."
    Spinning around, Lucivar snapped a leg off a kitchen chair and tossed it into Roxie's lap. "Use that." He headed out the door.
    7 won't allow this. I will not submit to this.
    "Lucivar!"
    Snarling, he tried to shake off Luthvian's hand. "I have to go. Cat's in trouble."
    Luthvian's hand tightened. "You're sure, aren't you? You sense her well enough that you're sure."
    "Yes!" He didn't want to hit her. He didn't want to hurt her. But if she didn't let him go ...
    The hand on his arm trembled. "You'll send word to me? You'll let me know if ... if she needs help?"
    Lucivar gave Luthvian a hard, steady look. She might be jealous of the way the men in the family were drawn to Jaenelle, but she cared. He kissed her cheek roughly. "I'll send word."
    Luthvian stepped back. "You spent all those years training to be a warrior, so go make yourself useful."
    No.
    Lucivar sped along the Ebon-gray Web, squeezing out all the speed he could, knowing it was already too late.
    I won't let you.
    Whatever happened, he'd take care of her afterward. Sweet Darkness, please let there be an afterward. He pushed harder.
    No feelings from the Ring. No buzzing. Nothing at all except . . .
    Noooooo!
    . . . the rage. Mother Night, the rage!
    Lucivar thrust his way through the sick-faced crowd, homing in on the spot where Jaenelle's unleashed power was concentrated. A middle-aged Warlord stood on one side of the hallway, babbling at a grim-looking Mephis. The aftertaste of power swirled behind a door on the opposite side.
    Lucivar swung toward the door.
    "Lucivar, no!"
    Ignoring Mephis's command, Lucivar snapped the Gray lock his demon-dead elder brother had placed on the door.
    "Lucivar, don't go in there!"
    Lucivar threw the door open, stepped inside the room, and froze.
    In front of him, a finger lay on the carpet, its gold ring partially melted into the flesh, the Jewel shattered to a fine powder.
    It was the largest—and the only identifiable piece—of what must have been a full-grown man. The rest was splattered all over the room.
    The buzzing in his head warned him to take a normal breath before he passed out. If he took a normal breath while standing in this room, he'd heave for a week.
    But there was something wrong about the room, and he wasn't leaving until he figured it out.
    When he did, Lucivar's temper rose to the killing edge.
    One male body. One demolished bed. The rest of the furniture, although ruined by bone fragments and blood, was untouched.
    Lucivar backed out of the room and turned toward the man who had been babbling at Mephis. "What did you do to her?" he asked too calmly.
    "To her!' The Warlord pointed a shaking hand toward
    the room. "Look what that bitch did to my son. She's mad. Mad! She—"
    Roaring an Eyrien war cry, Lucivar slammed the Warlord against the wall. "WHAT DID YOU DO TO HER?"
    The Warlord squealed. No one tried to help him.
    "Lucivar." Mephis held up a handful of papers. "It appears Jaenelle got married this afternoon to Lord—"
    Lucivar snarled. "She wouldn't marry willingly without the family present." He bared his teeth at the Warlord. "Would she?"
    "T-they were in Hove," the Warlord stammered. "A whirlwind r-romance. She didn't want you to know until it was done."
    "Someone didn't," Lucivar agreed. Smiling, he called in the Eyrien war blade and held it up where the Warlord could see it. "Do you want your face?" he asked mildly.
    "Lucivar," Mephis warned.
    "Stay out of this, Mephis," Lucivar snapped, his barely restrained fury freezing everyone in the hallway.
    Think. She'd been afraid, and very little frightened Jaenelle. She'd been afraid, but also angry enough to consider breaking the link between spirit and body, determined enough to abandon the husk rather than submit. Think. If this was Terreille . . .
    "What did you give her?" When the Warlord didn't answer, Lucivar set the edge of the war blade against the man's cheek. The skin sliced cleanly. The blood ran.
    "A m-mild brew. To calm her down. She was afraid. Afraid of all of them. Especially y-you."
    A stupid thing to say to a man holding a weapon large enough and sharp enough to cut through bone.
    They had drugged her. Something strong enough to scramble her wits while still leaving her capable of signing the marriage contract. That still didn't explain that room.
    "Afterward," Lucivar crooned. "What did you give her to prepare her for the marriage bed?" When the