Heir to the Shadows

started that he wasn't sure he knew enough healing Craft to mend the damage. But I wasn't going to survive without help, and a Healer would have turned me in." He ran a hand through his short brown hair. "And even if he killed me, it would have been better than what my Lady would have done to me for leaving her service so abruptly." He gestured toward Daemon, who was curled in the chair, still keening softly. "I didn't realize he was . . ."
    Surreal vanished the knife. The Warlord immediately picked up the basket, pressing his left hand to his side and grimacing.
    "Asshole," Surreal snapped, hurrying to take the basket. "You shouldn't carry something this heavy while you're still healing."
    She tugged. When he wouldn't let go of the basket, she snarled at him. "Idiot. Fool. At least use Craft to lighten the weight."
    "Don't be a bitch." Clenching his teeth, the Warlord carried the basket to the table in the kitchen area. He turned to leave, then hesitated. "The story going around is that he killed a child."
    Blood. So much blood. "He didn't."
    "He thinks he did."
    She couldn't see Daemon, but she could still hear him. "Damn."
    "Do you think he'll ever come out of the Twisted Kingdom?"
    Surreal stared at the basket. "No one ever has."
    "Daemon." When she got no response, Surreal chewed her lower lip. Maybe she should let him sleep, if he was actually sleeping. No, the potatoes were baking, the steaks ready to broil, the salad made. He needed food as much as rest. Touch him? There was no telling what he might be seeing in the Twisted Kingdom, how he might interpret a gentle shake. She tried again, putting some snap in her voice. "Daemon."
    Daemon opened his eyes. After a long minute, he reached for her. "Surreal," he said hoarsely.
    She gripped his hand, wishing she knew some way to help him. When his grip loosened, she tightened hers and tugged. "Up. You need a shower before dinner."
    He got to his feet with much of his fluid, feline grace, but when she led him into the bathroom, he stared at the fixtures as if he'd never seen them before. She lifted the toilet seat, hoping he remembered how to use that at least. When he still didn't move, she tugged him out of the jacket and shirt. It had never bothered her when Tersa displayed this childlike passivity. His lack of response frayed her temper. But when she reached for his belt, he snarled at her, his hand squeezing her wrist until she was sure the bones would break.
    She snarled back. "Do it yourself then."
    She saw the inward crumbling, the despair.
    Loosening his hold on her wrist, he raised her hand and pressed his lips against it. "I'm sorry. I'm—" Releasing her, he looked beaten as he unbuckled the belt and began fumbling with his trousers.
    Surreal fled.
    A few minutes later the water pipes rattled and wheezed as he turned on the shower.
    As she set the table, she wondered if he'd actually removed all his clothes. How long had he been like this? If this was what was left of a once-brilliant mind, how had he been able to heal that man?
    Surreal paused, a plate half-resting on the table. Tersa had always had her islands of lucidity, usually around Craft. Once when the mad Black Widow had healed a deep gash in Surreal's leg, she'd responded to Titian's worry by saying, "One doesn't forget the basics." When the healing was done, however, Tersa couldn't even remember her own name.
    A few minutes later, she was hovering in the hallway when she heard the muffled yelp that indicated the hot water had run out. The pipes rattled and wheezed as he shut off the water.
    No other sound.
    Swearing under her breath, Surreal pushed the bathroom door open. Daemon just stood in the tub, his head down.
    "Dry yourself," Surreal said.
    Flinching, he reached for a towel.
    Struggling to keep her voice firm but quiet, she added, "I put out some clean clothes for you. When you've dried off, go put them on."
    She retreated to the kitchen and busied herself with cooking the steaks while listening to the movements in the bedroom. She was putting the meat on their plates when Daemon appeared, properly dressed.
    Surreal smiled her approval. "Now you look more like yourself."
    "Jaenelle is dead," he said, his voice hard and flat.
    She braced her hands on the table and absorbed the words that were worse than a physical blow. "How do you know?"
    "Lucivar told me."
    How could Lucivar, who was in Pruul, be sure of something she and Daemon couldn't be sure of? And who was there to ask? Cassandra