Heir to the Shadows

the Old Tongue, "kaetien" meant "white fire," and he didn't doubt for a moment that the name fit this four-footed Brother.
    "Kaetien," Jaenelle said, "this is the High Lord, my sire."
    Kaetien backed away from the Saetan, his ears tight to his head.
    "No, no," Jaenelle said hurriedly. "He's not that one. He's my adopted sire. He was the friend who was teaching me Craft, and now I'm living with him here."
    The stallion snorted, relaxed.
    Watching them, Saetan kept his feelings carefully hidden. He wouldn't push—yet—but sometime soon he and Kaetien were going to have a little talk about Jaenelle's sire.
    Kaetien pawed the gravel as two young grooms slowly approached. The older of the two brushed his fingers against his cap brim. "Do you think the Prince would like some feed and a little grooming?"
    Jaenelle hesitated, then smiled as she continued to stroke Kaetien's neck. "I should have my breakfast now," she said quietly. She tried to finger-comb her hair and made a face. "And I could use some grooming myself."
    Kaetien tossed his head in what could be interpreted as agreement.
    Jaenelle dismounted and ran up the steps. Then she spun around, her hands on her hips and fire in her eyes. "I did not fall off! I just wasn't balanced."
    Kaetien looked at her and snorted.
    "My legs are not weak, there's nothing wrong with my seat, and I'll thank you to keep your nose in your own feed bag! / do so eat!" She looked at Saetan. "Don't I?" She narrowed her eyes. "Don't I?"
    Since silence was his safest choice, Saetan didn't reply.
    Jaenelle narrowed her eyes a little more and snarled, "Males."
    Satisfied, Kaetien followed the grooms to the stables.
    Muttering under her breath, Jaenelle stomped past Andulvar and Beale and headed for the breakfast room.
    With a cheerful whuff, Smoke continued his morning rounds.
    "He deliberately baited her," Andulvar said from the doorway.
    "It would seem so," Saetan agreed, chuckling. They headed for the breakfast room—slowly. "But isn't it comforting to know that some of our Brothers have developed a wonderful knack for badgering her."
    "That particular Brother probably knows how much ground he can cover in a flat-out gallop."
    Saetan smiled. "I imagine they both know."
    She was sitting at the breakfast table, shredding a piece of toast.
    Saetan cautiously took a seat on the opposite side of the table, poured a cup of tea, and felt grateful toast was the only thing she seemed interested in shredding.
    "Thanks for backing me up," she said tartly.
    "You wouldn't want me to lie to another Warlord Prince, would you?"
    Jaenelle glared at him. "I'd forgotten how bossy Kaetien can be."
    "He can't help it," he said soothingly. "It's part of what he is."
    "Not all unicorns are bossy."
    "I was thinking of Warlord Princes."
    She looked startled. Then she smiled. "You should know." She reached for another piece of toast and began shredding it, her mood suddenly pensive. "Papa? Do you really think they'd come?"
    His hand stuttered but he got the cup to his lips. "Your human friends?" he asked calmly.
    She nodded.
    He reached across the table and covered her restless hands with his. "There's only one way to find out, witch-child. Write the invitations, and I'll see that they're delivered."
    Jaenelle wiped her hands on her napkin. "I'm going to see how Kaetien's doing."
    Saetan picked at his breakfast steak for a while, drank
    another cup of tea, and finally gave up. He needed to talk to someone, needed to share the apprehension and excitement fizzing in his stomach. He'd tell Cassandra, of course, but their communication was always formal now and he didn't want to be formal. He wanted to yip and chase his tail. Sylvia? She liked Jaenelle and would welcome the news—all the news—but it was too early to drop in on her.
    That left him with one choice.
    Saetan grinned.
    Andulvar would be comfortably settled in by now. A punch in the shoulder would do him good.
    6 / Hell
    Titian cleaned her knife with a scrap from the black coat while the other Harpies hacked up the meat and tossed the pieces to the pack of Hounds waiting in a half circle around the body.
    The body twitched and still feebly struggled, but the bastard could no longer scream for help and the muted sounds he made filled her with satisfaction. A demon couldn't feel pain the way the living did, but pain was a cumulative thing, and he hadn't been dead long enough for his nerves to forget the sensation.
    A Harpy tossed a large chunk of thigh