Tangled Webs

story.” Daemon paused to sort out a jumble of images. “You weren’t good at reading, but you soaked up a story if someone read it to you or told it to you. You remembered all kinds of things, saw all kinds of things in the story.”
    “And probably related everything in terms of a fight.”
    “Of course. You’re Eyrien.” Daemon shrugged. “There was a teacher. I don’t remember her name and can’t recall a face. I think she was tutoring me, but you were there a lot of the time too. She used to jab at you. Not physically, but she made it clear that you were a waste of her time.
    “One day she gave us a story to read. Challenging for me; impossible for you. She did it so you would feel bad. And you were so miserable because you couldn’t read it.
    “You must have gone home until the next lesson, because I don’t remember you being there when Father came to the cottage that evening. Instead of reading the next chapter of the storytime book, I asked him to read the story to me. At first he refused because it was my lesson, and I should read it myself. I pleaded with him, so he gave in and read it to me. But the third time I asked him to read it, he wanted to know why.”
    “Why did you ask him to read it more than once?” Lucivar asked. “You would have gotten the story the first time.”
    Daemon looked at the floor. “I wanted his cadence, his rhythm, his phrasing of the words.” He looked up. “I wanted to read the story to you before the lesson, and I wanted the way he read the story.”
    Now Lucivar looked away.
    “Father would let us get away with little fibs, but he wouldn’t let us lie to him,” Daemon said. “And he always knew. So I had to tell him why I needed to know the story so well. And I told him about the teacher being mean to you because you were Eyrien and you didn’t read as well as I did. He didn’t say anything.”
    Lucivar swore softly. “He’s at his scariest when he doesn’t say anything.”
    Daemon nodded. “He read the story over and over, then had me read it, working with me until I was satisfied.”
    “I think I remember this part.” Lucivar sounded a little uncomfortable. He stared at nothing. “You grabbed me before the lesson and read me the story. She was pissed because I could answer her questions about what the story was about.”
    “He let her come back that last time because we were prepared to meet her on that battleground. But the next lesson, we had a different teacher.”
    They stared at each other. Prince of the Darkness. High Lord of Hell. They knew enough about the man now that neither wanted to speculate, even between themselves, what had happened to the witch who had been foolish enough to hurt one of Saetan’s children.
    “How about that drink, Bastard? Then you can tell me all about this spooky house.”
    Daemon pushed away from the desk to join Lucivar at the door. “Didn’t Marian say anything?”
    “Marian was too riled about cobwebs to have any kind of discussion. Hell’s fire. The next time she gets that worked up about something, I’m dragging you over to the eyrie to deal with her.”
    “Drag Falonar,” Daemon replied. “He still deserves to sweat a bit for bruising Surreal’s heart.”
    “Nah. Marian would probably rein it in and be polite, since he isn’t family.” Lucivar gave Daemon a wicked smile. “I’ll just make the son of a whoring bitch look after Daemonar for an afternoon.”
    A brush of bodies, shoulder to shoulder.
    “You have a mean streak, brother,” Daemon said as he opened the door. “I like it.”

    Lucivar slipped into bed and cuddled up against Marian, more relaxed than he’d been all day. He wasn’t drunk. Far from it. But he was hoping she wasn’t in the mood for more than a cuddle.
    Marian stirred. Let out a sleepy sigh. “You’re home.”
    He brushed his lips over her cheek. “Yeah. It’s late, sweetheart. Go to sleep.”
    She shifted a little, snuggling closer. “Your father came by not long after you left.”
    So much for contentment. “Why?”
    “I think he wanted to talk to you, but he wasn’t surprised that you’d gone to the Hall to see Daemon.”
    Should he have expected Saetan to show up? Maybe. But there were things he could say to a brother he’d known for centuries that he couldn’t say to a father he’d known only for the past nine years.
    “He spent the evening reading stories to Daemonar. He’s got a wonderful voice for it. I think they read almost every