Tangled Webs

just leaking, and that the woman, who swore it was the best sex she’d ever had, was being very polite. I know this because when I was a whore and had to be very polite in that way, I always charged a lot more.”
    “Hush.” Rainier’s face was turning red with the effort not to laugh loud enough to wake the children.
    She looked at the painting above the fireplace mantel. Blood still oozed down the woman’s chest from the wounds inflicted by her lover. Then Surreal looked at the children. They were all so exhausted, she doubted they were capable of overhearing anything, but she switched to a psychic thread anyway.
    «Has this all seemed odd to you?» she asked.
    «In any particular way?» Rainier replied dryly.
    She hooked her hair behind one ear. «I don’t know. It just seems…Not tame, exactly.»
    Rainier looked away. «Three children have died. That isn’t tame.»
    «And more died before we walked into this place. I know. But it’s…clumsy. Deadly, yes, but…» She wasn’t sure what she was trying to tell him, wasn’t even sure what she was sensing.
    Rainier hesitated. «Your family has a vicious elegance that is unmatched anywhere in the Realm. The only males and witches who come close are the ones who served in the First Circle at Ebon Askavi, and they rule the Shadow Realm now. These are your friends, your family. And frankly, Lady, that is the level of Craft that you yourself wield. This place may not be elegant, but it’s a well-constructed trap.»
    «Yes,» she agreed. «Well constructed but not elegant.»
    «If any Black Widow in your family had built this place with the intention of destroying whoever walked in here…»
    Surreal shivered. Seductive. Alluring. Lethal. Breaking a person down layer by layer. Weaving pain and pleasure together until both were a torment you would beg to feel.
    Clickety-clack. Tippity-tap.
    The sound—and Rainier’s gentle nudge—brought her wandering thoughts back to the room and the potential danger.
    Clickety-clack. Tippity-tap.
    Something white, scurrying along the baseboard just inside her shield, tapping on the wood floor.
    They watched the skeleton mouse scurry-scurry until it reached the corner of the hearth. Then it sat back on its haunches and turned its skull until it seemed to be looking right at them.
    She wished she still had a crumb of cheese left to toss to it—just to see what would happen.
    The mouse held its position for a moment longer, then scurried away.
    Clickety-clack. Tippity-tap.
    «Was that one of Tersa’s spells?» Rainier asked.
    «Had to be.» A good example of the elegance Rainier had pointed out. Bizarre? Sure. Even for Tersa. But the skill it took to create that bit of Craft was several levels above the nasty surprises.
    And thinking about the difference in that level of skill made her very glad Tersa wasn’t one of the Black Widows trying to kill them.

    Daemon’s frown deepened as he walked up to the Coach. Where in the name of Hell were the shields? Jaenelle wouldn’t have been that careless. There was no reason to think the landens would challenge her presence in their village or even venture close enough to be a threat to the Coach and its inhabitants, but there was no reason to believe the person who had created that “entertainment” had kept the danger inside the fence.
    Then he reached for the Coach’s door—and felt power spiral up around his ankles, his calves, his knees.
    No warning. He stood perfectly still while Jaenelle’s death spells rubbed against him like a contented cat, sang over his skin like silk.
    Recognition of his psychic scent, the Jewels he wore, him as a man.
    The death spells released him, fading away with one final, playful, fingertip caress down his cock.
    She was smiling when he stepped into the Coach, but he asked anyway. “Was that last bit especially for me?”
    “Of course.”
    She was sitting at the small table in the Coach’s sitting area. She’d opened a bottle of wine, and there was a glass, almost empty, near her hand. The table was covered with papers. He couldn’t tell if they were notes to friends that she was writing to occupy the time or something else that fit the chill he detected in her psychic scent.
    He braced one hand on the table, leaned over, and gave her a long, soft kiss. Then he looked over at the boy, Yuli, who was sound asleep on the short bench opposite the table.
    “He has scars on his back—and a different kind of scar on his heart,” Jaenelle