Tangled Webs

And the information he’d collected in the process would make his next novels wildly successful, surpassing any of his rivals’. Maybe even successful enough that he would be able to acquire one of the kindred as a companion.
    There was just one little hitch in his plans.
    He was beginning to understand why Surreal and her companion were afraid of Lucivar.

    “He put an Ebon-gray shield around the house,” Surreal said. “Hell’s fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful.” How were they supposed to get past an Ebon-gray shield?
    “Maybe Lucivar was trying to keep anyone else from coming in,” Rainier said.
    “Or he’s trying to keep someone from getting out,” Surreal replied. Like us? she wondered as she glanced at the children. They had come close to pissing out their brains when that thunderous challenge had rolled through the house. Now the four of them were staring at her and Rainier, looking pathetically hopeful that they could be protected.
    As if any of them had a chance of surviving now.
    “Last night, that boy said the worst was still to come,” she said quietly. “What if Lucivar has been here all along?”
    Rainier considered the question, then shook his head. “If he’d come in ahead of us, we would have seen some sign of his presence before now. A fist-sized hole in a wall, if nothing else.”
    That was true enough. Once he realized he was trapped, Lucivar would go through the house like a wild storm. They would have been climbing over wreckage instead of moving through untouched rooms. But…
    “Someone managed to kill a dark-Jeweled Eyrien Warlord and trap him in the house’s spells,” Surreal said. “Could those spells be strong enough to trap an Ebon-gray Warlord Prince?”
    “Based on the rules we read, I think trapping Lucivar and Daemon was at least part of the intention,” Rainier replied. “But even if Lucivar is still just Lucivar…”
    They looked at each other.
    “Let’s get moving,” Surreal said. “We have got to find a way out of here.”

    Moments after Lucivar’s Ebon-gray shield closed around the house, Daemon’s Black shield surrounded the property, forming a dome over the house and sinking deep into the land.
    Cold rage whispered in his blood, singing its seductive song of violence and death.
    Then he felt Witch’s hand on his arm, felt a cold in her equal to his own but still tempered by the fire of surface anger.
    “Lucivar found something he wants to contain,” Daemon said too softly. “Something not otherwise bound by the spells put on that house. He locked the house; I’ve locked the land.”
    She nodded. “Nothing will leave here without his consent—and yours.”
    And yours, Daemon thought. No matter what he and Lucivar thought, Witch would make the final decision.
    Her hand tightened on his arm, a silent command to step back from the killing edge and the sweet, cold rage.
    “Daemon, let’s take care around the boy,” Jaenelle said quietly.
    That reminder helped him leash the rage and obey. He took a deep breath, let it out slowly…and regained control.
    “Why don’t we take a walk around the perimeter and look for something that doesn’t feel natural?” Jaenelle suggested.
    “Such as…?”
    “A tunnel. A passageway.”
    “An underground escape.” Daemon nodded. His Black shield went deep enough to block such an escape, but the search would give them both something to do while they waited.
    He looked at the Coach. “Should we bring the boy with us and let him stretch his legs? He hasn’t left the Coach since you invited him in.”
    “He’s afraid, Prince.”
    “Of us?”
    Jaenelle shook her head. “Of being sent back to the orphans’ home.”
    He hesitated, then said softly, “We can’t keep him. The Hall is too dark. Our power is too dark. He would never belong. Might not even be able to survive.”
    “I know,” she said. “But we can have him as a guest for a day or two while we decide what would be the best place for him.”
    Something in her tone of voice. Something that softened his temper and tickled his sense of humor.
    “How do kindred puppies feel about young boys who may be half-Blood?” he asked.
    Jaenelle just grinned.

    Tersa stepped back from her worktable. She had worked through the night, building her tangled web strand by careful strand.
    The Langston man had used her to hurt the boys. Her boy. And the winged boy.
    She remembered the winged boy from the days when she had been less of