Twilight's Dawn

home!
    The attack came without warning. A bolt of power hit her in the chest, knocking her down, shattering the shield beneath her clothes. As she scrambled to her feet, a male figure, dressed in black, rushed toward her.
    “Bitch,” he snarled. “This is your brat’s fault.”
    She threw a Purple Dusk shield between them, certain the feel of power clashing would bring the men in the house running to help. The man shattered that shield and kept coming toward her, destroying the next one too as she backed away.
    A hint of rotting meat in the air now, and a foulness to his psychic scent that gagged her more than the physical smell. In the moments before he struck again, she knew why Haeze’s brother wasn’t home. Since she couldn’t hold this Warlord off for long and it was clear she wasn’t going to get any help from the people in the house, she made her choice.
    Everything has a price.
    *Beron! Run!* she shouted on a psychic thread. *Tildee! Run now! *
    As the enemy lunged at her, she wrapped shields around herself and ran, hoping to lure him away long enough for her boys to escape. She didn’t worry much about Mikal. Asking Tildee to run meant something terrible had happened, and the Sceltie would protect the boy with everything in her while getting him to a safe place. But Beron . . .
    “Mother?” Beron shouted, sounding much too close. “Mother?”
    *Run!* she screamed.
    A blast of power hit her legs, breaking her shields and exploding her knees. She struck the ground hard and rolled, denying the pain while she twisted around to face the enemy.
    “Mother!”
    No time to argue with Beron about running toward her instead of running away. She blasted the enemy with everything she had in her Purple Dusk Jewel. It didn’t break his shield, but it stopped him for a moment. He was stronger, had a deeper reservoir of power than she did, and that meant he would win this fight.
    She’d still make the bastard work for the kill.
    Slipping on the blood and shattered bones, he fell on her and began tearing at her clothes. She tore at him with her nails, breaking through his shield long enough to rip her fingers on a protective mesh that covered his face.
    He rammed a knife between her ribs. Before her body registered pain, he yanked it out.
    “I’m going to give you a smile from ear to ear,” he snarled.
    A blast of power knocked him off her. Leaping to his feet, he grabbed her torn clothes and used Craft to fling her far out into the garden.
    As she flew through the air, in those moments before the physical death, she saw the enemy attack Beron.

    Daemon followed Jaenelle into her sitting room, closed the door, then wrapped his arms around her.
    “I love listening to you sing,” he said as he nuzzled her. “And so did everyone else tonight.”
    “I was pleased that we had a full house.” She tipped her head to give him access to his favorite spot on her neck.
    He brushed her hair back before giving that spot a delicate taste. After years of keeping her hair sleek-short or shaggy-short, depending on her mood, she had finally let it grow out. It wasn’t as long as it had been when she was twenty-five, but it now hid the spot between neck and shoulder that the Warlord Princes who served her found so intriguing.
    “You always have a full house,” he said, feeling a swell of pride, among other things. She owned a music shop in Halaway and sang there twice a month, hosting Dhemlan musicians as well as musicians from many other Territories in Kaeleer—and beyond. “Since you included a couple of folk songs from Shalador Nehele, I was surprised you hadn’t asked Ranon to come here and play with you.”
    Jaenelle gave him a wicked grin. “I knew better than to ask Ranon. I asked Cassidy and Shira if he could indulge me. They—and Vae—ganged up on him. He’ll be here for the next concert.”
    Daemon laughed. He felt a keen sympathy for the Shalador Warlord Prince because he knew how it felt to be backed into a corner, but he laughed anyway.
    Then Jaenelle kissed him with heat, and the parts of him that had swelled along with his pride responded with enthusiasm. But he eased back a little before he forgot what he’d wanted to discuss.
    “You’re going to be thirty-seven this year,” he said.
    “And that is significant because . . . ?”
    “You’ve never been thirty-seven before. I thought we should do something special for your birthday.”
    “We always do something special for my birthday.”