Twilight's Dawn

wrapped in a strong illusion that would make even a demon-dead predator’s eyes see Mikal, the chosen prey.
    *Are you sleepy? I am sleepy. It is time for bed now.*
    Daemon sighed. It could have been worse. If Jaenelle had made a shadow that had Tildee’s real personality, he and the dog would be in a relentless argument about bedtime by now—and he’d be on the losing end of that argument, since the shadow wouldn’t see past the illusion spell Jaenelle had created for him.
    *Snack?* the shadow asked.
    He turned away from the window, frowning. Why was it taking so long to warm up some milk?

    Tersa carefully poured the warm milk into a mug and a small bowl. Her boy would make sure the Mikal boy would be allowed to live with her. The tangled web she’d woven after Sylvia left the living Realms had told her that much. The grandfather was a good man, and he had been a good father for the daughter. But he was not the right man for her sons. Lives would be soured, and the love that existed now would die if the grandfather took the sons. So the Mikal boy and Tildee would live with her, and Beron . . . Witch knew best what to do for Beron. She’d seen that too in her web.
    She rinsed out the pot and left it in the sink to wash later with the mug and bowl. As she turned to get a plate for the nutcake, she saw the stranger in her kitchen, standing close enough to touch.
    She shrank back, a response to the foulness of his psychic scent rather than fear of his physical presence.
    He grabbed her wrist, squeezing until she flinched in pain. “Where is the boy?” he snarled.
    The boy? Wasn’t he supposed to ask her about the Mikal boy? “The boy is upstairs.”
    “Show me.” He dragged her out of the kitchen and down the hallway. Then he released her wrist and gave her a hard shove toward the stairs. “Show me.”
    She had promised Witch that she would play out this game so that all the boys would be safe. But something wasn’t right because this foulness was supposed to ask about the Mikal boy, not her boy.
    Her boy would understand this confusion. He was playing Witch’s game too.
    “Show me where he is,” the foulness whispered as it followed close behind her.
    Tersa climbed the stairs and led him to the bedroom where her boy waited.

    It took all the control Daemon had to stand still when that bastard shoved Tersa into the bedroom. The shadow Sceltie began barking, but Jaenelle had deliberately left out any commands to attack.
    “You brat!” The Warlord’s voice sounded hoarse, as if his vocal cords had been damaged at some point and didn’t heal correctly.
    Daemon stepped back, drawing the Warlord farther into the room and away from Tersa.
    “You brat! When I’m through with you, even your own brother won’t recognize you!”
    Tersa jerked as if struck, but Daemon didn’t have time to wonder why because the Warlord lunged, his hand reaching for where a boy’s arm would be.
    Instead of scrambling back, Daemon stepped forward and clamped a hand around the Warlord’s wrist. As Jaenelle intended, contact with another male broke the illusion spell around Daemon. The release of her power in the spell also broke the illusion around the Warlord.
    Scars on the throat. Hideous scars on the face. One cloudy eye.
    A monster had begotten a monster. As Daemon looked into the man’s clear eye, he felt a stir of pity—enough pity that he decided it would be a swift execution rather than the slow one a monster deserved.
    “You came to hurt the boy,” Tersa said, taking a step toward them.
    Daemon glanced up and saw rage and a terrible kind of clarity in his mother’s eyes. “It’s done now.”
    “You want to hurt my boy .”
    “Tersa . . .” He was Black-shielded. There was nothing the Warlord could do to him and nothing the man could do to break free of him. But Tersa might still get hurt, especially now that she was standing directly behind the bastard.
    “Jaenelle says it is like deboning chicken,” Tersa said in a singsong voice. “Just hook two fingers around the spine and pull.”
    No time to say anything or do anything. One moment the Warlord was standing in front of him, caught in a bone-breaking grip. The next . . .
    He felt the sharp tingle of Craft as the bones of hand and fingers passed under his grip. He tightened his hand to hold on to the man’s wrist, but there was nothing but soft flesh, and the Warlord’s hand swelled like a sausage casing when it gets squeezed.
    Passing the bones