Twilight's Dawn

Saetan said.
    He crawled around until he was fairly sure he’d gotten them all. Then he picked up the first box.
    “That one is yours,” Saetan said.
    “Mine?”
    Warm pleasure flowed through him. A present. From his father.
    As he started to coax the top part of the box off, Saetan reached over and clamped one hand on the box, holding it shut. When Saetan released the box . . .
    Daemon wiggled the lid, then looked up in disbelief. “You locked the box. You Craft-locked my present .”
    “On Winsol, when the gifts are being opened, this is your present,” Saetan said. “Until then, it’s still my box. And it stays locked.”
    Fine. Ha! Saetan wore the Black. So did he. He wasn’t going to let . . .
    There was some Red power twisted into the Black, changing a simple lock into a deviously elegant puzzle that would have to be untangled in order to open the box.
    “You locked my present,” Daemon said, feeling sulky. “I’m an adult, and you locked my present.”
    “You’re a son who was about to open a present before it was time to open the present,” Saetan replied mildly. Then he looked pointedly at the hourglass. “Do you really want to argue about this right now?”
    He had to think about that for a minute.
    “Find the name tag,” Saetan said, taking the box from him.
    After handing that over too, he sat back on his heels.
    Saetan set the piece of wrapping paper on the box and smoothed out the wrinkles. “You and Lucivar should be the ones handing out the gifts. Each person won’t notice one gift wrapped like this, but anyone handling several . . .”
    As he watched, the wrapping paper grew out of the scrap and formed around the box.
    “It’s best to work out your own illusion spell for this,” Saetan said. “That way, you’ll be able to do it quickly, since it usually needs to be done quickly.”
    The illusion spell was good. If he hadn’t seen the paper forming around the box, he doubted he would have noticed the difference in texture. He wasn’t sure how someone “unwrapped” an illusion, but he’d find out on the day.
    All the wrappings had been restored, he’d gathered up the rest of the scraps of paper and vanished the disposable gift, and he still had a few grains of sand left in the hourglass when he stood up and brushed himself off.
    Saetan vanished the hourglass and returned the chair to its usual spot in the room.
    They were both standing there, guarding the mound of perfectly wrapped presents, when Marian and Jaenelle walked into the room.
    Jaenelle studied the two of them. Marian walked over to the tree, pursed her lips, then reached between two gifts and picked something up.
    “The Prince and I have something to discuss, so we’ll leave you Ladies to finish sorting out the gifts,” Saetan said.
    *We have something to discuss?* Daemon asked on a spear thread.
    *Yes, we do.*
    Judging by Saetan’s tone, he wasn’t expecting a pleasant discussion, but anything was better than staying in that room.
    He reached the door when Marian said, “Daemon?”
    Saetan left the room. Having no other safe choice, Daemon turned and waited for the Eyrien hearth witch.
    There was something purely female about her expression as she walked up to him, adding to the impression that she was laughing at him.
    He broke out in a cold sweat.
    “You missed a piece,” she whispered as she held up a scrap of wrapping paper.
    He took the paper, vanished it—and fled.
    Catching up with Saetan, the two men retreated to the study, where Lucivar met them.
    “I promised Kaelas and Jaal I’d get them a steer for Winsol dinner if they don’t let Daemonar out of the room where I stashed him,” Lucivar said.
    “You promised them the equivalent amount of meat or a live animal?” Saetan asked.
    “Apparently it doesn’t taste as good if it’s already cut up,” Lucivar muttered. “Or maybe it wasn’t as much fun to eat. They were a little vague about that.”
    “I see.” Saetan delicately cleared his throat. “So you will get them to promise that they won’t eat their dinner within sight of the dining room windows, won’t you?”
    Lucivar’s mouth opened and closed, but no sounds came out.
    “Mother Night,” Daemon said. If people lost their appetites because a six-hundred-pound tiger and an eight-hundred-pound Arcerian cat were gorging on a fresh kill, Mrs. Beale would . . .
    He wasn’t going to consider what Mrs. Beale would do to him and Lucivar.
    “I’m almost sorry I’m going to