Daemon’s stomach tightened, and he welcomed the familiar chill that began to ice his veins. “You requested my presence, Lady Benedict.”

Leland’s smile slipped. “Um…yes…well…you look tired. I mean, we’ve all kept you so busy these last few days and, well…maybe you should go to your room now and get a good night’s sleep. Yes. You do look tired. Why don’t you just go to your room? You will just go to your room, won’t you? I mean…”

Daemon smiled.

Leland glanced at the bedroom door and blanched. “It’s just…I’m feeling a bit off tonight. I really don’t want to play cards.”

“Nor do I.” Daemon reached for the wine bottle and corkscrew.

“You don’t have to do that!”

Daemon narrowed his eyes, studying her.

Leland scurried behind a chair.

He set the bottle and corkscrew down and slipped his hands into his pockets. “You’re quite right, Lady. I am tired. With your kind permission, I’ll retire now.” But not to his room. Not yet.

Leland smiled weakly but stayed behind the chair.

Daemon left the room, walked down the corridor, turned the corner, and stopped. He counted to ten and then took two steps backward.

Philip stood outside Leland’s door, frozen by Daemon’s appearance at the end of the corridor. They stared at each other for the space of eight heartbeats before Daemon nodded in courteous greeting and stepped out of sight. He stopped and listened. After a long pause, Leland’s door quietly opened, closed, and locked.

Daemon smiled. So that was their game. A pity they hadn’t come to it sooner. It would have spared him all those interminable hours of playing cards with Leland. Still, he’d never been adverse to using the knowledge he gathered about the people he served, and this was just the kind of quiet leverage he needed to keep Philip out of his way. Oh, he would be a splendid silent partner in their game. He had always been a splendid partner, sympathetic and ever so helpful—unless someone crossed him. Then…Well, he wasn’t called the Sadist for nothing.

He found it strangely flattering that she didn’t look up when he slipped into the library and locked the door. She sat cross-legged on the couch, absorbed in the book tucked in her lap, her right hand fluffing her hair as she read.

He glided around the furniture, his smile becoming warmer with each step. When he reached the couch, he bowed formally. “Lady Benedict.”

“Angelline,” Jaenelle replied absently.

Daemon said nothing. He had discovered that if he kept his voice quiet and neutral when she was distracted with something else, she usually spoke without considering her words, responding with a simple, brutal honesty that always left him feeling as though the ground was cracking beneath his feet.

“Witch follows the matriarchal bloodline,” Jaenelle said, turning a page. “Besides, Uncle Bobby isn’t my father.”

“Then who is your father?”

“Philip. But he won’t acknowledge me.” Jaenelle turned another page. “He’s Wilhelmina’s father too, but he was in a dream web when he sired her so he doesn’t know that.”