She won’t go unpunished, I promise you that. No matter how long it takes to do it properly, I’ll see the debt paid in full.

“Lucivar,” Daemon whispered. “Lucivar.”

“They’ve all been looking for you.”

He hadn’t heard her come in, which wasn’t surprising. It wasn’t surprising she was there even though he’d locked the library door.

Daemon shifted on the couch. He held out one hand, watching her small fingers curl around his own. That gentle touch, so full of understanding, was agony.

“What happened to him?”

“Who?” Daemon said, fighting the grief.

“Lucivar,” Jaenelle said with steely patience.

Daemon recognized that strange, unnerving something in her face and voice—Witch focusing her attention. He hesitated a moment, then took her in his arms. He needed to hold her, feel her warmth against him, needed reassurance that the sacrifice was worth it. He didn’t know how or when the tears began falling again.

“He’s my friend, my brother,” he whispered into her shoulder. “He’s dying.”

“Daemon.” Jaenelle gently stroked his hair. “Daemon, we have to help him. I could—”

“No!” Don’t tempt me with hope. Don’t tempt me to take that kind of risk. “You can’t help him. Nothing can help him now.”

Jaenelle tried to push back to look at him, but he wouldn’t let her. “I know I promised him I wouldn’t wander around Terreille, but—”

Daemon licked a tear. “You met him? He saw you once?”

“Once.” She paused. “Daemon, I might be able to—”

“No,” Daemon moaned into her neck. “He wouldn’t want you there, and if something happened to you, he’d never forgive me. Never.”

Witch asked, “Are you sure, Prince?”

The Warlord Prince replied, “I am sure, Lady.”

After a moment, Jaenelle began to sing a death song in the Old Tongue, not the angry dirge she’d sung for Rose, but a gentle witchsong of grief and love. Her voice wove through him, celebrating and acknowledging his pain and grief, tapping the deep wells he would have kept locked.

When her voice finally faded, Daemon wiped the tears from his face. He blindly allowed Jaenelle to lead him to his room, stand over him while he washed his face, and coax a glass of brandy into him. She said nothing. There was nothing she needed to say. The generous silence and the understanding in her eyes were enough.

Lucivar would have been proud to serve her, Daemon thought as he brushed his hair, preparing to face Alexandra and Philip. He would have been proud of her.

Daemon took a shuddering breath and went to find Alexandra.

Everything has a price.

CHAPTER TWELVE

1 / Terreille

Winsol approached rapidly. The most important holiday in the Blood calendar, it was held when the winter days were shortest, and it was a celebration of the Darkness, a celebration of Witch.

Daemon wandered through the empty hallways. The servants had been given a half-day off and had deserted the house to shop or begin their holiday preparations. Alexandra, Leland, and Philip were off on their own excursions. Robert, as usual, was not at home. Even Graff had gone out, leaving the girls in Cook’s care. And he…Well, it wasn’t kindness that had made them leave him behind. His temper had been too sharp, his tongue too cutting the last time he’d escorted Alexandra to a party. They’d left hastily after he’d told a simpering young aristo witch that the cut of her dress would make any woman in a Red Moon house envious, even if what she was displaying didn’t.