“He has many names,” Manny whispered, staring at her cup.

“Manny.” Daemon fought for patience.

“They call him the Seducer. The Executioner.”

He shook his head, still not understanding. But the door opened a little wider.

“He’s the High Priest of the Hourglass.”

A little wider.

“You’re stalling,” Daemon snapped, clattering the cup against the saucer. “What’s my father’s name? You owe me that. You know what it’s been like for me being a bastard. Did he ever sign the register?”

“Oh, yes,” she said hurriedly. “But they changed that page. He was so proud of you and the Eyrien boy. He didn’t know, you know, about the girl being Eyrien. Luthvian, that was her name. She didn’t have wings or scars where wings were removed. He didn’t know until the boy was born. She wanted to cut the wings off, raise the boy as Dhemlan maybe. But he said no, in his soul the boy was Eyrien, and it would be kinder to kill him in the cradle than to cut his wings. She cried at that, scared that he really would kill the babe. I think he would have if she’d ever done anything that might have damaged the wings. He built her a snug little cottage in Askavi, took care of her and the boy. He would bring him to visit sometimes. You’d play together…or fight together. It was hard to tell which. Then she got scared. She told me Prythian, Askavi’s High Priestess, told her he only wanted the boy for fodder, wanted a supply of fresh blood to sup on. So she gave the boy to Prythian to hide, and ran away. When she went back for him, Prythian wouldn’t tell her where he was, just laughed at her, and—”

“Manny,” Daemon said in a soft, cold voice. “For the last time, who is my father?”

“The Prince of the Darkness.”

A little wider.

“Manny.”

“The Priest is the High Lord, don’t you understand?” Manny cried.

“His name.”

“No.”

“His name, Manny.”

“To whisper the name is to summon the man.”

The door blew open and the memories poured out.

Daemon stared at his hands, stared at the long, black-tinted nails.

Mother Night.

He swallowed hard and shook his head. It wasn’t possible. As much as he would like to believe it, it wasn’t possible. “Saetan,” he said quietly. “You’re telling me my father is Saetan?”

“Hush, Daemon, hush.”

Daemon leaped up, knocking the chair over. “No, I will not hush. He’s dead, Manny. A legend. An ancestor far removed.”

“Your father.”

“He’s dead.”

Manny licked her lips and closed her eyes. “One of the living dead. One of the ones called Guardians.”

Daemon righted the chair and sat down. He felt ill. No wonder Dorothea used to beat him when he would nurse the hurt of being excluded by pretending that Saetan was his father. It hadn’t been pretend after all. “Are you sure?” he asked finally.

“I’m sure.”

Daemon laughed harshly. “You’re mistaken, Manny. You must be. I can’t imagine the High Lord of Hell bedding that bitch Hepsabah.”