Prologue
There were so many questions he had wanted to ask over the years, and had finally gotten down to one. He looked over the small breakfast table, watching the dusty light catch in her silvered hair. It was still golden, but lighter, more metallic. Her sapphire eyes were still the same, gems that shifted from light to deep in a breath. She smiled at him over her mug of coffee and roused him from his thoughts. He followed her suit, raising his mug up to his lips but tilting it a little in a salute to her before taking a sip. When he set the mug down, she was looking at him intently.
"What is it Daemon?" She inquired, her voice caressing a softer edge. Daemon had to pause for a moment, to still the rush of blood she had stirred up.
"Have you noticed what has happened among the Blood lately?" He asked, trying to make it seem nonchalant. She wasn't fooled. Her eyes deepened and the room took on a slight chill.
"What do you mean?" Witch asked. Daemon smiled, reassuring her.
"Just that, one of Grizelle's descendents has made her Offering and walked away with a Black Jewel. And there are an, interesting number of natural, and male, Black Widows, one of them being a Birthright Red who could become Black once he's made the Offering. There are more Queens being born, Gizelle's own being a natural Black Widow. There's a lot more power among the Blood." He replied. Jaenelle calmed and rapped her fingers against the smooth ceramic mug.
"I think this was another, unforeseen reaction to the Blood being purged." She said carefully. Daemon snorted, and tried to cover his smile by taking another sip of his coffee. One of the other "unforeseen" repercussions to Dorothea's taint being cleansed from the Blood was an extended life, for Jaenelle. Saetan, Lucivar and his family, and Daemon were all apart of the long-lived races, but Jaenelle was not. And yet here she was, close to celebrating her five hundredth birthday, again.
However, this meant that the triangle of the Dark Court was the only part to survive. All of the boyos and the coven, even the Kindred, were long since reunited with the Darkness.
"I just worry, about the, desires of this new Blood." Daemon stated just as carefully. Jaenelle nodded and tried to look somber as she drank from her cup, but sometimes her actions made her look smaller, and younger, than she really was. Daemon rose from the table and walked around to her seat, trailing his fingers over the table top. Jaenelle watched his hand till he stopped right in front of her. She then turned her gaze on him and Daemon felt his heart jump at the sheer intensity of her gaze.
"Perhaps I will speak to Lorn, later." She added and smiled at Daemon. He took her hand in his and shared the same smile before kissing her knuckles lightly.
"Of course. Later." He replied.
Chapter I
1/ Kaeleer
Many creatures, long, long ago, had felt the change in the earth. Had felt the shift as the Dragon's laid down their rights to a mysterious power. But they were not the only creatures who felt the need to adapt, either with greed for the Dragons' power, or for fear of the unknown Darkness. They changed their shape and gave way for the new leaders on the earth. But the transition was hard, the first generations finding it impossible to cope with caging their previous self within such a fragile body. And most of those that survived were cleaned out by these new leaders, the so-called Blood. The rest went into hiding, but loneliness and desperation snuffed out their life's light, all eventually going into the Darkness.
Except for Rhys.
He had adapted better, caging his Ancestors' spirit within the soft cage with a forced ease, a practice that was easier to maintain after thousands of years. He had heard the Blood, reacted to them, mirrored them. He learned that he had spent his earlier years in a place called the Twisted Kingdom, the place that was both clear and opaque at the same time. He had stumbled in easily, but had managed to walk out with the help of small, golden spiders. He realized the luck that had been with him when he had made it out in one piece.
There were other things he learned while he was walking, about Weaving and of beings called Black Widows. He was not a natural, his sometimes clawed hands being deadly but not poisonous. He had studied these, Black Widows, and now wore a small ring that hooked above the second joint of his ring finger on his right hand. It came to a point, but the end was like a hollow needle, the poison held in the clear "gem" on the top of his ring being held in reserve. He could poison and Weave Dreams, and he had Dreamed indeed.
He had seen Witch, the Queen of the Dark Court. She was one of his Dreams, one his heart yearned for, but she was not what he thought of at first breath at dawn or at last breath when he fell into sleep. That Dream had yet to be, no matter what he wove. He had felt the sickness among the Blood and the one, terrifying moment where that sickness was purged. He had been with the spiders then, and they had hidden him well from the rocking power of darker-than-Black.
It wasn't until Witch was old and retired that Rhys walked the land again. He traveled more, met kinsmen that weren't, and learned of the Offering. When he walked away from that ordeal, he wore the Black. It was then, realizing that he looked more like the Blood than he thought, and with more than enough power to defend himself without letting his inner beast out, and threatening to shred his body in the process, he felt confident enough to join the Blood, and try to keep some of his people alive.
Going into Kaeleer had been interesting. He looked at Blood cities with interested eyes, instead of the eyes of a wary hunter, he was not looking for bad signs or shelter, he was looking for a den. The people were nice and smelled clean, except for a few. But his pointed ears and the feline set of his jaw and nose, the small set of fangs and silver eyes kept them away while drawing the clean and nice ones closer.
And then there were the Kindred. The ones who were Blood without being Blood. They fascinated Rhys more than the Blood with their Protocol and their courts. The Kindred were like him, accepting Draca's gift and blending easily with most of the Blood while retaining their natural shape. Rhys grieved for his Ancestors, but was proud to be apart of the Blood and moved on. He finally came to Dhemlan and felt the power in his blood sing with the land, there was power here.
And so Rhys picked his new den and waited, knowing that the Blood that sang to his Blood would greet him and perhaps, show him the Dream Rhys had been waiting for.
2/ Dhemlan
Daemon walked down the streets of the sprawling market square, enjoying the colors of the festival more than the actual celebration going on around him. As he had gotten older, Daemon became more and more like his father, the High Lord of Hell, while still rubbing against the honed edge of his darker side. He liked the feeling of being old, and the respect that came unbidden with it. People, more accurately, the Province Queens, had started giving him more patience and would wait longer than normal for his replies to their inquiries or innocent attempts at demands.
It was nice to be old.
But it was another thing tacked onto Daemon's veneer that wasn't quite accurate. With the extended life Jaenelle had received, the others were able to retain their youthful vigor. Lucivar still instilled fear in the younger Eyrien warriors and Marian could still clean the eyrie from top to bottom in less than a day. Daemon was no less the deadly blade he was over three thousand years ago. Although the stories of the Sadist had faded, he could still strike terror into the hearts of those who crossed him.
But walking down the streets, he was just the kindly Warlord Prince of Dhemlan. Daemon smiled but stopped in mid-stride, frozen.
As Blood sang to Blood, the other male perked up and looked directly at Daemon. There was a moment of tension as each male tried to size the other up. The other male broke first and bowed low in submission. Daemon moved quickly through the crowd, flowing with a feline's grace through the crowd. He was on the other man in a second.
"Who are you?" He growled sharply.
"My name is Rhys Genua." The other man said, his voice accented from a land Daemon couldn't place.
"What are you?" Daemon left off the rest of his question, finding the one he voiced to be more accurate. Rhys kept his face still but shrugged lethargically.
"I cannot remember any more. My dam died many, many years ago." Rhys replied evenly. Daemon paused as he listened to the man's voice.
He talks like the Kindred. He mulled over silently.
"You wear the Black?" He questioned. Rhys pulled on the simple, silver chain around his neck, making the gem fall out from under his shirt. At least he was smart enough to hide it. Daemon examined the Jewel closer, not moving to touch it.
"Is it still uncut?" He inquired, bewildered. Rhys still kept his face straight and let go of the chain, the glistening Black Jewel thumping against his chest as it dropped.
"I do not practice that Craft and I am not comfortable amongst most Blood." He replied simply enough. The man confused him and Daemon paused, feeling his flare of rage at sensing another Black fade into innocent curiosity. Before he could ask another question, Daemon felt a familiar tug and turned. He saw Jaenelle on the arm of a tall Eyrien male, he talking to her while she stared directly at Daemon. When the male noticed her split attention, he looked around and, upon spotting Daemon, raised an arm and waved enthusiastically.
"Uncle Daemon!" The male shouted. A smirk broke across Jaenelle's face and her cold stare flickered.
Who is the male? The Eyrien asked over the Ebon-gray spear thread.
A friend, I think. Daemon replied just as the pair walked up to him.
"Ah Jaenelle my love." He said and kissed his wife's cheek. Jaenelle broke away from the Eyrien and embraced her husband.
"Thank you for escorting her around this morning Daemonar." Daemon said. His nephew grinned wildly and scratched the back of his head.
"No problem Uncle. Isabella had to be at the Tavern early this morning any way." Daemonar said.
"We're being rude Daemon." Jaenelle spoke up calmly. Daemon turned and nodded to Rhys.
"Jaenelle, this is Rhys Genua, a Warlord Prince from some unknown place." Daemon said, not refraining from keeping the suspicion out of his voice. He was surprised, then, when Rhys dropped to his knees and laid his hands against the ground.
"My Lady." He whispered. Daemonar and Daemon shared a startled glance, but Jaenelle stayed calm, even offering a small smile.
"Please stand Prince, we are friends here. We are also drawing a lot of attention to ourselves." She said and gestured to the crowd around them. Some of the revelers had stopped and were now whispering behind their richly decorated masks and brightly painted fans. There was now a sizeable amount of space around them and the revelers, as the onlookers were keeping their distance. As Rhys stood, Jaenelle took Daemon's arm and looked fondly at Daemonar.
"Why don't you go on ahead Daemonar? I think I'd like a chance to talk to our new friend." Jaenelle said pleasantly. Daemonar hesitated, looked at Daemon, but nodded and walked off, murmuring a farewell to Rhys.
"Why don't we head back to the house?" Jaenelle offered. She and Daemon turned and started to move back through the crowd, an unspoken invitation for Rhys to follow. He still had enough of his instincts left to read the couple and followed closely behind them. Relying on their psychic scent to guide him in case he got lost.
When they got into the townhouse, Daemon had given polite orders to the doorman while he took Jaenelle's shawl and hung it up on a peg near the door. When the doorman walked away, Jaenelle and Daemon entered a room on the left, leaving Rhys alone in the hall for a moment. The only other way to go was down the rest of the small hallway to the back of the house or up the stairs to the second level. Rhys quickly probed the house and felt five other people in the townhouse other than himself, Jaenelle, and Daemon. The people, including the doorman, ranged from jewels Rose to Green. Securing his confidence, Rhys walked into the room Daemon and Jaenelle had entered.
"Sit down Prince." Daemon said from the sideboard that held various sized bottles. Jaenelle was already sitting in a large, overstuffed armchair, a cup of some steaming liquid in her hands. From the door, Rhys smelled the mint and approved of the tame drink. He moved through the room and sat in a simple armchair positioned in the right corner close to the door.
"Would you like something to drink?" Daemon offered as he poured a brown liquid into a globed glass. Rhys could smell that familiar, spicy smell and shook his head.
"I do not like the liquid fire." Rhys said and blanched. Daemon chuckled and moved to sit on the couch next to his wife.
"Some of them are not so, spicy, but I understand your distaste." Daemon said.
"Now Rhys," Jaenelle started. Rhys sat up, turning his full attention to her.
"Yes my Lady?" He asked. Daemon chuckled again but took a sip of his brandy.
"You can call me Jaenelle Rhys. I told you, we're friends." Jaenelle snapped. Rhys bowed his head.
"Yes La-," He caught himself at Jaenelle's glare. "Jaenelle."
"Now Rhys, I have a question for you. Do you know who the Dea al Mon are?" Jaenelle asked.
"You speak of my ears?" Rhys said and brushed his hand against the side of his head. Jaenelle didn't reply and Rhys went on.
"I am not of the Dea al Mon, nor am I of Tigrelan, or from the Fyreborn Islands. I cannot remember my people, although we must have been all points." He said and held up his oddly shaped hands with a wide grin. Where his nails should have been were just sheathes for claws. But Daemon noticed the fangs in the grin. Jaenelle laughed at Rhys' awkward attempt at humor while Daemon set himself on edge.
"So how old are you?" Jaenelle asked. Rhys paused and Daemon could tell from how the man's silver eyes went dull that he was thinking.
"You know the Lady Draca?" Rhys asked, a little light returning to his eyes. Daemon held his breath as Jaenelle nodded.
"Yes." She answered, her voice oh-so soft.
"I knew her daughter, before she fell." Rhys answered and looked directly into Jaenelle's eyes. For the first time in thousands of years, Daemon saw Jaenelle lean back, confused.
"How?" Was all Jaenelle could ask. Rhys leaned back in the chair and draped his hands over the end of the chair's arms. His claws unsheathed a little and he flexed his fingers, feeling the ligaments in his hands stretch and roll over his knuckles.
"Before, when only the Dragons held the Blood magic, there was earth magic. It touched some of us, giving our people a higher mind over the lower animals. But when Draca shed her scales and the Blood magic was spilt, that earth magic changed. I know that my people were unsure of how to receive Draca's gift. I know that we were unsure of who else had the power and if we could contain it within our animal bodies, especially after we saw the new guardians of the Blood magic. I know my people changed their shape, to look more like the Blood, but it destroyed us.
"I walked the Twisted Kingdom for many years, when I met the Kindred, I felt a little heavier, like I had weight in the world. Then the spiders taught me how to weave, and taught me how to be a Black Widow." Daemon let out the breath he had been holding in a long hiss, but Rhys didn't turn.
"You, learned to be a Black Widow?" Jaenelle clarified. Rhys nodded.
"How?" Daemon asked, bewildered. Rhys held up his right hand and Daemon stared at what he assumed was a very cloudy opal centered on a very oddly shaped ring.
"The poison is in there?" Jaenelle asked. Daemon looked and noted that Jaenelle had rushed from her seat to Rhys' side, who sat upright and held out his hand – claws sheathed – for inspection.
"The point is actually a needle to inject the poison." Rhys clarified, using his other hand to point it out.
"How does the poison get in there?" Jaenelle asked. Rhys dropped his free hand into his lap.
"The ring is attached to my finger. There is a small tube that attracts the poison I ingest up to twice a month and collects it in this container." He answered. Daemon stroked his own finger that hid his snake tooth and did not envy the other man. There was not only a large amount of pain going into the attachment of the ring, but also building up that tolerance to a poison to be able to ingest it twice a month. Daemon shook his head and sat a little straighter.
"But what are you doing here Rhys?" He asked suddenly. Jaenelle, from where she knelt next to Rhys, looked up at her husband, while Rhys looked down at his ringed hand.
"I was waiting for you. I was hoping that you could help me." He said. Daemon and Jaenelle shared a quiet look, years of marriage giving them a better communication system then the psychic threads.
"Help with what?" Daemon asked cautiously. Rhys looked up at him, hope in his eyes.
"Finding my Dream." He replied.