Hekatah called in a second bottle. "The proper dose of this aphrodisiac, slipped into her wine during the wedding toast, will make her hungry for her new husband." Jorval licked his lips.
"The next morning, the second dose must be given. This is very important because her hunger must be strong enough to override the High Lord's desire for an interview with her husband. By the time she's ready to release the boy from his conjugal duties, the High Lord won't be able to deny or object to the attachment without looking like a tyrant or a jealous fool." Hekatah paused, not pleased with the way Jorval was eyeing those bottles. "And the wise man guiding this affair will never be suspected—unless he calls attention to himself."
With visible effort, Jorval put his fantasies aside. He carefully vanished the bottles. "I'll be in touch."
"There's no need," Hekatah said a little too quickly. "Knowing I could help is enough. I'll let you know where, and when, to pick up the next supply of the aphrodisiac." Jorval bowed and left.
Hekatah sat back, exhausted. Jorval was ignorant of, or chose to ignore, the common courtesies. He'd brought no refreshment and had offered none. Probably thought he was too important. And he was, damn him. Right now he was too important to her plans for her to insist on the amenities. However, once the little bitch was sufficiently cut off from Saetan, she would be able to eliminate Jorval.
Two weeks. That would give her enough time to complete the rest of her plan and set the trap that would, with luck, get rid of a half-breed Eyrien Warlord Prince as well.
Something felt wrong.
Lucivar set the armload of wood into the box by the kitchen hearth.
Very wrong.
Straightening up, he made a sweeping psychic probe of the area, using Luthvian's house as the center point.
Nothing. But the feeling didn't go away.
Preoccupied with the nagging uneasiness, he didn't move when Roxie entered the kitchen, didn't really notice the light in her eyes or the way her walk changed as she came toward him.
He'd spent the past two days doing chores for Luthvian while dodging Roxie's amorous advances. Two days was about all he and Luthvian could manage together, and they only managed that because she was busy with her students most of the day, and he left right after dinner to spend the night in a mountain clearing.
"You're so strong," Roxie said, running her hands over his chest.
Not again. Not again.
Normally he wouldn't have allowed a woman to touch him like that. Normally he would have considered that tone of voice an invitation to an intimate introduction to his fist.
So why was he afraid? Why were his nerves buzzing?
Sever it this time. Break the link for good. No. Can't. Won't be able to reach him if. . .
Roxie's arms wound around Lucivar's neck. She rubbed her breasts against his chest. "I haven't had a Warlord Prince yet."
Where was the fear coming from?
You can't have this body. This body is promised to him.
Roxie pressed against him. She playfully nipped his neck. He set his hands on her hips, holding her still while he concentrated on finding the source of that wasp-angry buzzing.
No. Not again.
It was coming from the Ring of Honor Jaenelle had given him. The buzzing, the fear, the cold rage building under the fear. Those weren't his feelings washing through him, but hers.
Hell's fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful. Hers.
"I see you've changed your tune," Luthvian said tartly as she entered the kitchen.
Cold, cold rage. If it wasn't banked quickly . . .
"I have to go," Lucivar said absently. He felt the pull of arms around his neck and automatically shoved the body away from him.
Luthvian started swearing.
Ignoring her, he turned toward the door and wondered for a moment why Roxie was lying in a heap on the kitchen floor.
"You have to service me!" Roxie shouted, pushing herself into a sitting position. "You got me aroused. You have to service me."
Spinning around, Lucivar snapped a leg off a kitchen chair and tossed it into Roxie's lap. "Use that." He headed out the door.
I won't allow this. I will not submit to this.
"Lucivar!"
Snarling, he tried to shake off Luthvian's hand. "I have to go. Cat's in trouble."
Luthvian's hand tightened. "You're sure, aren't you? You sense her well enough that you're sure."
"Yes!" He didn't want to hit her. He didn't want to hurt her. But if she didn't let him go . . .
The hand on his arm trembled. "You'll send word to me? You'll let me know if . . . if she needs help?"
Lucivar gave Luthvian a hard, steady look. She might be jealous of the way the men in the family were drawn to Jaenelle, but she cared. He kissed her cheek roughly. "I'll send word."
Luthvian stepped back. "You spent all those years training to be a warrior, so go make yourself useful."
No.
Lucivar sped along the Ebon-gray Web, squeezing out all the speed he could, knowing it was already too late.
I won't let you.
Whatever happened, he'd take care of her afterward. Sweet Darkness, please let there be an afterward. He pushed harder.
No feelings from the Ring. No buzzing. Nothing at all except . . .
Noooooo!
. . .the rage. Mother Night, the rage!
Lucivar thrust his way through the sick-faced crowd, homing in on the spot where Jaenelle's unleashed power was concentrated. A middle-aged Warlord stood on one side of the hallway, babbling at a grim-looking Mephis. The aftertaste of power swirled behind a door on the opposite side.
Lucivar swung toward the door.
"Lucivar, no!"
Ignoring Mephis's command, Lucivar snapped the Gray lock his demon-dead elder brother had placed on the door.
"Lucivar, don't go in there!"
Lucivar threw the door open, stepped inside the room, and froze.
In front of him, a finger lay on the carpet, its gold ring partially melted into the flesh, the Jewel shattered to a fine powder.
It was the largest—and the only identifiable piece—of what must have been a full-grown man. The rest was splattered all over the room.
The buzzing in his head warned him to take a normal breath before he passed out. If he took a normal breath while standing in this room, he'd heave for a week.
But there was something wrong about the room, and he wasn't leaving until he figured it out.
When he did, Lucivar's temper rose to the killing edge.
One male body. One demolished bed. The rest of the furniture, although ruined by bone fragments and blood, was untouched.
Lucivar backed out of the room and turned toward the man who had been babbling at Mephis. "What did you do to her?" he asked too calmly.
"To her!" The Warlord pointed a shaking hand toward the room. "Look what that bitch did to my son. She's mad. Mad! She—"
Roaring an Eyrien war cry, Lucivar slammed the Warlord against the wall. "WHAT DID YOU DO TO HER?"
The Warlord squealed. No one tried to help him.
"Lucivar." Mephis held up a handful of papers. "It appears Jaenelle got married this afternoon to Lord—"
Lucivar snarled. "She wouldn't marry willingly without the family present." He bared his teeth at the Warlord. "Would she?"
"T-they were in Hove," the Warlord stammered. "A whirlwind r-romance. She didn't want you to know until it was done."
"Someone didn't," Lucivar agreed. Smiling, he called in the Eyrien war blade and held it up where the Warlord could see it. "Do you want your face?" he asked mildly.
"Lucivar," Mephis warned.
"Stay out of this, Mephis," Lucivar snapped, his barely restrained fury freezing everyone in the hallway.