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far end of the table and putting three books next to another stack.
    Daemon shifted a little to get a better look at the stacks. Were those the books to be discarded or the ones Saetan and Geoffrey, the Keep’s historian/librarian, were trying to preserve?
    Old books, from the looks of the covers. Most were so old the titles had faded and the bindings had become fragile despite the preservation spells that must have kept them intact for so long. Culling the volumes in the Keep’s vast library was an ongoing project, and every book had to be handled with care.
    “I’m always delighted to see you, Daemon,” Saetan said, returning to the stacks in the center of the table. “But I recognize the difference between a casual visit and when one of you drops by because you have something on your mind.”
    Caught. But he wasn’t ready to ask the question. So he lobbed a different conversational ball onto the table. “Have you heard about the spooky house?”
    “The what?”
    With perverse glee, Daemon told his father all about Jaenelle’s plans to create a house based on landen children’s ideas of how the Blood lived—and watched the High Lord of Hell pale.
    “You’re joking,” Saetan said hoarsely.
    Daemon shook his head. “Jaenelle and Marian are there right now, inspecting the property.”
    “Can’t you stop this?”
    “Would you like to suggest how?”
    Absolute silence.
    For a minute, Daemon watched his father sort books, certain the man wasn’t paying any attention to what was being placed where and would have to sort them all over again.
    “Wasn’t there anything else you wanted to discuss?” Saetan asked, picking up a stack of books.
    It was that tiny hint of desperation, the little undercurrent of a plea, that made it possible to ask the question. But he turned his head and stared at the wall instead of the man.
    “When I was a pleasure slave in Terreille, I woke up each morning and wondered who I needed to kill that day, or what kind of vicious game I would have to play, or if I’d be the one who was killed. I lived on the knife’s edge every waking moment, and I honed my own temper on that edge. I earned being called the Sadist.”
    “And now what’s the most frightening thing you face?”
    “Morning sex.”
    Saetan dropped the books.
    Daemon cringed, hoping none of the volumes had been damaged.
    Saetan fussed over the books, then stopped. Just stopped.
    “I’m your father,” he said quietly. “And I am Jaenelle’s adopted father. So there are aspects of your marriage I would prefer to remain ignorant about unless necessity requires me to know about them. But I’ll ask you: Do you need a Healer?”
    The question startled him. “No.”
    “You’re favoring your back.”
    “That’s not because of Jaenelle; that’s because of the damn cat. She yelled at him, and he got upset.”
    Saetan sighed, a quiet sound full of relief. “Kaelas is a Red-Jeweled Warlord Prince who is eight hundred pounds of muscle and temper. It always amazes me that all it takes to turn him into an anxious puddle of fur is for Jaenelle to say ‘bad kitty’ and rap him on the head with her fingertips.”
    “She did a bit more than that, actually. She yelled at the cat.”
    “Why?”
    “He woke her up.”
    Another silence. “You were in bed with Witch?”
    Sharp concern, Steward of the Court to Queen’s Consort. And the understanding that Jaenelle, allowed to wake up by herself, woke up grumpy. When startled awake, Witch was the side of her that woke first—and Witch woke up deadly.
    “Then I’ll ask again, Prince,” the High Lord said. “Do you need a Healer?”
    Daemon shook his head.
    “Your back?”
    He raised a hand, then let it fall to his side. “Just a bruise. I was sitting at the desk. He came in too fast. I didn’t expect Kaelas to completely lose his brains and try to climb into my lap while I was sitting in the chair!”
    “You shielded?”
    “Kept me from getting impaled,” Daemon