Wishing he had waited to see the older Healer who had been taking care of the residents of the village as well as SaDiablo Hall, he wondered why Nyssa had chosen to relocate to a small village like Halaway. She’d been introduced to him upon her arrival in the village, and he’d gotten the impression that Nyssa wasn’t a woman who enjoyed village life, that she craved the excitement of the larger towns and cities in Dhemlan.

He could think of one reason why Nyssa would relocate to Halaway, and he hoped again, for her sake, that he was mistaken about that too.

“The headaches?” He tightened the leash on a temper turning cold—and reminded himself that he could be hearing something that wasn’t there.

Her hands rested on his shoulders. Her thumbs pressed into muscles that were painfully tight. “Perhaps you’re not getting enough nocturnal exercise.”

Daemon exploded off the table. Grabbing his shirt off the chair in the room, he put it on with a grace that didn’t betray—or give any warning of—his growing rage.

“Thank you for that . . . illuminating . . . diagnosis.” A flash of his temper slipped the leash and turned the air in the room so frigid he could see his breath.

“I didn’t mean . . .” Nyssa stumbled away from him until her back hit the wall.

The room reeked of fear. Good. The bitch finally realized she’d gone too far.

“I can put together a mixture of herbs that should help your headache,” she stammered. “It will only take a few minutes.”

“You do that,” he said too softly.

As soon as he gave her enough space to reach the door, Nyssa fled from the examination room.

Daemon finished dressing, giving the bitch enough time to put together the ingredients for a healing brew. Not that he’d trust it—or her—enough to drink any brew made from those herbs, but he wanted to test it. If he couldn’t trust the witch who was taking over the Healer’s House in Halaway, he would have to make other arrangements whenever anyone in his family—or in his employ—became ill.

As he finger combed his thick black hair into the disheveled style he now preferred, he wondered if Surreal had seen the young Healer recently. Had his wife said something that might lead another woman to think he was open to such an invitation? As for nocturnal exercise, lately he was getting more than he wanted.

He kept the sexual heat leashed as tightly as he could, but Surreal met him in bed with a blend of hunger and anger, as if she blamed him for making her want him. Keeping his distance didn’t please her, and being a considerate lover didn’t please her. And the headaches had become severe enough that it was hard to give a damn about making things right between them.

Judging he’d given Nyssa enough time to make up the mixture so that he could take it and leave with limited interaction with her, Daemon walked out of the examination room.

“Here you are, Prince.” Nyssa held out a glass jar filled with an herbal mix. “This should help.” She held on to the jar moments too long, her fingers brushing against his as he took it from her. “I apologize if there was some misunderstanding during my examination.”

There was no misunderstanding, Daemon thought. And her apology was as false as her attempt to sound contrite.

He walked out of the Healer’s House before he gave in to the desire to wrap a death spell around the bitch and explode her heart in the middle of the night. The main reason he resisted was that if she made the transition to demon-dead, he’d still have to deal with her. Of course, she wouldn’t like dealing with him when he stood as the High Lord of Hell. She wouldn’t like it at all.

He’d make sure of it.

Shaking off those thoughts, at least for the moment, Daemon vanished the jar and headed for his next stop, letting the crisp afternoon air battle with his cold anger.

Might not be the Healer’s fault. Might not. Which was why he intended to get a second opinion.

His gliding walk covered ground with deceptive swiftness, and a few minutes later, he reached the walkway of a tidy cottage. Manny’s home. Since he was expected, he knocked on the front door once, walked in—then jerked to a stop as he crossed the threshold.

Manny stood in front of him, her hands on her ample hips, giving him the stare that had warned the boy he had been that he was in trouble. And damn it, that stare could still make him wary, despite the fact that he was the most powerful male in the entire Realm of Kaeleer.

“Where’s your overcoat?” she demanded. “How am I supposed to get it into that boy’s head that winter is almost here and he needs to wear a coat if you don’t set a good example? And don’t just stand there looking like a fish on a line. Come in and close the door. You’re letting the cold in.”

Some things didn’t change regardless of age and rank, Daemon thought as he obediently closed the door and followed Manny to the kitchen at the back of the cottage.

Two children sat at the pinewood table—his ward, Mikal, and his daughter, Jaenelle Saetien. Morghann sat next to Jaenelle’s chair, wagging her tail in enthusiastic greeting.

Manny bustled about the kitchen, pouring glasses of milk for the children and making coffee for him. And the other adult in the room . . .

“Hello, darling.” Daemon held out a hand to his mother. A broken Black Widow whose mind wandered the borders of the Twisted Kingdom, Tersa was unable to grasp what most people called sanity, but she was still gifted in the Hourglass’s Craft—and she was still powerful in her own way.

“It’s the boy. It’s my boy.” Smiling, she clasped her hands around his. Then she frowned. “You’re cold.” Reaching up, she cupped his face in her hands and studied him. “Not well,” she whispered. “Not well.”

He stepped back, wondering what she had sensed—or seen. “I’m fine,” he lied. “I was sufficiently annoyed when I walked out of a meeting that I forgot to put on my coat. That’s why I’m cold.”

For a moment, he thought Tersa would argue with him. Then her gold eyes filled with the vague look that meant her mind had wandered down another path in the Twisted Kingdom.

“We have nutcakes,” she said. “Manny says the children can each have one.” She looked at him.

Apparently he’d been demoted back to childhood—at least where nutcakes were concerned. “One is sufficient for a treat.” He pulled out a chair opposite Mikal and Jaenelle Saetien and sat, noticing the cautious way Tersa eased into the chair next to him.

When Sylvia, a former Queen of Halaway, had been killed at a house party that was meant as a lethal trap for her sons, Daemon used his positions as patriarch of the SaDiablo family and Warlord Prince of Dhemlan to become Mikal and Beron’s legal guardian in order to carry out Sylvia’s wishes for her sons. Jaenelle Angelline had worked out the details, and even a century later, the arrangement still followed the intentions of both Queens.