Hearing Yvonne's voice now, issuing so bizarrely from the mouth of his dead sister's twin, made Herrington gasp for breath. This girl, she was his. She had to be. His daughter. Blood of his blood. Fruit of his seed.

His and that b.i.t.c.h's.

It shouldn't have been possible. Yama and humans were, genetically speaking, far enough apart not to breed. He could only conclude that the man Yvonne took before him had influenced the result, perhaps interacting with his emission in some manner that allowed it to germinate.

If his handlers knewa His heart clenched with dread. He couldn't begin to predict how they would react.

But now the old biddies had reached a decision on the still life. His daughter smiled at them, starting to turn. In a second, she would see him. In a second, she would know.

He panicked. Only his long a.s.sociation with humans allowed him to identify the response. Helpless to control it, Herrington spun away. He was halfway out the door, his fist pressed tight to his aching breastbone, before he forced himself to stop.

He was daimyo, by the G.o.ds. He wouldn't quail before a human.

Roxie saw the demon sag against the threshold as if he couldn't go another step. Yama didn't often patronize her shop, but she knew the behavior was unusual. a.s.suming he was ill, she hurried to offer a.s.sistance.

The demon lifted his head, and she fell back. He had the Yama's characteristic pale eyes, silver from rim to rim without any white. Seeing those alien eyes was always a shock, but the shock she felt today had a new and extremely disturbing twist. She couldn't have been more startled if she'd run across her twin. The demon had her hair, her scattered freckles, her st.u.r.dier than normal build. His mouth didn't match, but his cheekbones were the same, as was his stubborn jaw and nose. The biggest difference between them was that he was older.

Old enough to be her father.

Her hand slapped the base of her throat.

The uncanny resemblance had to be happenstance. Demons and humans didn't procreate. And yeta how could she deny the evidence of her eyes? Hadn't she been wondering all her life if this day would come: when she'd meet the man who must have sired her? If that man was a demon, it would account for her mother's unaccustomed silence concerning his ident.i.ty. Had Roxanne's father been anyone Yvonne could claim, Yvonne would have demanded a generous allowance for support. Roxanne had always a.s.sumed her father was poor, but now she saw a darker possibility.

"Sorry to disturb you," the demon said in the clipped tones of a purely human aristocrat. If he had an accent, it was indiscernible. "I'm Lord Herrington of Herrington Downs. The Yamish envoy? Blast. I know I've got a card somewhere."

"I recognize you." How cold she sounded, how distant. She might have been one of them. At that frightening thought, her mind stuttered to a halt.

The demon stopped digging in his expensive coat. His hand came out slowly. "Of course you do. My picture's in the paper all the time. Black and white, though, so maybe you didn't know?"

She didn't like the emphasis he put on the word. "I don't know now," she said coolly. She told herself she didn't, at least not any more than that they looked alike. Amazingly, her answer seemed to take him aback.

"No. Well." For a demon, he appeared positively awkward. With an effort, he went on. "But you're Yvonne's daughter, aren't you? You'd have to be. That voice. Not another voice like mat anywhere." The demona"Herringtona"was puffed up like a pigeon, from discomfort was her guess, though procreative pride seemed an option, too. He gave his lapels a vigorous tug, then leaned closer.

"You've got to be my daughter," he said in confidential tones. "Not being a scientist, I couldn't say how it happened, but there's no other way to explain who you look and sound like. Your mother and I certainly were on familiar terms."

"It can't be," she snapped. "It's physically impossible."

"Impossible things have happened before. You're mine, my dear. I advise you to reconcile yourself to that fact."

Roxanne drew a deep, calming breath. She let two hansoms rattle by the door before she spoke. "I don't see why I should reconcile myself to anything. Begging your pardon, Lord Herrington, but as far as I'm concerned, any connection between us is strictly accidental. I have my own life here, my own independence. I don't need that complicated by a stranger who thinks five minutes of familiarity with my late mother gives him some sort of proprietary interest."

Herrington blinked at her. It wasn't much of a reaction, but if forced to guess, she would have said he was stupefied. "You wish to deny your connection to me, to one of the oldest families in Narikerr?"

"You bet your demon eyes I do."

Herrington scratched his jaw. Demons were renowned for their greater-than-human intelligence, but his expression was childlike in its lack of comprehension. Roxanne ignored a twinge of pity. He had some nerve, expecting her to turn cartwheels at the prospect of being related to him.

"A true daimyo would respect my wishes," she said in a silkier voice.

Fortunately, she'd judged the right tack. Her words recalled him to his dignity. He settled his coat and threw back his shoulders. "I'll leave my card," he said. "Just in case. You never know when a faa", er, envoy can do a person a service."

She was a ma.s.s of quivering jelly by the time he left. Her father. She'd met her demon father.

G.o.d help her, she wished she could convince herself it wasn't true, but many things she'd wondered about were making sense for the first time. Her strength. Her height when her mother had been tiny. The fact that she never, ever got sick. Maybe even her mother's hot and cold treatment could be laid at this door. To bear a demon's child must have been a terrible trial. Roxanne closed her eyes as horror surged over her anew. She could barely take the knowledge into her head.

Shaking herself, she decided she didn't like this Herrington. Used to having his way, she bet, and didn't see why he should stop. She bet he was worse than a human n.o.b. One of the oldest families in Narikerr, he'd saida"as if she ought to care! It wouldn't be safe to have a man like that nosing around her life, not with the boys. Her arrangement with Charles and Max was strictly informal. The Children's Ministry would never consider an unmarried, illegitimate artist a suitable guardian, and never mind a half-demon. If someone were to tell them, someone ruthless enough to use the information as leveragea Her nails gouged her palms, barely aware of the fluttering concern of the Misses Leventhal, still waiting in the alcove to purchase their ugly but oh-so-fashionable still life.

She couldn't lose Charles and Max. They'd made a home together. They were her family now. She wouldn't endanger that for any amount of blood, no matter what species it came from.

Chapter 7.

I am often asked to speak of Herrington and his daughter, but I refuse to join the ranks of speculating journalists. Suffice to say, their relationship was not unlike that of fathers and daughters everywherea"whatever people might imagine to the contrary.

a"The True and Irreverent History ofAwar Unable to concentrate on serving customers, Roxanne closed the gallery early. She'd planned to return home, only to discover she couldn't bring herself to go.

How was she going to face Charles and Max? The way they'd grown up, on the streets in dockside, demons were true monsters to them. Young as Max was, maybe she could put off telling him, but Charles had a right to know. She'd read stories about Herrington in the ragsa"mainly because, in addition to being the city's resident Yamish envoy, he was a respected amateur archaeologist. As an artist, she had followed the news of his digs with interest. In the process, she'd also seen accounts of his diplomatic prowess.

People claimed he was a master strategist. Victoria's chief counsel had dubbed him "The Red Fox." Who knew what he might do if Roxanne resisted his wishes?

As to that, who knew what she might do if her half-demon side started coming out?

Barely aware of what she was doing, she climbed the steps to the next clanking tram that pa.s.sed, squeezing into a seat beside a tired-looking maid with a basket of groceries clutched on her lap.

Roxanne's skin was clammy, her shoulders tight. What if, unbeknownst to her, she was even then draining her fellow citizens of etheric-force? Horrified by the thought, she wrapped her arms around her waist, trying her utmost not to touch anyone.

Halfway through its route, the tram's generator stalled. While the driver paid a streetboy to run to the nearest stable to hire a team, Roxanne got out. The clinic Abul volunteered at two days a week was only a few streets away. If he was back to his normal schedule, he'd be there now.

She wasn't eager to confide in him, but she knew she needed professional advice.

The clinic was housed in a converted candy shop. It was cramped inside but well lit by the front windows. Roxanne's expression as she walked in must have been strange, because Abul's eyes widened the moment he saw her.

"Have Doctor Russet finish this case," he said to the nurse who stood at his side.

Leaving his patient behind, he came straight to her and, in front of everyone, took her hands. She couldn't even feel guilty that he wasn't making her wait.

"I need to speak to you privately," she said before he could ask what was wrong.

"Yes. All right." He glanced behind him. "We can talk in the back parlor."

The back parlor was a combination file room, office, and break kitchen for the staff. It had a coal fire and a few sad pieces of furniture. Roxanne sat on a lumpy gray-green couch. Though her eyes were too hot and dry to have been crying, she accepted Abul's offer of a handkerchief. Her friend swung a wooden chair around to face her.

"I need this kept between us," she said.

Abul smiled faintly at her intensity. "You may consider doctor-client privilege to be in effect."

"This isn't a joke. I'm deadly serious."

"As am I," said Abul. "So don't insult my integrity."

Roxanne bit her lip and looked down at her hands, now twisted together in her lap. "I met my father today," she blurted out.

"Did you?" Abul sounded mildly curious.

"He's a demon."

She was looking at him then. She saw how his dark skin paled. His mouth worked for a few seconds before words came out. When they did, they were raspy.

"That isn't possible."

"I'm afraid it is. He showed up at the gallery. I'm his spitting image. And he knew my mother. He recognized that I have her voice. You know I'm stronger and healthier than most people. Plusa"" She covered her mouth as another piece of evidence fell into place. "I've always been good with numbers. You know how demons are with math. I need to know, physically, what I have to worry about. I need to find out ifa if I'm going to start feeding off people."

Abul rose to his feet. Roxanne wasn't sure the move was deliberate, but he put his chair between them, his long brown fingers gripping its slatted back. His hands and nails were scrubbed just as Yamish doctors insisted they should be, and around the collar of his clean white coat hung the silver snake of a Yamish stethoscope. A thought slipped so quickly through her mind it hardly registered.

Was her unsuspected heritage truly a cause for shame?

"Ia don't believe you will," Abul said, bringing her attention back to the matter at hand. "I've never heard of our species interbreeding, but I do know the Yama begin transferring energy very young. If you were going to develop that ability, I expect you would have noticed it by now. You mighta" He rubbed his chin uncomfortably. "You might have trouble conceiving a child, but you'd probably need to consult a specialist to be sure, and a Yamish specialist might be best."

Up until then, Roxanne had never heard him refer to his foreign colleagues without a shadow of scorna"or at least resentment. In spite of herself, she smiled. Poor Abul. Discovering his friend was half-demon couldn't be easy.

"I wish I knew more," he said. "I'm afraid I can't predict what effect your mixed blood might have."

Roxanne stood. "Thank you for telling me what you could. You've rea.s.sured me just by being calm. I probably panicked more than I needed to. It's not as if I haven't beena what I am all along."

"I could attempt to get you a referral."

She tried to conceive of letting a demon examine her. "I'll think about it. For now, I'd like to keep this quiet."

Abul nodded, his face somber. He knew as well as anyone the prejudice she might face. "Will you tell the boys?"

"I'm thinking about that, too. At some point, they'll need a to know."

"They'll love you all the same," he said.

Roxanne couldn't help but notice his a.s.surance held a hint of doubt. If she couldn't be certain of Max and Charles, she didn't want to imagine telling Adrian.

By the time the hired cab dropped him home, Herrington's course of action had been decided. Because he couldn't be positive his newly discovered daughter would keep their relationship to herself, he had to be the one to break the news to his handlers, and he had to do it now. Only then could he hope to manipulate their reaction.

With a wordless wave to Albert, who knew better than to approach him uninvited, he proceeded up the stairs to his private, locked study, the one the maids were forbidden to even think about tidying. After picking his way through the unavoidable dust and clutter, he reached his large, marble-topped desk. A secret compartment at the back of one of the drawers hid his one truly indispensable piece of Yamish technology. On the outside, to disguise it from the eyes of unwitting humans, it appeared to be an out-of-date Farmer's Almanac. On the inside, a small, flat viewing screen allowed him to speak directly to his superiors in Narikerr.

He opened the false book, laid it on a mahogany stand designed for the purpose, then fit the tiny wireless speaker into his ear. If anyone heard him, they'd think he was talking to himself.

He spared a glance for his favorite framed portrait of Louise. Her resemblance to his daughter startled him anew. He hadn't exaggerated the effect. But he had to push that out of his mind in order to keep calm.

To his surprise, when he punched the code to connect, he reached not the Under-Minister of Foreign Affairs, but the prince of Narikerr himself. A pale shadow of his celebrated fathera"the man who'd so deftly handled the intrusion of DuBarrya"the city's current prince only answered official calls when he was trying to impress a lover, or unconscionably bored. Startled by the sight of the prince's languid, handsome face, Herrington adjusted his strategy accordingly.

"Your highness," he murmured, bowing his head. "You do me great honor."

"Herrington," drawled the prince, the protraction of his speech indicating that boredom was the reason for his presence. "I hope you're calling about something interesting. The city's deadly dull today."

"Only your highness can judge if my news is interesting, but it certainly is unusual."

The prince leaned closer to the screen. One of his thin black eyebrows climbed a fraction higher.

"I have discovered I have a daughter," said Herrington.

To his astonishment, simply saying the word daughter set his soul alight with what a human would have called joy. He had a daughter. No matter how infelicitous Roxanne's maternal lineage, Herrington had produced issue. His blood would live into the future. Fortunately, his fierce blaze of feeling could not be read through the screen. All that showed in his expression was mild distaste.

"I take it congratulations are not in order," said the prince. Had it not been extremely lower cla.s.s, Herrington suspected the Emperor's nephew would have rubbed his hands. His royal worthlessness adored being privy to good gossip.

"Alas, no," Herrington admitted. "My daughter turns out to be half-human."

The prince was shocked into gasping aloud. "How could this be?"

As tastefully as he could, Herrington shared his theory of mixing seed, at which the prince grimaced, then feigned knowingness.

"Regrettably," Herrington went on, "because she was born in Awar to a human mother, she won't be subject to our laws."

This was debatable, the situation never having come up before. Herrington knew, however, that if he could get the prince to agree with him, his interpretation was that much closer to becoming fact.

"Hmm," said the prince, drawing out the sound unsurely; thankfully, he was not a great legal mind. "Likely you are correct. I wonder, though, do we want her subject to our laws?"

"It would be a dire diplomatic mess," Herrington said, knowing the prince would not like that. It might, after all, require him to exert himself. "The problem is, this woman does not wish to acknowledge the tie between us. Truth be told, she wants nothing to do with me."

"Why on earth not?" demanded the prince.

Herrington pursed his lips sadly. "Humans don't see us as we see ourselves. I know it is hard to credit, your highness, but they are barely sophisticated enough to distinguish between daimyo and rohn. I believe, however, that I know a way we can lure her into our sphere, so we may observe any noteworthy peculiarities her breeding may have created."

"You can't mean to bring this creature to Narikerr!" At the mere possibility, the prince's well-bred features twisted delicately in horror.

"No, indeed," said Herrington, judging it time to incline his head respectfully again. "That would be most inappropriatea"as you yourself have intuited. No, I intend that she should stay in Awar, under my personal observation, as would be natural were we a normal father and child."

The prince took a moment to absorb this suggestion. Herrington tried not to hold his breath. It was absolutely crucial that Roxanne remain under his protection, undera"for that mattera"the protection of her own nation's law. If Yamish authorities decided to lay claim to her, especially with her existence essentially unknown, he could not swear she would be treated with the care he'd begun to suspect was due every intelligent being. Not that he'd ever air the view. That would const.i.tute going more "native" than any daimyo could approve. In any case, it would be all too easy for his handlers to cause one human woman to disappear.

At last, the prince responded. "I applaud your tolerance," he said. "I am not certain I could remain in the proximity of such aa"But she is your daughter. I shall not mention a word."

Most likely, he couldn't come up with one, but Herrington nodded as if in grat.i.tude for his sensitivity. "You are too kind," he said gravely, secretly delighted to have gotten the concession he was hoping for. "It is, as always, my signal honor to serve my prince."

Chapter 8.