The Queen's Bargain

SIXTEEN

Dillon considered his diminishing options. He’d spent the winter going from one Rihland town to the next, extracting money from aristo fathers whose daughters’ reputations were becoming tattered by their taste for activities that made even powerful relatives wary of using their influence to keep those reputations intact. He’d also spent the winter searching for something so elusive he was no longer sure it existed. Love? That feeling was nothing more than a vicious myth, especially when paired with aristo girls. Acceptance? An empty lure. Besides, did he really want to spend his life among women with brittle laughs and men who needed to be cruel to someone in order to have a hard cock at night?

Not all aristos were like that. At least, he’d believed that until he’d made that one life-changing mistake. Now he couldn’t seem to find anyone who wasn’t brittle or a bully.

Maybe he needed to go somewhere less fashionable. Somewhere where the minor branches of aristo houses went to live because they could be the important somebodies in a place full of nobodies.

In fact, there were some distant cousins on his mother’s side who lived in a place like that. The valley where they lived was famous, but the village itself was rustic at best—at least according to his mother. Those cousins had come for a visit once. The boy, Terrence, had been about his age and they’d gotten along well. And he remembered Terrence’s mother as a kind woman. Even if she’d heard about his sullied honor, he didn’t think she would close the door in his face once she knew he had nowhere else to go.

Unlike his own mother.

A last chance. He needed to pick the right girl, someone young enough to be flattered by his attention, connected enough to provide him with some status when they handfasted, but not too connected. He’d had his fill of aristo bitches.

But Hell’s fire, how long could he endure rusticating in a village?

“As long as I have to,” Dillon muttered.

That much decided, he packed his trunks again and bought a ticket on a Coach that would take him to the village of Riada in the valley called Ebon Rih.

SEVENTEEN

Daemon stormed into the SaDiablo town house in Amdarh, letting temper thunder through the building. But even that wasn’t enough to ease the feeling of being hunted, so he roared, “Hell’s fire! What is wrong with the women in this city?”

He knew one of the things that was wrong with the Ladies in Amdarh. For months now, he and Surreal had maintained a careful schedule that kept them from residing under the same roof for more than a couple of days every fortnight. On those days they would attend social gatherings together in the evening, and at night, in private . . .

They satisfied their carnal needs for hours—her carnal needs more than his. There was heat in that collision of bodies, but little warmth, and he felt less and less enjoyment being with the woman who was his wife and lover.

But this assault by women who should have known better! At every social duty he fulfilled on his own, they surrounded him like starving cats around a succulent—and wounded—bird, and not even meeting defensive shields cold enough to freeze skin deterred them.

He had the sexual heat leashed so tight it was a surprise that he hadn’t emasculated himself, and that still wasn’t enough. Of course, the headaches, which had gotten more and more savage over the past few months, had done a good job of killing his libido, so the limited sex with Surreal was more than sufficient, even excessive.

And still the bitches kept pushing him. Pushing and pushing. Didn’t they realize they were going to push him too hard one of these days and snap his control? Then he would play with them. Sweet Darkness, how he would play!

“Prince?”

Daemon looked at Helton, the town house’s butler. The man’s face maintained a professional demeanor, but the eyes were full of fear.

The struggle to regain control of his temper had Daemon sweating. He didn’t want to fight this battle. Wasn’t sure how much longer he would win this battle.

“Prince?” Helton said again.

Somewhere in the town house, he heard one of the maids weeping. Terrified.

Daemon swallowed hard. Tasted a hint of blood.

He walked into the sitting room, then waited for Helton to join him.

“My apologies, Helton. It’s been a trying day, but that is no excuse for bringing temper into the house and distressing the staff.”

Helton took a step toward him. “Is there some way I can be of assistance?”

For a moment, he considered asking if Surreal was having an affair. If other witches had reason to think the marriage was breaking, they might also think he would be amenable to ignoring his vows. That could explain their otherwise inexplicable behavior. But asking the question would put Helton in an untenable position of conflicting loyalties, so he didn’t ask. Besides, he owed Surreal a great deal, including the gift of his darling daughter.

He would be back at SaDiablo Hall tomorrow, dealing with Jaenelle Saetien’s latest effort to test his rules. At least she was a female he still understood.

“No, thank you,” Daemon said, then changed his mind. “Yes. I’m not available to anyone for the rest of the day.”

“Very good, Prince.” Helton turned to leave, then turned back. “I hope things improve for you.”

“So do I.” It was a shame neither of them could put a name to what those things might be.

EIGHTEEN

Jillian flew down to Riada’s main street, full of nervous anticipation. Not wanting to call too much attention to herself, she wore her usual daytime trousers, but she’d paired them with a new top that had a more daring neckline than anything she’d worn before. She wasn’t a little girl anymore, so it was appropriate to wear clothing that suited a woman in love.

After taking a couple of deep breaths and resisting the urge to fuss with her hair and clothes, she began perusing the merchandise on display.

Market day in Riada. You could always go into the shops to purchase greens and fruits, fish and other seafood, and all kinds of meat, but as soon as the weather warmed up, merchants hauled out carts and tables and displayed their goods in the open air, turning the chore of shopping into a festive celebration. That one morning a week was as much about chatting with neighbors as it was about selecting the food for a couple of days’ worth of meals.

Even when she didn’t have to buy anything, Jillian looked forward to market day. The street swirled with color from the cloths that shaded the tables and the clothes worn by the men and women who were buying or selling. Voices mingled, rose, and fell in their own kind of music. The sound of a village, a community.

Keeping her wings tucked to protect them from the people jostling to see the merchandise, she wandered from one display to the next, looking at everything but buying nothing. Not yet, anyway. Marian had given her a shopping list but told her to purchase the ingredients for a meal she would like to learn how to make. Being a hearth witch, Marian was a wonderful cook—unlike Nurian, who was an excellent Healer and made healing brews that people actually liked drinking but, somehow, could make even an overspiced roast taste bland.

“Your basket is empty, Lady Jillian,” one merchant said, his voice a genial scold as he pointed at her basket. “Eyriens love the air, but even you can’t eat it.”

“First I have to decide what to eat. Then I’ll buy the ingredients,” she replied, smiling.

“What about seafood?” the fishmonger called. “I have fish fresh from my brother’s nets, brought to me just this morning. Or shrimp. What about lobster? I have some right here. I can put one in the pot and cook it for you if you don’t want to do it yourself.”

“You have a brother who catches fresh fish and lobsters?”

“My brother catches the fish. I have cousins who tend the lobster pots and also catch the shrimp. Lucky for you, huh? You won’t find fresher fish in all of Ebon Rih.”

Laughing, Jillian started to move on, then stopped. Marian had taught her how to make a spicy-sweet dressing for cold seafood served over fresh greens. Marian circled the plate with a couple of different kinds of sliced fruit and served it with crusty bread.

An easy dish to prepare for today’s midday meal, especially if the fishmonger cooked the lobster for her while she selected the other ingredients. And if Nurian didn’t get back from visiting her patients exactly on time, Jillian could put the meal together quickly once her sister got home, and nothing would overcook and spoil.

After checking Marian’s list, she said, “Two cooked lobsters and a pound of the shrimp.” That would be enough for everyone.

“Do you want to select your own lobsters?” The fishmonger gestured to the tank of water behind him.

“You can choose.” She wasn’t squeamish. She was Eyrien after all, and she’d seen enough game being dressed for the table. But lobsters were different. Even when they were dead, their beady eyes had an accusing stare that made her want to apologize while she ripped off their claws and broke open the shell. If she didn’t point to one, then they all had a chance to live a little longer—or at least live until the next customer made a selection. “I’ll make my other purchases and come back for them.”

Moving with purpose now, she purchased the other items that Marian wanted for the Yaslana household, then selected the fresh greens and other vegetables that she wanted for the salad, as well as the items she needed to make the spicy-sweet dressing.

She stood by the fruit cart, her eyes closed as she held up a piece of fruit so that she could breathe in the scent.

Then a male voice said, “Luscious, sweet, and deliciously ripe.”

Feeling heat stain her cheeks, Jillian opened her eyes and smiled. “Yes, it is.”

“I wasn’t talking about the fruit.”

She looked at the Opal-Jeweled Warlord standing beside her and felt butterfly wings in her belly. He had the dreamiest green eyes and stylishly disheveled russet hair that looked so striking compared with the black hair and gold eyes of the Eyrien race.

“Lord Dillon.” She knew she sounded breathless. Unsophisticated. She always did when she was around him.

“Lady Jillian.” A pleasant voice. A cultured voice with just a trace of an accent that, like his hair and eyes, made him so different from an Eyrien male.

A Rihlander from an influential family who lived in the eastern part of Askavi, Dillon had come to Riada to visit some cousins. She had met him a couple of weeks before at the lending library when he’d noticed her selection of books and asked her opinion of one he had chosen for himself, then apologized for being so forward and speaking to her without a proper introduction. It was such an aristo attitude, no doubt polished for fancy dances held in ballrooms or serving in a Queen’s court, and yet she didn’t get the feeling that he thought of her as a rube—a sentiment some of the aristo girls in the village managed to convey without saying anything that could get them into trouble with Prince Yaslana.

Since then, she and Dillon had met a few times—most often at the lending library, but also while she ran errands for Nurian or Marian. Sometimes she had Titian with her and the meeting was brief—barely a greeting in passing. And sometimes when she flew down to Riada alone, she and Dillon slipped away for a few minutes to talk, to have a few precious minutes in private to . . .

It wasn’t the open-mouthed kind of kiss she’d read about in the romance novels she hid from Nurian and read only in her room at night, but it wasn’t the dry brush of lips she’d experienced with Tamnar either. Dillon’s kisses were romantic, full of promises and desire.

Too much desire wasn’t good, wasn’t safe before she was old enough to have her Virgin Night, the ceremony that would remove the risk of her power and her Jewels being broken by her first experience of sexual intercourse. Dillon was old enough to have made the Offering to the Darkness and was now considered a grown man who wore the mantle of his full power. He was old enough to want a lover, and she couldn’t oblige. But how could she resist a few kisses when he told her he was dazzled by her because she was such a strong woman? How could she say no when he asked for a few minutes alone with her? It wasn’t like she was from an aristo family that required girls to have an escort when they spent time with a male friend.

As she selected the fruit and picked up loaves of crusty bread for herself and Marian, Dillon walked along with her, polite enough not to give offense but not chatting with the merchants. He seemed impatient, even a little aloof—until they passed a wide alleyway that led to the backs of the shops and the fields beyond.

“This way.” Dillon grabbed her arm as he took the basket and dropped it a few steps inside the alleyway.

“Dillon,” Jillian protested, looking back at the abandoned basket of fresh food. “You can’t leave the basket. The village cats will be all over the meat I picked up for Lady Marian!”

“She can wait.” He pulled her into the alleyway a few more steps.

“Well, let me put a shield and cold spell around—”

“You’re not her servant, Jillian. Why do you act like one?”

She blinked, confused by his sharp tone. “I don’t. I help Marian, and I get paid for it, but that doesn’t make me a servant.”

“Hired help, then.”

Tears stung her eyes. Why would she get all weepy just because Dillon didn’t understand that she had a role in the Yaslana household?

A spurt of temper and defiance made her lift her chin. “There is nothing wrong with serving someone or working for a living.”

He studied her, then looked contrite. “I know. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that. It’s just . . . We haven’t had any time together in days.” His hand slid down her arm and closed over her hand as he looked deep into her eyes. “If you loved me, you’d want to spend time with me.” He bent his head and leaned toward her, whispering, “If you loved me, you’d want to kiss me as much as I want to kiss you.”

His lips brushed her mouth, asking for permission. How could she refuse when she wanted to kiss him with everything in her?

She felt the wall at her back and his erect penis poking at her through their clothing as he pressed himself against her. That made her nervous, made her feel trapped. She pushed at his arms, tried to break the kiss to tell him she didn’t want this, it didn’t feel good, not when she felt trapped. Then his hand closed over her breast, something he’d done once before, but that time she’d had room to pull away.

No, she thought, trying to push him back. Permission before action. That was the rule. Kissing might be overlooked, but she didn’t know how to explain this.

Breathing hard, Dillon broke the kiss. “If you—”

She felt the dark power and hot fury a moment before Prince Yaslana grabbed Dillon by the throat, swung him around, and slammed him into the side of the building.

“No!” Jillian cried as Lucivar’s hand tightened around Dillon’s neck, choking him. Killing him. “No!”

She threw herself at Lucivar. She wasn’t sure he noticed her when he straightened his left arm, turning it into a barrier. She wrapped her hands around that arm, tugging and crying as Dillon, his toes barely touching the ground, struggled against an unyielding hand backed by Ebon-gray Jewels and a vicious temper.

“He didn’t do anything!” she cried.

“He had his hand on your tit in view of anyone who walked by,” Lucivar snarled. “So I say he did plenty.”

“Please.”

Lucivar was the law in this valley, and there was no one in the whole of Askavi strong enough to stand against him.

“Please,” she pleaded. “He didn’t do anything.”

Lucivar opened his hand and took a step back as Dillon slumped to the ground. Then he turned glazed gold eyes on Jillian. “The next time he doesn’t do anything in that way, I will rip off his cock and shove it down his throat. And then I’ll snap his neck. Are we clear?”

Glazed eyes were a warning that a Warlord Prince was riding the killing edge, primed for slaughter. So this wasn’t an idle threat. Lucivar never made idle threats.

“Are we clear?” he snarled softly.

“Y-yes.”

“Then go to my eyrie and wait for me.”

“I h-have to . . .”

“My eyrie. Now!”

She bolted out of the alleyway and leaped for the sky as soon as she had room to spread her wings.

Never breaking stride as he left the alleyway, Lucivar grabbed the handle of the basket and kept moving. Had to get away from the market, from the people who were scrambling to avoid him. They looked at him and knew he was riding the killing edge and that something as simple as the wrong inflection on a word might be enough to snap the leash on his formidable temper.

“Prince.” Rothvar, his second-in-command, took a step toward him.

“No,” he rasped, the only warning he could give before he spread his dark wings and flew home.

Something wrong. Too much fury burning in him. Why so much fury? He’d come across other youngsters taking advantage of the illusion of privacy, whether it was someplace in the village or a favorite spot by a stream. When it happened, he simply grabbed the back of the boy’s shirt—or girl’s, if she had the boy pinned—and hauled one youngster away from the other. That was sufficient to make any libido go limp.

Except this time . . . Because it was Jillian in that alleyway? Was that the source of his fury? Or something else?

The moment he walked into the big front room of his home, he heard the weeping coming from the kitchen. He couldn’t be inside, couldn’t let his temper stay inside with his family. Couldn’t.

“Papa.” Daemonar rushed forward, then skidded to a stop, his wings spreading for balance.

Couldn’t be around another male right now, not even his son.

“Keep the other children in the playroom,” Lucivar said, fighting to stay in control. When the boy hesitated and looked toward the kitchen, he snarled, “Get away from me. Now.”

Daemonar didn’t run. Knew better than to run. He backed away for a few steps, looking toward his father but not meeting the glazed eyes, not issuing any kind of challenge. Then he turned and walked down the wide corridor, just as Lucivar had taught him.

Breathing a little easier, Lucivar walked into the kitchen and dropped the basket on the table, momentarily silencing Jillian’s weeping.

“Lucivar.” Marian tightened her hold on the girl.

“I’ll be outside. When she’s taken care of things, she and I are going to have a chat.”

He saw the understanding—and sympathy—in Marian’s eyes.

Walking out of the kitchen, he crossed the big front room and went out the glass doors that opened to the yard, bordered by a stone wall enhanced with a Red shield that kept frisky children from tumbling off the mountain. Since the shield rose to twice his own height, that was enough protection for Daemonar and Titian when they played out here on their own. Once baby Andulvar started walking, and fluttering, he’d reshape the Red walls into an air-cushioned Red dome.

He paced the long length of the yard, tightening the leash on his temper with each step.

Shouldn’t have been that angry, not over something that, while not exactly prudent, wasn’t unexpected. Except . . .

Hell’s fire! She knew his rules, and she wasn’t helpless. Wasn’t usually helpless.

As he reached the far end of the yard, Lucivar felt the presence of a male intruder. Pivoting, he headed for the eyrie, calling in his war blade despite recognizing the psychic scent. Not an intruder, as such, but Rothvar should know better than to come here without being summoned.

Then again, being Nurian’s lover, Rothvar also had an interest in Jillian.

As he strode toward the eyrie, he watched Marian cross the big room to reach the front door. His steps lengthened, then slowed when Marian crossed the room again, carrying another shopping basket—and Rothvar flew away without crossing the threshold.

Lucivar vanished the war blade. A moment later, when Jillian walked out of the eyrie, her eyes puffy from crying but her chin up—a sure sign of temper—he settled into a fighting stance, ready for a different kind of battle.

Jillian walked through the open glass doors to have this “chat” with Prince Lucivar Yaslana. It didn’t matter that he was the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih, that he was the law here. It didn’t matter that he was the second most powerful male in the whole Realm of Kaeleer. It didn’t matter that almost from the day she and Nurian had arrived in Ebon Rih, she had run tame in the Yaslana household, helping Marian with Daemonar when he was a baby, and later helping with Titian and now baby Andulvar. It didn’t matter that Lucivar had defied Eyrien tradition and had given her the training in weapons and fighting that she’d wanted, while insisting on her participation in traditional education—something no ruler in the Realm of Terreille would have done for a young witch who wasn’t from an aristo family.

What mattered today was that he had treated her like a little girl, humiliating her and hurting Dillon. Terrifying her wonderful Dillon.

All right. Prince Yaslana wanted to have a “chat”? Had a few things to say? Well, so did she. She just didn’t know where to start, so she stared at him, waiting for all these boiling feelings to shape themselves into words.

“What in the name of Hell were you doing?” Lucivar shouted, breaking the silence.

“We weren’t doing anything!” Jillian shouted back, wanting to turn words into daggers.

“Witchling, I saw enough to know that he was doing something! And I didn’t walk into that alleyway by chance. ‘Prince, Lady Jillian went that way. I don’t think she’s feeling herself.’ ‘Prince, I saw Lady Jillian’s shopping basket on the ground in that alleyway.’”

Oh, that was more than humiliating that someone had tattled so that she and Dillon would get into trouble.

“I love him, and he loves me! We haven’t seen each other in days and just wanted a few minutes alone. There is nothing wrong with that.”

Lucivar took a step toward her. “He had you pushed against a wall on a day when you’re vulnerable. There is plenty wrong with that, witchling.”

Dillon couldn’t have known her moontime had started. Hell’s fire, she hadn’t known. The fact that Lucivar had sensed the physical change just made the whole thing even worse.

“You’re done with him,” Lucivar said.

“No.” Panic filled her, immediately replaced by fury. “No! I love him and—”

“I don’t doubt your feelings, but I have a lot of doubts about his. Either way, the decision’s made. You’re done with him.”

“You don’t get to decide that!”

“Yeah, I do.”

“No, you don’t! You’re not . . .”

. . . my father.

The unspoken words hung between them.

Jillian saw Lucivar brace for a blow he couldn’t dodge. In that moment, despite the anger she felt toward him, she understood that if she said the words, it would shatter what was between them in a way that could never be mended. He would accept the line drawn by the words, and she would never deal with Lucivar again, the man who taught her to handle weapons, who listened to her, who laughed with—and sometimes at—her. If she said the words, he would distance himself from her, and she would be like almost everyone else in the valley and surrounding mountains, dealing with and answering to the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih.

Until that moment, she hadn’t realized how much it had mattered to her that he had treated her like one of his children rather than the girl who came over to help Marian by watching the little ones.

Until that moment, it hadn’t occurred to her that they were both about to fly into some stormy winds.

“. . . being fair,” she finished lamely.

The tension in his shoulders eased, but the bright temper in his gold eyes didn’t fade.

“I don’t have to be fair, not when being fair interferes with my vow to cherish and protect. If I see a threat coming at me or mine, I deal with it.”

“But Dillon isn’t—”

“Enough.”

Defeated, brokenhearted, she stared at the tear-blurred ground between them.

“Hell’s fire, Jillian. He’s just—” Lucivar turned away from her. He swore quietly but with frightening intensity. Then he turned back. “Go home, witchling. And stay home.”

“Yes, sir.” She blinked away the tears but was careful not to look at him. Crying in front of the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih was something little girls did.

She flew back to the eyrie she shared with Nurian. Once she was safely in her own room, she let the tears flow.

“What did Rothvar want?” Lucivar asked when he stepped into the kitchen.

“Jillian had left without the lobsters and shrimp she’d purchased,” Marian replied calmly as she cracked the shells of two large lobsters. “Rothvar wasn’t sure if she had purchased them for me or for herself and Nurian, so he brought the food here. I think she was intending to make a simple meal of seafood on a bed of greens, so I’ll shell one lobster and half the shrimp and take it over to her.”

He moved away from the kitchen archway, then back again, wings rustling, hands tightening into fists. She wasn’t afraid for herself—Lucivar believed what his father had taught him, that a Warlord Prince leaves his temper at the door—but she gave Daemonar a psychic tap and reinforced Lucivar’s earlier order to remain in the playroom with his sister and baby brother. That Lucivar couldn’t shake off the anger, had brought it inside their home, worried her.

“What was I supposed to do?” Lucivar snarled. “He had her in an alleyway. His hand was on her breast! Even if she could have used Craft, she wears Purple Dusk and he wears Opal. She couldn’t have held him off if he wanted to do more. And despite what she might have said to you, she was trying to push him away.”

Of course she was, Marian thought. It hurts to have a breast squeezed when it’s already tender from the onset of moon’s blood. The fact that Lucivar knew even the gentlest touch could be painful some days had to have fueled his temper when he saw Jillian with the young Warlord.

She stopped trying to prepare the midday meal, since the man she’d adored through decades of marriage filled up her kitchen with his temper and body, unable to stand still.

“Would you have been so angry if Jillian’s moontime hadn’t started moments before you saw her?” she asked quietly.

No one was ever quite sure if it was psychic scent or physical scent that alerted Warlord Princes to a woman’s moontime, but any female under the protection of a Warlord Prince was protected during the three days when she couldn’t use her own power and was, therefore, vulnerable. The annoying part was that those men were so attuned to the women who were a part of their lives that they usually knew before the women—and reacted violently to anything that might possibly be a threat. The men in Riada had learned long ago to treat her with special care during her moontime whenever she ventured beyond the family eyrie—and Lucivar had learned that nothing more than a snarl from him was needed to have every man backing away. But before he had learned to trust enough, there had been times when even the Eyriens who worked for him had felt his war blade resting just above their skin—a blade honed so sharp that just pressing against it by taking too deep a breath was enough to slice through leather and cloth to reach skin.

Jillian wasn’t a stranger to her moon cycle. She might have rolled her eyes at the required three days of rest at home, but she had never disobeyed that rule. She hadn’t disobeyed today either. This was just unfortunate timing, but Marian feared the conflict between Lucivar and Jillian would escalate if something wasn’t done. More than that, whatever lines were drawn with Jillian would also apply to Titian when she reached an age when boys became interesting as a different kind of playmate.

“I think we should get a second opinion,” she said.

“Why in the name of Hell should we get a second opinion?” Lucivar demanded. “His hand, her breast. I should have ripped off his damn arm instead of giving him a warning choke.”

Mother Night. “We need someone on the outside who can look at this young aristo Warlord without prejudice.”

“Fine. I’ll ask Daemon to come and look at the little prick-ass. Then he can help me bury that whelp in a deep, cold grave.”

“You’d kill him for—”

“I didn’t say we’d kill him.”

Marian swallowed, aware of every muscle that moved in her throat. For everyone’s sake, she needed to jolt Lucivar out of the fury that hadn’t quieted.

“I think we need someone who would make more of an impression than your brother,” she said.

That stopped him. He just stared at her for a long moment. “Hell’s fire, Marian. Who makes more of an impression than Daemon Sadi?”

NINETEEN

Surreal placed her underwear in a dresser drawer, then turned to face Marian. “Tell me again why I’m here?”

“Because Lucivar needs a second opinion.”

“Why doesn’t he ask one of the other Eyriens? They usually have opinions about everything.”

“In this instance, their opinions are useless, because they’re male, they’re Eyrien, and they work for Lucivar, so of course they will agree with whatever line he draws.”

“Uh-huh.” She put her nightclothes in another drawer. “You know, sugar, it occurs to me that you were very careful to phrase your message in a way that indicated I needed to visit as soon as I could get here, but you didn’t actually say why you needed me.” She studied Marian. “Is there a problem between you and Lucivar?”

“No, nothing like that.”

Thank the Darkness. I’m dealing with a big enough problem of my own.

“It’s just . . .” Marian hesitated. “Whatever boundaries are drawn now will also apply to Titian.”

“Exactly what are we talking about?”

“We’re talking about Jillian and the way Lucivar reacted to catching the scent of moon’s blood the other day. We’re talking about a boy kissing Jillian and putting his hand on her breast.”

“And Lucivar, being such a calm, mild-tempered man, bounced off the ceiling?”

“He slammed the boy into the side of a building and choked him a little. At least, I was told it was a little.”

Shit. “Where did this happen?”

“In Riada, around the open market.”

“Where were the boy and Jillian?”

“In an alleyway between two of the buildings.”

“Uh-huh. And you don’t see anything wrong with that?”

“I see a lot of things wrong with that,” Marian snapped. “For one thing, him touching her that way in public was disrespectful. If Lucivar had heard about it from someone else, he wouldn’t have been happy, and he would have let Jillian know in no uncertain terms exactly why he wasn’t happy, but I don’t think he would have gone looking for the Warlord.”

He might have, if whoever had told him about the incident had known the boy’s name. Lucivar had strict rules about anyone touching the children without his permission, and he didn’t make exceptions just because the person doing the touching was also young. Which didn’t make it easy to indulge in a little romantic exploration.

Then again, Lucivar’s father had had the same “no permission, no sex” rule when anyone was under his roof.

“But because Lucivar was the one who walked into that alleyway and saw them, he reacted as if Jillian were under attack,” Marian continued. “I don’t want Jillian or Titian to avoid getting acquainted with boys because they’re afraid Lucivar will seriously injure those boys.” She pulled clothes out of Surreal’s trunk and hung the trousers and dresses in the wardrobe.

Surreal shook out the blouses and handed them to Marian. “Can you finish unpacking for me? I think I should have a chat with your husband.”

“It’s Jillian who needs your opinion. You’re not going to change Lucivar’s mind.”

“Wanna bet?”

Marian paused. “Are you going to call in a crossbow and threaten to shoot him?”

“Our most productive chats always start with me threatening to pin his balls to the wall. Doesn’t change his opinion about anything. It just makes sure I have his full attention.”

Marian finished hanging up the blouse and reached for another. “Twenty gold marks and I’ll bake your favorite pie while you’re here.”

“I can’t bake a pie, but I’ll put up twenty gold marks and a box of that salty dark chocolate that’s made by the best chocolatier in Amdarh.”

“Deal.”

Surreal walked out of the guest room. When she reached the eyrie’s main corridor, she found Daemonar waiting for her.

“Hey, boyo. Why aren’t you out kissing sky?”

He eased up next to her and whispered, “Something is wrong with Papa and Jillian.”

“People don’t always see eye to eye.” She brushed a hand over his black hair and realized they were almost the same height. Damn. When had that happened? She’d seen him just a few weeks ago when he’d come to SaDiablo Hall for a visit, and would have sworn he hadn’t been this tall. “I’m sure it’s nothing serious.”

“I think it is. Papa is really unhappy.” Daemonar paused. “He’s in his study, doing paperwork.”

Not good. Lucivar often viewed sitting behind a desk doing paperwork as a form of self-punishment.

“Keep the little beasts occupied, okay? I’ll see what I can do to help your papa.”

“Thanks, Auntie Surreal.”

She thought he was going to say something more, but he shied away from it, so she went to the study to tackle the volatile problem.

“Pretend I brought my crossbow to this meeting,” Surreal said, taking a chair in front of the big blackwood desk. The desk wasn’t as big as Daemon’s back at the Hall, but it was sufficiently expansive. “I’m pointing it at you. Threaten, threaten, blah blah blah.”

Lucivar eyed her, then put the pen in its holder with an insultingly slow move. “Am I supposed to know what that means?”

No emotion at all in his voice, which meant he was so unhappy over whatever this was that he wasn’t feeling anything at all or he was holding on to his explosive temper so tightly he couldn’t afford to let anything show. Either way, she had to get him to respond before he would really listen to her.

“Blah blah blah. An annoying little phrase Jaenelle Saetien picked up at school. I gather it’s supposed to mean ‘we’ve covered this ground before and don’t actually have to say the words again.’ Imagine her surprise when she wanted permission to go on an outing with some friends and rushed into her papa’s study minutes before she was supposed to be meeting those friends and gave him the ‘blah blah blah’ as an explanation of where they were going and who would be the chaperons.”

“Oh, Hell’s fire.”

Hearing that tiny bit of interest in his voice, Surreal nodded. “Yeah, it went over as well as you’d expect. And not the way Jaenelle Saetien intended, because Daemon looked at her and said that since ‘blah’ meant dull and uninteresting, the reasonable conclusion to her saying ‘blah blah blah’ was that this outing was going to be exceedingly dull and uninteresting, and since that was the case, he would provide her with the excuse to get out of going by not giving his permission. By the time she convinced him that she was interested, the friends had already left.”

“Bet that went over well.”

“It did. There were lots of tears and a few words said in a tone that bordered on pure bitch—which Daemon, surprisingly, didn’t comment on. But when the foolish girl began slamming doors to indicate her extreme displeasure, he quietly informed her that since words spoken quickly could be misinterpreted, any requests to visit friends or go on outings in the foreseeable future would have to be submitted in writing, using proper spelling, full sentences that provided the necessary information he would need in order to make a decision, and, of course, good penmanship.”

Lucivar’s lips twitched.

“A couple of days later. Another outing. When reminded that requests had to be submitted in writing, she dashed off the note—which Daemon returned with a gentle apology, saying that the note was too illegible for him to decipher and needed to be resubmitted.”

“She didn’t make it to that outing either, did she?”

“No. More weeping, more complaints, more slammed doors—and for every slammed door, Daemon added a week to the time when written requests would be required.”

Lucivar leaned forward. “That’s brat behavior and doesn’t sound like Jaenelle Saetien. Something wrong with the witchling?”

“Lately she has felt the need to test boundaries and rules.” Surreal sighed. “Her friends continue to be impressed by her Birthright Jewel—and her teachers tend to be indulgent, despite the chats they’ve had with her father about being indulgent. But no one at the Hall is impressed, because they saw the first Twilight’s Dawn, the darker one. And the person who is least impressed by the Jewel itself is Jaenelle Saetien’s papa. I salute Daemon for his patience. He let the girl slam against his will until she finally understood that he would not allow her to become a brat or a bitch, that he would draw the line and hold it as much out of love for her as out of duty to all the people of Dhemlan.”

“They’re okay?” Lucivar asked.

Surreal nodded. “She snapped out of her current brat mood, and they’re fine. They don’t need me as a buffer, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“I wasn’t wondering, but that’s good to know. So you’re here because . . .”

“You need a second opinion. I’m here because of you, Jillian, and the little prick who was feeling her up in public. I might like him for being so ballsy. It’s not quite like whipping out his cock and pissing on your boots, but it’s close.” She waited a beat. “I heard you choked the shit out of him.”

“Nah.” Lucivar dismissed that with a wave of his hand. Then he considered. “Did choke the piss out of him.”

She started to laugh, then realized he was serious. Shit shit shit. “Why did you do it?”

Lucivar shook his head. “You’ll be influenced by what I say and will no longer provide an impartial second opinion.”

Well, Hell’s fire, he was serious about that too. “You and Jillian. Was anything said that can’t be forgiven?”

He shook his head. Didn’t even hesitate. She breathed a sigh of relief.

“All right, then. I’m going to go talk to Jillian and arrange a time when she and I can meet with this young Warlord.”

Feeling wary, Jillian eyed Surreal SaDiablo. Not only was Surreal a Gray-Jeweled witch, but she was Daemon Sadi’s wife—and his second-in-command. She was also half Dea al Mon, which meant she was skilled with a knife.

“Why do you want to meet Dillon?” she asked.

“Do you like him?” Surreal asked in turn.

“Yes.”

“You want to spend time with him?”

Jillian nodded. She wasn’t sure Dillon would want to get anywhere near her again, but just the thought of him still filled her stomach with butterflies.

“Then I, as the intermediary, need to meet him so that I can form my own opinion.”

“What if you agree with Prince Yaslana?”

“Then you’re out of luck. But if I don’t agree with him . . .” Surreal leaned toward Jillian, and there was a wicked twinkle in her gold-green eyes. “Why him? What is it about him that makes this so important to you?”

“He’s so pretty!” Jillian felt her face heat. She hunched her shoulders. “You think that’s stupid.”

“I’m married to a man who is so beautiful, women stop on the street and stare at him, and if he were to give them even the mildest look of encouragement, they would follow him around like he was a juicy steak and they were starving puppies. So I can appreciate why a woman would be attracted to a man because he’s pretty.”

She called me a woman, Jillian thought. She understands. “It’s not just that.” She was testing an emotional cliff edge, not sure the ground would hold, not sure she would be able to get out of the way if the ground crumbled beneath her and started a rockslide. “He’s smart and has a proper education and he reads all these books and knows social etiquette and how to do more than country dances, and he makes me feel . . .”

No. She couldn’t talk about how he made her feel. Not yet.

“First kiss?” Surreal asked.

She shook her head. “Tamnar and I did a little kissing.” Kisses that had barely broken Lucivar’s rule.

“But Dillon is the first to give you a lover’s kiss?”

She nodded. Those kisses had definitely broken the rule. Not something she would say to anyone.

“You didn’t feel what you wanted to feel when Tamnar kissed you? And you feel that way when Dillon kisses you?”

“Yes.”

At least, she had felt that fluttery excitement until Dillon had thrust his tongue in her mouth as if letting him do it once a few days ago meant he could keep doing it anywhere and anytime. And yesterday, his hand on her breast had hurt, changing the pleasure of seeing him into uneasiness when he wouldn’t stop. But if her moontime had started an hour earlier, she wouldn’t have gone to the market and she wouldn’t have seen him while she was feeling so tender, and he wouldn’t have hurt her.

Surreal smiled. “Then this is what we’ll do. From what Marian told me, tomorrow is still a quiet home day for you, so write a note to Dillon and invite him to join us at the Sweet Tooth the day after tomorrow at three o’clock. Do you know the place? It’s a cake shop located in the aristo part of Riada and is supposed to have the very best treats.”

“That place is expensive.” Yaslana had taken her and Nurian there for her birthday last year. She’d been impressed by the pretty, delicate decor that was in keeping with the intricately decorated cakes. And while she hadn’t seen the actual bill that had been eased onto the table, she had seen the number of gold marks Yaslana had left on the table to pay for the outing.

“I imagine it’s the kind of place Lord Dillon visits all the time.” Surreal stood. “Now let’s see what you have in your wardrobe that would be appropriate for an afternoon outing.”

Lucivar stared at Surreal and wondered how he had allowed himself to be cornered this way. “You’ve arranged an outing with the prick-ass. Not just a meeting, an outing.”

“Yes,” Surreal replied with maddening calm. “The three of us—meaning me, Jillian, and the prick-ass—are going to the Sweet Tooth for coffee and cakes. A perfectly respectable public place.”

“Why there?”

“It’s pretty?”

He prowled behind his desk and snarled, “Pretty isn’t the same as good. You know why they make the cakes look so fancy? So you won’t notice the damn things are dry and don’t have much taste.”

He needed to fly. He needed a fight. He needed to tear into someone who wouldn’t—couldn’t—be hurt, who could handle not just the temper but the power. Mother Night, how he missed his sister at times like this. Jaenelle Angelline could have fought him into the ground, slammed strength against strength until he could put what he understood instinctively into words.

His beloved sister and Queen wasn’t here, hadn’t been for a lot of years now.

But Surreal was here, and she didn’t back down either.

He shot her a hostile look. “Daemon wouldn’t sit down in a place like that, no matter how many aristos filled the tables.”

“Of course he would, for the same reason you did—to please someone else. And if he shared your opinion about the cakes, he would look around for another place that had the same exterior feel but served better food. Something you might want to look into before you take someone out for the next special occasion. Doesn’t have to be in Riada, you know. There are plenty of cities in Askavi where you could go to the theater or have a fancy meal. You could use a Coach to ride the Winds so no one’s dress gets rumpled during the journey.”

“You’re a pain in the ass.”

“Love you too, sugar.” She studied him. “Had you met Dillon before the moment when you were choking him?”

“No.” As far as he was concerned, that was a serious tactical error on the boy’s part.

“Then this little outing will be very interesting.”

TWENTY

Dillon studied his reflection in the mirror and nodded, satisfied that he would make a good impression on Lady Surreal SaDiablo.

“You don’t know that family,” Terrence said, worrying a button on his jacket until it hung by a thread.

“Do you?” Dillon turned away from the mirror and focused on his cousin, curious. He’d never met an Eyrien until he saw Jillian at the lending library and decided she was the answer to his future.

“Only by reputation. I’ve seen Prince Yaslana around the village, but I’ve never spoken to him. Dillon, Eyriens are a warrior race, and even among them, Yaslana is a law unto himself. He isn’t someone you want to cross. They say he slaughtered an entire army of Eyriens once when they turned against him and tried to take over the valley.”

He could believe that. What he couldn’t believe was the way Yaslana exploded over him being friendly with a girl who worked for the man’s wife. Jillian’s sister was a Healer, and that gave her good social standing, but they weren’t aristos. Unless Jillian was an unacknowledged daughter, he couldn’t figure out why Yaslana paid so much attention to the hired help.

Until he received Jillian’s note, he’d thought his efforts had been wasted. Yaslana’s display of temper had been too public for him to try again with another girl anywhere in this valley. Thank the Darkness he was being given another chance.

“And no one even dares whisper anything about Yaslana’s brother,” Terrence added.

“Who is married to the Lady who invited me to this outing?” Dillon brushed nonexistent lint from his sleeve. Older women usually looked favorably on a young man who paid attention to them and made them believe they were interesting—a sentiment that would have earned him a reprimand if he’d still been training to serve as an escort in a court. Oh, he wouldn’t aim too much attention in Lady SaDiablo’s direction. Just enough for her to think favorably about him handfasting with Jillian.

“Why are you so focused on this Eyrien girl?” Terrence asked.

“Because I like her.” That realization surprised him. He did like her. More important, she liked him and listened to him with a shining and apparent belief that he was wonderful and intelligent and educated. He could see himself living with her for the year of a handfast and enjoying the experience of being both lover and mentor.

What surprised him even more, he could see himself living in Riada for a year. Terrence had turned out to be a lively companion, if a little shy, and his parents had been gracious about having a distant relation show up on their doorstep, looking to visit for a few weeks.

Until the collision with Yaslana, he had felt safe here in a way he hadn’t felt safe since Lady Blyte and her family had set out to ruin him. Even before he’d met Jillian, he’d begun thinking of what sort of work he could do in order to stay in Riada for a while.

Of course, now living here with Jillian would mean bumping up against Yaslana for that year. He’d never dealt with a man who thought killing someone was more expedient than handing that person an envelope of gold marks to encourage that person to go away.

“Everything will work out,” Dillon said. “You’ll see.”

“You don’t know that family,” Terrence said again. “You don’t know him.”

No, he didn’t. But he was about to find out everything he could over coffee and cakes.

Jillian was right about the young Warlord. He was certainly pretty. Brown hair leaning toward red complemented the green eyes and the skin that had received just enough sun to look healthy instead of pasty. He was trim and moved with confidence, but the trimness came from youth rather than the work a man put in to toning his muscles, and that made her wonder what he’d look like with his shirt off. She didn’t think he would be quite so appealing without his clothes.

Superficially, he reminded her of Rainier, the Warlord Prince who had been her companion for decades. They had been friends who had loved each other and had shared a house, but they hadn’t been lovers. Yes, similar coloring and a graceful way of moving reminded her of Rainier, but there was something about this boy that lightly scratched her temper.

Maybe she was a bit influenced by Lucivar’s dislike of the young man. Or maybe it was the hint of something in his psychic scent that made her study him like a Warlord Prince’s second-in-command—or like an assassin assessing her prey.

Yes, he was definitely pretty, and he knew it. Surreal watched the way he smiled at the somewhat attractive girl waiting tables—and the way he smiled at the beautiful girl working behind the counter, taking care of customers who wanted to bring home a treat. Something going on between those two? No. At least not yet. But the beautiful girl was signaling quite clearly that she would like more than a smile and a bit of flirting from him.

Would Lord Dillon have responded differently if he hadn’t been meeting her and Jillian that day?

Then Jillian saw him and lit up, a flower opening for the sun. And the smile he turned on Jillian when he noticed her standing in the doorway . . . She’d expected a calculated smile, but the boy seemed genuinely pleased to see the girl. A point in his favor.

“This is my lucky day,” Dillon said, getting to his feet as they walked over to the table. “I get to sit with two beautiful women.”

That, however, sounded like every man she’d met who wanted to ingratiate himself enough to ask for a favor—usually a favor that required some assistance from her husband.

“Lord Dillon, this is Lady Surreal SaDiablo. She’s visiting from Dhemlan.”

Surreal held out her right hand. She had chosen to wear the ring and pendant that held her Birthright Green Jewel. Being one rank darker than his Opal Jewel, it wouldn’t make him as cautious as seeing her Gray. And she didn’t want him cautious; she wanted to let him play his game—if he was, in fact, playing a game.

Dillon bowed over her hand, almost, but not quite, touching his lips to her skin. When he looked up, she saw his anxiety, quickly hidden.

She’d seen that look plenty of times before, but usually from young men when they were testing their training in a social setting: Am I making a good impression? Am I sufficiently pleasing? In a court, it was understood that men Dillon’s age were practicing and that the witches in the court would offer gentle correction when required or acknowledgment of lessons well learned.

Had he received formal training to serve in a court? If he had, why wasn’t he trying for a position in a small court where he could acquire some polish and experience? Had he been wounded in some way during the training and was now too damaged either emotionally or physically to serve in a court?

Why invest so much time on a girl Jillian’s age?

“I’m delighted to have this opportunity to meet Jillian’s friend,” Surreal said once they were seated.

He winced at her choice of words, but he was smart enough not to claim to be something more.

The somewhat attractive girl approached their table and handed out menus that were written in a script with so many curlicues it was almost impossible to make out the words. Surreal knew ornate writing. Saetan had never written anything in any other way. But the flourishes that had been natural for him never interfered with a person’s ability to read the message.

“We’ll have the variety platter—the large one,” Dillon said. “And three coffees?” Now he looked at Surreal and Jillian.

“Sounds lovely,” Surreal replied. Was there a reason he had placed the order before she had a chance to look at the menu?

“My treat,” Dillon said, giving her a smile that made her itch to call in her stiletto. His smile, his manners, made her think of someone singing just a little off-key—nothing deliberately malicious but still grating.

“That’s not necessary,” she said. “Meeting here was my idea.”

“I insist.”

She inclined her head, noting how Jillian looked at him, as if offering to pay were the most brilliant thing a boy could do.

The platter of cakes and the coffee arrived. Dillon included her in the conversation, but the effort was heavy-handed. Not that Jillian noticed. Then again, when he focused on the girl, he sounded at ease. It was like watching someone sliding on ice—moments of grace followed by flailing limbs. It made her think again of young men trying out social skills and revealing their lack of experience. It would seem Lord Dillon’s polish was still superficial, and that made her wonder why it was still superficial.

Surreal took a sampling of the cakes on the platter—nothing excessive and less than a third. Jillian, following her example, made different choices but took the same number. After a moment, Dillon took the same amount.

She wasn’t trying to read his thoughts, because that would be a serious breach of the Blood’s code of honor. But emotions flowed beyond a person’s inner barriers. Some people were better at self-control and concealing their feelings, or stood so deep in the abyss their feelings couldn’t be read. This Warlord had neither the power nor the control, and the flash of annoyance that followed her taking the selection of cakes made her wonder what game he was really playing—and what role he thought Jillian filled in that game.

Then he seemed to shrug off the annoyance and entertained them with talk about books he had read and plays he had seen.

“I saw Lord Beron in a play recently,” Dillon said. “He’s worked his way up to second male lead and was quite good in this new part.” He nodded sagely. “Quite good.”

“We go to see him whenever one of his plays comes to the theater in Riada,” Jillian said.

“I doubt he’ll be playing small theaters like the one in Riada for much longer. When we had dinner after his last performance, he hinted that he’ll have the male lead in the next production.”

“Really?” Surreal put a seed of doubt in her voice. “That seems a bit presumptuous, since he hasn’t auditioned for the role yet.” She gave Dillon a puzzled look, as if she wasn’t quite smart enough to understand him. “I’m sure if Beron was on the threshold of such a significant step in his career, he would have mentioned it to my husband. After all, Prince Sadi is Beron’s legal guardian, and the Prince also had dinner with Beron recently.” She took a sip of coffee. “Since he knew I was coming to Ebon Rih, I’m surprised the Prince didn’t mention you. He makes it his business to know about all of Beron’s friends, so he would know that you’re currently staying in Riada.”

“We’re not friends, exactly,” Dillon said hurriedly. “More like acquaintances who have some friends in common.”

“But you had dinner together.” She didn’t look at Jillian. The girl still looked at Dillon as if he were the yummiest cake in the shop—which she could believe, having tasted one of the cakes on her plate—but there was a hint of bafflement under the adoration. Good.

“A group of actors and aristos went out to dinner together, so we didn’t have more than a minute or two to talk,” Dillon said.

Surreal nodded. Now she turned to Jillian and smiled. “We know how those dinners go, don’t we? There’s barely time to congratulate the boy before he’s swept off to be hugged by someone else.”

“That’s because he’s brilliant,” Jillian said. Her eyes shone as she focused on Dillon. “One of the reasons Beron is so graceful and can do those athletic moves on the stage is because Prince Rainier taught him how to dance. Rainier served in the Queen of Ebon Askavi’s court.”

“He was also Lady Angelline’s dance instructor when she was an adolescent,” Surreal added. Then she laughed. “When Jaenelle and Rainier danced together, you could watch them all night. They didn’t just dance; they soared.” A bittersweet memory, one she hadn’t meant to share.

Dillon abruptly changed the subject.

Surreal listened to the boasting, the bragging, and the subtle sneering at anyone who wasn’t a member of the aristo class—no, more than that, who wasn’t a member of Dillon’s exalted clique, which now, curiously, seemed to exclude Beron. She wanted to gag, but Jillian soaked up every word, as if her life had been nothing but a dull and boring gray, and Dillon had presented her with a palette of colors that dazzled the eyes.

Jillian was right about Dillon. The boy was pretty to look at, as long as you didn’t look beyond the surface. Then again, the boasting, bragging, and sneering hadn’t started until he’d made the mistake of claiming to be one of Beron’s friends and been called on it. Maybe those things were an attempt to hide his insecurity and regain some ground.

Lucivar was right about the cakes. They were awful and could be part of the reason she wanted to gag.

Four cakes were left on the platter and Surreal was more than ready to leave. Then Jillian reached for another piece and Dillon blocked her hand, pushing the platter away from the girl—or as far away as he could, considering it was a small table.

He smiled and shook his finger playfully. Jillian blushed and looked unhappy.

“Thank you for the cakes, Lord Dillon,” Surreal said, pushing her chair back as a signal that the outing was over. “It has been an interesting afternoon.”

“I hope I was able to entertain you in some small measure,” Dillon replied. He turned to Jillian. “And I hope we can do this again.”

“Are you sure I can’t settle the bill?” Surreal asked. “This place was my choice, after all.”

He waved her offer away. “No, it’s my pleasure. You two go along, and I’ll take care of things.”

“In that case, good day, Warlord.”

“Lady SaDiablo. Jillian.”

Surreal walked out of the shop and took the first side street, moving swiftly until they reached open land and were far enough from the buildings in Riada that nothing that was said would be overheard.

“Lady Surreal?” Jillian sounded worried. “Aren’t we going back to the eyries?”

“I need to walk for a bit. And we need to talk.”

Jillian waited, but Surreal continued to walk and remained silent. Finally, she couldn’t stand waiting.

“What did you think of Dillon? Isn’t he lovely? He’s so smart, and he went to all these fine schools, so he knows everything. Well, not everything. He doesn’t know about weapons or fighting or things like that, but Dillon says those skills aren’t as important as they used to be.”

Surreal just kept walking.

“What did he say to you?” Surreal asked suddenly.

“What?”

“When he stopped you from taking that cake. What did he say to you?”

“It was nothing.”

“You were having an enjoyable afternoon until that moment, so it wasn’t nothing.”

“It was just a tease, but sometimes I get self-conscious and too sensitive.”

Silence. Surreal walked. Jillian followed half a step behind, wondering how things had gone wrong.

“If you want me to tangle with Lucivar to give you opportunities to spend time with this boy, you will tell me what he said.” Surreal sounded cool, distant, not the indulgent chaperon she had been at the cake shop.

Marian and Nurian would do whatever Lucivar said. Surreal was the only one who might stand up to him. If she lost Surreal’s support, she would never see Dillon again.

“He said if I ate another cake, I would be too plump to fly.”

“I see,” Surreal said.

“Haven’t you ever felt this way?” Jillian cried. “Haven’t you ever thought your heart would burst out of your chest because it was beating so hard when you caught sight of a special boy, or would break if he didn’t send you a note when he promised?”

Surreal walked. She appeared to be heading for the old cabin on the outskirts of the village.

Before Jillian could point out that the cabin was out of bounds to everyone, Surreal stopped walking, as if she could sense the boundary that shouldn’t be crossed.

“My mother was murdered when I was twelve,” Surreal said. “I came home from lessons one day and found her on the floor with her throat slit. She was a Queen and a Black Widow who had been broken by a man who had lusted for a girl who looked exotic. Being Dea al Mon in the Realm of Terreille certainly made her exotic.

“I ran because that was what she wanted me to do—get away, hide from her killer. I was raped a few days later. I wore Birthright Green, and sometimes raw power makes up for the lack of experience or training. That man violated my body, but he couldn’t break me, couldn’t break my Green Jewel.

“I let men use me in order to have enough coins to buy food, to keep going another day. And then a man used me and refused to pay. I rammed a knife into him and began my second profession. Even at that age, I was good with a knife. I whored on the streets for a few years until Sadi found me and arranged for me to train in a high-level Red Moon house.”

“Why didn’t he help you get out of being a whore?” Jillian asked softly.

“I wouldn’t let him, and he knew that. So he made sure I received the best education available for the skills I wanted to acquire. I was the most sought-after, and expensive, whore in Terreille, but I was even better as an assassin.” Surreal looked at Jillian. “I never felt that rush, that tingle of anticipation, that heightened level of nerves because every knock on the door might be that special boy. Because of that, I will help you have opportunities to spend time with Dillon and get to know more about him—and give him a chance to know you. But my rules aren’t negotiable, Jillian. If you break them, even once, you had better hope that Lucivar gets to that boy before I do. Are we clear on that? If you can’t, or won’t, follow my rules, you should write a note to Dillon telling him you can’t see him again—and warn him not to try to see you.”

Jillian hesitated but couldn’t see another choice. “What are your rules?”

Surreal nodded, as if Jillian had asked the right question. “Dillon can visit you at your sister’s eyrie or at Lucivar’s eyrie, as long as one adult is present. When you go into the village, you go with a chaperon.”

“I’ve been allowed to go into Riada on my own since I was a child!”

“And you were safe,” Surreal agreed. “But that kiss and grope in the alleyway changed things.”

If Dillon had given her just the kiss instead of doing more, they wouldn’t have been caught and Prince Yaslana wouldn’t be angry and she wouldn’t have these restrictions on where she could go and whom she could see.

“There will be opportunities for kissing, but there won’t be time for him to take the play and petting beyond what is acceptable to me—and what I can persuade Lucivar to agree to.”

“But I love Dillon!”

“I don’t doubt it. But he’s reached the age of majority, and you have decades ahead of you before you reach yours. So a chaperon is required when you go down to the village. An adult has to be home if Dillon comes to visit—and if you’re not within sight of that adult, you have to be visible to anyone who might fly past the eyrie. That way, if Dillon’s hands, or anything else, end up where they’re not supposed to be, no one will wonder why an Eyrien war blade sliced through his wrists.”

The wind changed direction. Surreal finger combed her hair away from her face and used Craft to twist it into a casual knot at the back of her head.

“You want time to think about it?” Surreal asked.

“I’ll follow your rules.” She wasn’t sure how Dillon was going to react when he heard what was required in order for them to see each other, but she would deal with that later.

“Then it’s time we got back to the eyrie.”

The thought was there and the words were out before Jillian had time to consider. “I think you did have a crush on a boy once, before the bad things happened. I think you did feel that tingle of anticipation, of waiting for him to visit and notice you.”

Surreal gave her the queerest look. “Maybe. And maybe I also know what an impulsive, imprudent action can cost a girl and don’t want you to carry that same kind of regret.”

Sobering words. But Dillon would never ask her to do something she would regret.

When they reached the open ground outside her home, Jillian thanked Surreal for the outing and hurried into the eyrie. As she set the table for dinner and cleaned the vegetables, she wished she had thought to ask the waitress to box up the remaining cakes so that she could bring them home and share them with Nurian.

Not looking at Surreal because it would piss him off if he looked at her right now, Lucivar picked up one of the chunks of wood on his desk and blasted it with power and temper, then watched the sawdust drift into a pile on his desk like sifted flour.

“You want me to back off, let him court her.”

Surreal nodded. “Yes, I do. Allowing men the opportunities and space to court young women is part of being Blood, regardless of race.”

He picked up the next chunk of wood and blasted it, watched it dribble onto the desk. “That’s true for Warlord Princes, not the Blood in general.”

“No, Warlord Princes are given a clear field once they express interest in a woman to avoid having their potential rivals splattered all over the walls. But all social gatherings allow people to meet and get to know one another—and see if the attraction one person feels for another is friendship or romance.”

“You think I overreacted, that my instincts about that little prick-ass are wrong.”

“Oh, no,” Surreal said with a tight smile. “There is nothing wrong with your instincts. If we were still in Terreille, I would have been tempted to gut Lord Dillon in a way that would have had his intestines spilling into the street when he walked out of the cake shop this afternoon. But we’re not in Terreille, so while our instincts about Dillon aren’t wrong, they might not be quite right either. He’s . . . Hell’s fire, Lucivar, if you take away Dillon’s veneer of polish, Daemonar has better social skills than that Rihlander Warlord.”

He’d been reaching for the third chunk of wood. Now he stopped and looked at her—and was glad the desk was between them and her hands were in sight and empty.

“There’s something off about him.”

“Yes, but I can’t decide if he really is an arrogant prick who deserves a knife in the guts or if his social maturity is stunted for some reason. He wants to be fawned over and admired. Not just wants it. Needs it. I suspect that’s what he finds so appealing about Jillian. She’s young enough not to see his flaws—or recognize his subtle cruelty,” she added softly.

Wondering if she was still talking about Dillon, Lucivar picked up the chunk of wood, came around the desk, and held it out to her. Her right hand slipped off her lap, then came up fast. Lucivar saw the glint of a blade and released the wood, jerking his hand out of the way at the same time he created an Ebon-gray shield around himself.

The big hunting knife she’d commissioned from Kohlvar several years ago flashed up, then left to right.

Four smaller pieces of wood hit the floor.

“Impressive speed,” he murmured. She had always been good with a knife, and he knew better than to be careless around her.

“He’s new and exciting,” Surreal said. “He’s pretty on the outside, and he talks a good game. He’s every aristo thing you despise, but if you stop this now, all she’ll remember is that you stopped her from spending time with the boy she loves.”

“Loves?” Lucivar bared his teeth. “Loves? How can she love that piece of walking carrion?”

“She doesn’t know him.” Surreal slid the hunting knife into its leather sheath and vanished it. “Let her discover who he is while she’s standing safely in your shadow.”

He blew out a breath. “She’ll get hurt.”

“Better a skinned knee than a broken wing.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to ease the tension. “We still have a wolf pack on the mountain. I can ask them to keep a discreet lookout at my eyrie and Nurian’s. They won’t be seen, but they’ll sound a warning if the prick-ass crosses a line.”

“Discreet watchers are good,” Surreal agreed. “But you don’t want to be that subtle. Not this time. So I was thinking of chaperons who will be overlooked by the inexperienced but will be louder, faster, and more insistent about announcing any wrongdoing than a whole pack of younger siblings.”

Lucivar paled. “Oh, Hell’s fire, no.”

“They’ll just come for a visit. Then they’ll go home.”

“Swear to me on your Jewels that they will go home.”

Surreal blinked. Then she laughed so hard she gasped for breath. “I swear, Lucivar. I swear I will never tell anyone that you’re afraid of Scelties.”

Since he wasn’t going to admit it, he hauled her out of the chair—and hoped the dogs let her keep her promise.

TWENTY-ONE

Someone kept pounding on his front door. Swearing, Lucivar secured the loin wrap around his hips as he hurried through the eyrie to stop the damn noise before it woke up the children.

He yanked the door open. A rock from the decorative rock garden Marian and Daemonar had made last summer dropped in the space between his bare feet and six little furry front paws.

He looked at his brother, who carried his sleepy niece. ٭I hate you.٭

Daemon’s smile held a brittleness that spoke of more than one kind of pain. ٭As Karla likes to say, kiss kiss.٭

Lucivar looked at the three Scelties. He recognized Morghann, the brown and white witch who now wore a Purple Dusk Birthright Jewel, and Khary, an Opal-Jeweled Warlord who was dark gray with white legs, chest, and tail tip. The third Sceltie, a black and white Warlord with tan patches on his face, must be the puppy Daemonar had met when the boy had visited his uncle a few weeks ago.

Bright eyes looked back at him. Tails wagged. Tiny movements brought those front paws just a wee bit closer to the threshold of his home. Before they had a chance to start offering opinions about everything, he offered an opinion of his own. “If you leave the rock there, Marian will be unhappy with you.”

The rock instantly rose two fingers off the ground and scooted toward the empty space in the rock garden. It did one roll and would have settled dirt side up if Daemon hadn’t added mildly, “The bottom of the rock already has dirt on it and should go back in that way. It will matter to Lady Marian.”

Morghann gave Daemon an anxious look before focusing on her task. Using Craft, the Sceltie turned the rock right side up, then let it settle back into the dirt. But that wasn’t enough, because she continued to make small adjustments until the rock exactly matched its previous position.

“Perfect,” Daemon said quietly.

The joy that blasted out of the little bitch made Lucivar glad he didn’t have to deal with her on a daily basis. He looked at the last member of this party and smiled when Daemon set her on her feet. “Morning, witchling. Have you got something for me?”

“We brought Scelties!” Jaenelle Saetien said, now awake and as bright-eyed as the damn dogs.

“Anything else?”

“I brought Papa!”

Daemon kissed the top of her head. “I think Uncle Lucivar is looking for a hug.”

She took a step, avoided putting a foot on any Sceltie tails, and launched herself at him.

Not enough height and too much distance.

Lucivar stepped forward, caught her under the arms, and lifted her so that she could wrap her arms around his neck and give him a hug—and tried to not to wince when her leg gave him a light whack where a man didn’t want to be hit.

“Aahhhh, that’s better.” He returned her hug before he put her down.

“Is Titian awake?”

“Not yet. Why don’t you go wake her?”

Jaenelle Saetien rushed past him into the eyrie.

The Scelties looked at him.

Giving in, Lucivar stepped back. “Come in.”

Khary raced after Jaenelle. Morghann waited for Daemon’s nod before running to catch up. The third one immediately began exploring the front room.

٭You know Morghann and Khary. This one is Lord Tagg.٭ Daemon stepped into the eyrie. “Is there any coffee?”

“Not yet,” Lucivar replied. He closed the door and headed for the kitchen. So much for getting another hour of sleep. “I’m not even going to ask what time you got up in order to get here this early.”

Daemon removed his black jacket and laid it over the back of a kitchen chair. Moving around the kitchen, he took eggs, bacon, and butter out of the cold box. “Would you like an omelet?”

Lucivar measured out coffee and put the pot on the stove. “That’s good for me. The children will want scrambled eggs when they wake up.”

“I can do that.” Daemon broke eggs into a bowl. “You look tired.”

So do you, old son. “Baby Andulvar has been fussy. Took a while to get him settled last night.” He pulled out a frying pan to cook the bacon.

“How is Marian?”

Daemon asked that question every time they saw each other, as if needing the reassurance that one of them was still loved and happy.

“She’s doing fine. She regains a little more strength and energy every day, but she’s occasionally frustrated because it’s been months since that healing and she still doesn’t have the stamina she had before the . . . illness. Nurian looks in on her a couple of times a week, mostly because no one has any experience with the kind of healing spell Jaenelle Angelline gifted to Marian. Of course, having three children can sap the stamina from anyone.”

How much longer can you endure this, whatever this is? How much longer can I wait and watch you suffer? And how can I let you know there is someone who can give you answers without losing you?

Putting the pan down, Lucivar braced his hands on the counter.

“Lucivar?” Daemon moved to stand beside him. “What is it?”

“I don’t think I can tell you.”

“You can tell me anything.”

He wanted to believe that. All right, then. A hint. A clue. A rope thrown to a man trying to save himself from a deadly fall and holding on to the cliff with one broken finger because that was all he had left. “I think Daemonar sees Witch once in a while.”

“You mean he dreams about her when he visits the cabin? I did give him permission to go inside.”

“No, I think he sees her. Talks to her.”

Daemon didn’t move, barely breathed. Finally he whispered, “Are you sure?”

Lucivar shook his head. “I’m not sure of anything, but I’ve been noticing some things since the day Marian fell into that healing sleep and he disappeared for a while. Since then, when we butt heads and he goes away to sulk . . . sometimes he’ll come back and argue his point from a different angle—an angle I’m sure his boy brain would not have considered. Sometimes he comes back looking like he’d gotten the sympathy he wanted—someone taking his side against his mean old father—but also received a whack upside the head along with the sympathy. And sometimes he comes back and apologizes for being a brat—and then we talk about his behavior and my reaction. Bastard, those things aren’t coming from him. Not on his own.”

“That doesn’t mean Witch is his confidante,” Daemon said.

Something in Daemon’s voice. Something that sounded too much like desperate hope.

“No, it doesn’t. I know Chaosti keeps an eye on the boy, and some of that might be coming from him.” While he had walked among the living, Chaosti had been the Warlord Prince of the Dea al Mon. For the past few months he had divided his time between helping his own people when they made the transition to demon-dead and residing at the Keep in Kaeleer.

Silence. Then Daemon said, “Jaenelle Saetien hasn’t mentioned seeing her special friend since the Birthright Ceremony. Does Titian talk to Witch?”

“No. Titian never knew Jaenelle Angelline.”

“Well, the boy always doted on his Auntie J.” Daemon cleared his throat and went back to preparing the omelet while Lucivar cooked the bacon. “Tell me about this trouble with Jillian.”

“Didn’t Surreal tell you?”

Another silence. “She sent a note to the Hall asking that someone escort three Scelties to Ebon Rih, but didn’t say why they were needed.” He hesitated before adding, “She didn’t ask me to bring the Scelties, but Jaenelle Saetien wanted to spend time with her cousins, and I wanted to spend some time with you.” Another hesitation. “Surreal won’t be pleased to see me.”

“Are you telling me I should put you in a separate guest room?” Lucivar asked quietly.

“That’s up to Surreal. I could stay at The Tavern in Riada or at the Keep. That should be sufficient distance.”

Sufficient distance for what?

Quietly descending to the level of his Ebon-gray power, Lucivar picked up a whisper of fragility at the level of the Black along with the jaggedness in Daemon’s psychic scent that had appeared around the same time as the headaches. And something else, something that Daemon was trying fiercely to control.

What in the name of Hell was going on?

Couldn’t meet this battle head-on. He’d let Surreal handle things with Jillian for the most part and find reasons that he and Daemon needed to be away from the eyrie, find distractions until his brother was willing to talk to him.

While they ate breakfast, Lucivar told Daemon about the incident that had set off his temper—and set all the rest of this mess into motion.

“What do you know about Lord Dillon?” Daemon asked as he refilled their coffee mugs.

“Comes from an aristo Rihlander family. He’s visiting family in Riada. That’s all anyone here knows about him.”

“Maybe that’s all anyone is willing to say about him, but I doubt that’s all anyone knows.”

Lucivar shrugged. “I don’t like him, and Surreal thought there was something off about him. But this is first love, so I’m expected to be fair about this.” He bared his teeth in a smile.

“Uh-huh.” Daemon sipped his coffee and studied his brother. “Now that we’ve agreed to respect the mantles of our authority and be adult and fair about this, who is your best source for gathering gossip?”

“I stop at The Tavern for that,” Lucivar said. “Same as I’ve been doing ever since I first arrived in Ebon Rih.”

“That tells you about Riada. Maybe Doun and Agio, too, since the Masters of the Guard for those Queens’ courts know they can drop by and share a few unofficial observations that will be followed up by the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih making an official visit to their village. No, we need someone who knows the gossip about aristo families throughout Askavi.”

Lucivar put his mug down and eyed Daemon. “There is one person who might know. But if you really think I need to ask her, you’re coming with me.”

“Why?”

“Because being demon-dead hasn’t made Lady Perzha any less eccentric.”

Surreal tightened the belt on her robe before she unlocked the guest room’s door and stepped back to allow Daemon to enter.

His sexual heat washed over her, making her nipples harden and her body throb with need.

Bastard. Couldn’t he have given her a couple of days of peace while she was helping his brother?

Daemon studied her for a moment, then slipped his hands in his trouser pockets and said in a voice stripped of emotion, “Jaenelle Saetien wanted to visit her cousins. I thought that would provide them with a distraction while you dealt with Jillian. If staying in another guest room here inconveniences you, I can take a room at The Tavern or stay at the Keep.”

And have everyone in Riada whispering behind their hands the way the Blood in Amdarh were doing? Have Lucivar back her into a corner and demand to know what was going on? If she’d thought for one minute that he would understand, that he might be able to rein in the games Sadi was playing to torment her, she would have told him. But it was more likely that Lucivar would side with Sadi. Not only side with him, but think that she was the one in the wrong for not being willing to accommodate her husband’s needs because Daemon had these damn headaches—which didn’t seem to trouble him when they were in bed.

“There’s no reason for you to stay elsewhere or to stay in another room here,” she said.

“Very well,” he replied. “Lucivar and I are heading out. There’s someone who might have information about Lord Dillon, and Lucivar doesn’t want to go by himself.”

He would be gone for a few hours, and she could breathe again. Thank the Darkness.

She locked the door before stripping off her nightclothes and getting dressed. Then she waited until she felt the Black and Ebon-gray leave the eyrie before venturing out to the kitchen to get something to eat.

Little Weeble was often described as quaint or original. Those were the kind words that were used, although the tone in which they were said was often less than kind. Not that the citizens of Little Weeble cared what outsiders thought or said about their village. After all, outsiders were outsiders and weren’t required to deal with the citizens except for business ventures—were, in fact, gently encouraged to go away.

As he and Daemon walked from the landing web to Perzha’s sprawling patchwork home, Lucivar noted how many merchants who were just opening their shops froze at the sight of them—and how many stopped working and followed them at a distance calculated not to provoke a challenge.

He had visited Little Weeble once or twice a year for decades and had never seen the people react this way. They had never worried about him showing up. Which meant Daemon was the reason for their barely contained panic and fear.

By the time they reached Perzha’s house, her First Circle was there. Most were old men—still vigorous and mentally sharp, but there was no denying that most of them had grandchildren. But there were younger men who hadn’t been there the last time he visited, men in their twenties who might have been serving their first full contract in a court.

The old men’s eyes were filled with fear. The younger men stared at Lucivar and Daemon with defiance that wasn’t quite a challenge.

“You’ll have to excuse them,” a woman said from behind the wall of men. “They can be overprotective.” An age-spotted hand thumped the shoulder of a young Warlord Prince who was too close to making a lethal mistake. Reluctantly, he lowered his eyes, no longer on the point of challenging two Warlord Princes who would have destroyed him if he started a fight. Even more reluctantly, he stepped to the side to make room for the woman who jingled and jangled into sight.

Lady Perzha had freckles, buckteeth, rusty red hair heavily threaded with silver, and a face that was so homely it was oddly attractive. She wore shirts and skirts and shawls in colors that clashed as often as they coordinated. Her jewelry was a mishmash of seashells and glass beads, pearls and rubies, diamonds and emeralds. And somewhere under all of it was a Red Jewel, making Perzha as powerful as she was eccentric.

“Is this an official visit?” she asked politely, looking at Daemon.

Being demon-dead, she was the only one facing them who wasn’t holding his breath waiting for an answer.

“Not on my part,” Daemon replied mildly. “Prince Yaslana needs your help, and I tagged along to keep him company.”

“Do you mind if we sit out in the garden? I do love the early-morning hours when I can be outdoors and look after my flowers.” Perzha turned to one of the older men. “Lord Carleton, will you see to refreshments?”

“But . . .” Carleton, who was the Steward of Perzha’s court, slanted a look at Daemon before hurrying into the house.

“This way.” She led them through a gated archway that divided the house into two sections and provided access to the enclosed lawn and gardens. “Even if one works from a single room, it’s important to be able to separate business from one’s personal life, don’t you think?”

“My study may be my main place of business, but it’s also my sanctuary from household drama,” Daemon replied as they took seats at a round table on a terrace overlooking flower beds that followed the same color schemes as Perzha’s wardrobe. “That’s why it has a thick door and a stout lock.”

Perzha gave them a sympathetic smile. “When children reach a point of having opinions of their own, family is often about drama.”

“Mine have been voicing opinions since before they could say actual words,” Lucivar said, happy to see a woman wearing an apron approaching the table with a coffeepot, followed by a younger woman carrying a tray that held plates of pastries and sandwiches. Carleton brought a ravenglass goblet and a familiar kind of decanter.

“May I,” Daemon said, indicating the goblet and decanter. It wasn’t a question.

Carleton set the items next to Daemon’s place at the table and retreated, along with the two women from the kitchen.

Ignoring his coffee, Daemon removed the crystal stopper from the decanter and poured the dark liquid into the goblet. As he tilted the goblet, he used Craft to create a tongue of witchfire. He turned the ravenglass slowly over the flame until the liquid warmed to the correct temperature. Extinguishing the witchfire, he moved the goblet back and forth under his nose, breathing in the scent before he took a taste—and made a face as he set the goblet on the table.

“Hell’s fire, woman,” he said. “What kind of blood wine is this? Why aren’t you drinking proper yarbarah?”

“Proper yarbarah, as you put it, comes from the SaDiablo vineyards in Dhemlan,” Perzha replied. “A few other places produce some yarbarah for ceremonial purposes, but the best vintages come from your vineyards. Having my court ordering bottles on a regular basis would have caught your attention.”

“So?”

“So you are more than the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan, and my people have feared the day you would come calling.”

Lucivar chose a sandwich. He wasn’t hungry, was rapidly losing his appetite for a lot of things since realizing what their arrival might mean for this village, but lazy arrogance was a useful tool—or weapon. “Is there a reason they’ve been concerned about Prince Sadi coming here? Something your court should have reported to me?”

“You know full well the reason for their concern. I told my First Circle—the First Circle who was with me then—that I should go to Hell. I was demon-dead. I died of natural causes, of an illness this old body couldn’t overcome. It was swift, and I died in my sleep, which is why, when I made the transition to demon-dead, I still had the reservoir of power in my Red Jewel as well as my Birthright Green.” Perzha leaned toward Daemon. “I told them I should report to the High Lord of Hell and they should look for another Queen. I told them Prince Yaslana wouldn’t allow Little Weeble to go to another Queen without considering what the people needed. But the First Circle pleaded with me to stay until they could find the right Queen to take my place. As long as a Red-Jeweled Queen ruled here, the village couldn’t be claimed by some ambitious twit—their word, not mine—who looked at Little Weeble as a place to gain credentials for something better. As if there could be any place that was better.”

“I wouldn’t have allowed a twit to take over the village,” Lucivar growled. “They should have known that.”

“They should have,” Perzha agreed quietly. “Especially considering who you still serve.”

He didn’t look at Daemon. The commitment they had made to the Queen of Ebon Askavi was a lifetime commitment of service—their lifetimes, not hers. So he understood why the people in this odd yet productive village would have resisted bringing in anyone who couldn’t be another Perzha.

“Do they actually look for another Queen?” Daemon asked.

“Yes, they do.” Perzha hesitated. “Every year, the First Circle collects a bucket of sand from our beach. Then the men use a screen and carefully sift the sand. On the day they find a diamond among the grains, they’ll know there is a Queen out there who is right for Little Weeble and they should let me retire, even if retiring means going to the Dark Realm.”

“You really think there is a diamond somewhere on that beach?” Lucivar asked.

She smiled. “Yes. That’s why I have stayed. It’s there. They just haven’t found it yet.”

His heart gave an odd flutter. Daemon, he noticed, looked pale.

“Who told you?” Daemon asked quietly.

“A few days after I made the transition to demon-dead, the living myth came to Little Weeble with the previous High Lord. She was the one who told the First Circle about the sand and the diamond. She saw it in a tangled web of dreams and visions—the diamond found in the sand would herald the arrival of the new Queen. Until that day, everyone agreed that I should stay here and take care of my people.”

Daemon rested his hand over hers. “If my father and my Queen agreed to this arrangement, then I will honor it. But if you tire of duty, if you want to go whether the people find the diamond or not, all you have to do is send a message, and I’ll return for an official visit.” He sat back and took a sip of now-cold coffee. “Until then, we came for some gossip.”

Perzha blinked at Daemon, then looked at Lucivar.

“Yeah, gossip,” he said.

“The more titillating, the better.” Daemon gave Perzha a smile that would have made her blush.

“Oh, my.” She patted a hand over her heart, looking flustered. “I’ve never heard of you being much of a flirt.”

“I only flirt with those who would appreciate it for what it is and not expect anything more.”

Because anyone who expected more would find themselves facing the Sadist, the cruelest and most lethal side of Daemon’s temper, Lucivar thought.

“Well, gossip that reaches a coastal town is a bit like storm wrack,” Perzha said. “A lot of debris gets thrown onto the shore, but not much is worth anything unless it happens to be the thing you’re looking for.” She gave them a brilliant smile. “Who do you want to know about?”

An hour later, when members of Perzha’s First Circle kept showing up every five minutes, broadly hinting that their Queen needed to rest, what with her having an allergy to the sun and all, Daemon and Lucivar walked back to the landing web at the edge of the village.

“Hell’s fire,” Lucivar said. “How does she know so much about aristos in other villages? Why does she know so much?” She hadn’t known anything about that prick-ass Dillon, but he felt confident now that she would find out everything he wanted to know.

“She’s an eccentric Queen from a little village with a weird name, so people forget that she wears a Red Jewel and can wipe the floor with most of them.” Daemon called in a pen and a thin leather binder that held a sheaf of paper. “Want to bet the gossip about this place is that there have been other Queens over the generations since Lady Perzha ruled here, but a condition of a First Circle forming an official court around the new Queen is that she take the name Perzha, at least for her public identity, and use an illusion spell to look like the late beloved Queen?”

“No bet. It sounds like something the people here would do.”

“Since they would want sufficient warning if someone figured out the deception, I would also wager that some of her court are very good at ferreting out information about anyone of interest anywhere in Askavi.”

If they were that good, they should have remembered that I knew Perzha was demon-dead, Lucivar thought. They should have known that Daemon wouldn’t force her to go to Hell. Our family, more than anyone, understands the difference between refusing to let go and still being needed.

Then he felt a chill when he realized Daemon was making notes about this visit. “What are you doing?”

“That yarbarah Perzha was drinking is the equivalent of rough whiskey made in a still. Worse, the stuff was putrid. If she’s going to stay in Little Weeble, she should be drinking something better to sustain the flesh and her power. So I’m giving Holt instructions to have regular deliveries made from the SaDiablo vineyards.” Daemon looked at Lucivar. “Do you have any objections?”

He shook his head. “If I’d known she was sustaining herself by drinking swill, I would have supplied her with yarbarah myself. Hell’s fire, if it mattered so much for her to stay, why did her court give her shit to drink?”

Daemon finished making notes and vanished the pen and leather binder. “They probably never tasted it and didn’t know how disgustingly bad the stuff was—and Perzha didn’t tell them because they were afraid of losing her. The First Circle who had been serving her when she died knew that Saetan knew about her. He would have insisted she consume properly blended yarbarah. But that would have been what? Two, three Rihlander generations ago? The oldest men serving her now would have been boys, if they’d been born yet.”

“So after Father returned to the Darkness, they didn’t continue whatever arrangement was made.” Lucivar swore softly. “Even if she didn’t want to approach you, she could have said something to me.”

“Maybe this is a very recent decline in the quality of what they are purchasing—or in the quality of what they are now receiving—but they still believe they’re providing her with a decent vintage.”

They looked at each other.

Daemon called in the binder and pen and made another note.

It wasn’t for show. Holt would be given part of the assignment to gather information about any vineyard making yarbarah. But the High Lord of Hell had other sources of information, and if someone had been substituting a bad vintage for a good one, Lucivar would kill the bastard’s body—and Daemon would take care of the rest.

TWENTY-TWO

Jillian walked into the Yaslana eyrie as Titian and Jaenelle Saetien dashed out of the kitchen. Titian looked equal parts curious and alarmed, but Jaenelle Saetien said in a singsong voice, “Daemonar’s in trouble.”

“Sounds like it,” Jillian agreed. Must be a morning for high drama, judging by the sounds coming from the kitchen.

The girls dashed down the corridor toward the playroom.

“I didn’t know Mother was saving it for something special,” Daemonar said, trying to sound like he had done something perfectly reasonable and not coming close. “And they were hungry.”

٭We’re very hungry,٭ a young-sounding male voice said.

٭And we didn’t want eggs and toast,٭ another male said.

٭And we already ate the oatmeal the girl pups didn’t want.٭ That voice was female.

“Which doesn’t excuse going into the cold box and taking a roast,” Daemon said sternly.

٭We didn’t take the roast,٭ the second male voice said. ٭Daemonar took the roast.٭

٭But he took it because we are very hungry,٭ the other male said.

“At home we have rules about taking things out of the cold box without asking,” Daemon said. “Not being home doesn’t mean you can forget the rules.”

٭We did a wrong thing?٭ The female sounded alarmed.

“No, you didn’t do a wrong thing. Daemonar made a mistake,” Daemon said.

Jillian tiptoed toward the kitchen. Not that she needed to get closer to hear everything. But she was curious about whom the voices belonged to. Young-sounding didn’t always mean young.

She peeked around one side of the archway that opened onto the kitchen.

Prince Sadi and Prince Yaslana were staring at Daemonar and three small dogs who were bunched around the boy’s feet.

Scelties. The ones who were vessels for the power that flowed in the blood were called kindred, and they wore Jewels and learned Craft just like the rest of the Blood.

She’d seen Scelties before, but that was years ago, and although she’d observed how the dogs had herded Mikal and Daemonar to keep the boys out of mischief, she’d never interacted with the Scelties herself.

“We’ll put it back.” Daemonar sounded sulky. “I was just trying to be a good host.”

A beat of silence. Then Yaslana blew out a breath, a sound full of annoyance. “You can’t put it back. Your mother isn’t going to want to cook it now.”

٭We’re sorry we are hungry?٭ That was the larger male, a gray and white dog with black markings on his face . . . who wore a dark Opal Jewel?

Jillian blinked, but that didn’t change the rank of the Jewel mostly hidden in the white chest fur. Mother Night.

“No, you’re all sorry for taking the meat without asking, and you should apologize to Marian, since this is her kitchen in the same way the kitchen at the Hall is Mrs. Beale’s territory,” Daemon said.

٭Mrs. Beale said she would make puppy pies out of us if we took anything from her kitchen without asking,٭ the smaller male said, pressing closer to Daemonar’s legs.

٭Mrs. Beale is scary,٭ the female said. ٭Marian isn’t scary.٭

“Mother can be scary when she’s really mad,” Daemonar said in a loud whisper. “But it takes a lot to get her that mad.” He eyed his father and uncle. “We’ll go without supper.”

٭No food?٭ ٭We don’t get food?٭ ٭But we weren’t bad.٭

Jillian put a hand over her mouth to hold back the laugh. Yaslana looked over his shoulder at her. Either he’d sensed the movement or, more likely, he’d known she was there all along.

“You feel up to doing some shopping at the market?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.” She hadn’t been down to Riada since the outing to the cake shop, so she hadn’t had a chance to talk to Dillon and tell him about being able to see him. Sort of. “Is it all right if I go to the library too? I have some books to return.”

Yaslana stared at her a moment too long. “All right.” Still looking at her, he crooked a finger at Daemonar. “Bane of my existence, come here.” When Daemonar came up beside him, Yaslana wrapped a hand around the back of the boy’s neck. “You are standing escort for Jillian while she does the shopping and runs her errands. That means you don’t go wandering off to talk to friends. You keep each other in sight. Got that?”

“Yes, sir.”

She could convince Daemonar to give her a few minutes to talk to Dillon. Not out of sight or anything, because Dillon would be in trouble if they did that, but with Daemonar far enough away for them to have a private conversation.

“And you three are chaperons for both of them,” Lucivar finished, turning his head to stare at the Scelties.

Well, that wouldn’t be so bad. The dogs would obey her. Wouldn’t they?

“Lady Marian is feeding the baby,” Yaslana said, looking at her again. “Lady Surreal is with her. Go ask if there is anything they need while you’re at the market.”

“Yes, sir,” Jillian said.

Yaslana gave Daemonar an easy push. “You go clean your teeth and wash your hands.”

As Jillian walked past the kitchen, she saw Prince Sadi crouch and the Scelties gather around him.

“You think they’ll be all right?” Lucivar asked when Jillian and Daemonar flew down to Riada while Morghann, Khary, and Tagg caught the Winds down to the village. They would meet up in front of the butcher’s shop.

“They’ll be fine.” Daemon looked at the roast that had three chunks torn out of it and shook his head as he set it on a cutting board. “This was a fine piece of meat.” Taking a large kitchen knife from the block on the counter, he cut up the rest into small chunks.

Opening one of the lower cupboards, Lucivar selected a container with a tight lid. “A couple of weeks ago, I wouldn’t have worried about the children going to the village on their own. But that damn Warlord sniffing around Jillian changes everything.”

Daemon scooped up the chunks of meat and put them in the container. While Lucivar closed the lid, he washed his hands. Then he took the pencil and one of the squares of paper Marian used in order to pin information on the family message board and wrote Sceltie food. He used Craft to fix the paper to the lid, then put the container in the cold box.

“There was going to be a boy sooner or later,” Daemon said, returning the pencil.

“I expected any boy interested in Jillian to know better than to piss on my boots.”

“I would have expected the aristo family who is hosting him to know better. After your initial reaction and his accepting Surreal’s invitation to join her and Jillian at the cake shop, they have to know he’s expressed interest in the girl. Why haven’t they told him to come up to the eyrie and introduce himself? If that’s too intimidating or if they’re concerned that might indicate more interest than is felt, especially considering the difference in Jillian’s and Lord Dillon’s ages, there are ways to make a casual introduction.”

“The Eyriens who settled in Ebon Rih didn’t come from aristo families.”

“You do,” Daemon said quietly. “I know it doesn’t mean much to you. That sort of thing never did. But sometimes, brother, reminding someone of just how aristo your bloodlines are can be a very sharp whip.”

Lucivar smiled and shook his head. “Perzha wearing all her clattering jewelry. Me wearing the leathers that are suited for a working Eyrien warrior instead of looking like the ruler of this valley—of the whole damn Territory, even if I haven’t officially claimed it. A truth about who we are, but also a disguise.”

“I know a bit about using one kind of power to conceal another.”

Yes, he would. There still weren’t many among the living who knew Daemon Sadi was more than the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan—was, in fact, the High Lord of Hell.

It took Jillian less than a minute after landing in front of the butcher’s shop to learn that Scelties were bundles of information—especially when it came to themselves.

The female Sceltie was Morghann, a Purple Dusk–Jeweled witch. Khary was a Warlord who wore an Opal in the deeper range of that Jewel, and Tagg, a black and white youngster with tan markings, was also a Warlord, but he was too young to have gone through the Birthright Ceremony, so he didn’t have a Jewel. Normally he wouldn’t have been brought along for a visit in another Territory, except a visit to Scelt, but Daemon had decided that Tagg should come with the other two because it would be educational and the Scelties would be with members of the SaDiablo family.

Jillian interpreted that explanation to mean that the three dogs had put up such a fuss about Tagg being left behind that Prince Sadi hadn’t wanted to return home to deal with whatever trouble one unhappy Sceltie could cause at the Hall. So he brought the trouble with him.

It wasn’t the day for the full open market, but the grocer had carts of fruits and vegetables set up outside. Before she could walk into the butcher shop and buy a replacement roast, Tagg dashed toward a cart full of vegetables and leaped—a move that would have landed him in the middle of the produce. Daemonar caught him in midair, swinging the Sceltie out of reach a moment before Tagg grabbed a crown of broccoli.

“What’s going on?” The grocer dashed outside, holding a broom in a fighting stance.

“Sorry, sir,” Daemonar said, struggling to hold the excited dog. “This is Lord Tagg. He likes broccoli.”

٭Greens are good!٭ Tagg whapped Daemonar’s leg with his tail.

٭Hello,٭ Morghann said. ٭We are Scelties. We live at the Hall with Prince Sadi and Lady Surreal, but we are visiting Prince Yaslana and Lady Marian.٭

The grocer blinked. Then he pursed his lips as Jillian and Khary rushed up to join the kerfuffle.

Honestly, it was like dealing with fast-talking, four-legged toddlers who dashed off to look at, sniff, and taste whatever caught their interest.

Well, she’d been helping Marian deal with children since Daemonar was a baby, so she could, and would, deal with this too.

“Yes, we do need some greens for tonight’s dinner, but I’m going to select them, and there will be no tasting until we get home and Lady Marian decides what she wants to use.”

٭Morghann and I can help choose the fruits,٭ Khary said. ٭We’re good at sniffing out the ripest fruit.٭

“That’s all—,” Jillian began. Then she—and everyone else—stared as the two Scelties rose until they were standing on air level with the cart bed. They walked above the mounded fruit, their paws never touching anything as they sniffed the offerings. Their selections rose above the cart to float on air.

٭I can help!٭ Tagg struggled to get out of Daemonar’s arms. ٭I want to help.٭

٭Move away from the carts,٭ Jillian told Daemonar on a psychic thread.

٭I’m supposed to stay with you.٭

٭If he manages to get away from you, he’ll land right on top of all the vegetables in the cart. Do you want to explain that to your father?٭

٭I’m not moving out of sight.٭

٭Just out of range of getting us both into trouble.٭

Daemonar grinned and walked to the next shop, which had brooms in a barrel just outside the door. Nothing much there to tempt a Sceltie—she hoped.

They were drawing a crowd. She heard a woman asking, “What about the melons? Can you pick out the ripest melon for me?”

Jillian gave the grocer an apologetic smile. “They’re just visiting.”

“What about this one?” Another woman held up a different melon.

Morghann sniffed it. ٭Not ripe for eating today, but soon.٭

“That’s good. I wanted it for a couple of days from now.” She went past the grocer and entered the shop with the chosen melon and the rest of the produce in her basket.

“So those are Scelties,” the grocer said quietly, talking more to himself than to Jillian. “You hear stories about them, even here in the valley. Didn’t expect to see one.”

Jillian scanned the list Marian had provided. She swiftly chose the fruits she was supposed to buy, taking her selections from the fruit floating above the cart. “I have all the fruit we need. You should—”

“Oh, couldn’t they help a little more while you finish your shopping?” That was another woman. With a little shiver of dread and fascination, Jillian realized they had drawn a big crowd, and the grocer was looking a bit bemused by the entertainment value being provided by his fruit and vegetable carts.

٭You should finish up before the grocer offers one of them a job,٭ Daemonar said.

She hoped he was teasing, but just in case he wasn’t, she selected the vegetables using touch and her own nose.

٭Broccoli!٭ Tagg said. ٭Is Jillian buying broccoli for us?٭

“The last time I visited the Hall, Uncle Daemon said you weren’t allowed to have broccoli, because it makes you fart,” Daemonar said.

Tagg whined and gave the grocer a pleading look.

“I might risk Prince Yaslana’s displeasure,” the grocer said, “but I’m not going to do anything that could stink up Lady Marian’s home.”

Reminding herself that boys thought farts were an acceptable topic of conversation no matter where they were, Jillian ignored the chuckles from the men and tsks from the women as she took her basket inside and had the purchases added to the Yaslana household account.

“Come on, everyone,” she called as she headed back to the butcher shop. “We don’t have all day.”

٭We have to go now,٭ Morghann said, trotting between the shoulders of two customers. ٭We are chaperons today.٭

Approving nods from the women, along with a few “Come back and visit again” remarks.

Jillian vanished her basket. Without the broccoli being right in front of him, Tagg settled enough that Daemonar could put him down.

When they reached the butcher shop, she saw a flash of movement in the alleyway, there and gone.

٭Jillian.٭ The whisper of her name was so unexpected, she almost gasped. Dillon didn’t like using psychic communication. He said it didn’t convey half of what could be heard in a real voice—the difference between corresponding with a person and meeting face-to-face.

She looked at Daemonar. “Do you know what to purchase?”

“Jillian.” Daemonar’s voice held a warning.

A Warlord Prince was the most amenable he would ever be in his entire life during those years just before he began the change from boy to man—unless that boy had almost lost his mother and would no longer back down from a fight. “Five minutes. Right next to the shop in plain sight. I just need to tell Dillon about the arrangement I made with Lady Surreal.” When he didn’t respond, she added, “Please?”

“Out in the open, in full sight of people on the street,” he finally said, reluctantly yielding to her plea. “You promise?”

She should have agreed immediately. Making a promise to someone so much younger rankled enough to have her hesitate.

“Jillian, whatever you’re planning to do? Don’t,” Daemonar said. “You’ve already made a promise to Auntie Surreal, and she’s half Dea al Mon. Your friend’s life won’t be worth anything if you break your promise to her.”

Jillian swallowed the lump of fear that suddenly blocked her throat. “I won’t break my promise to her or to you.”

She watched him walk into the shop. A boy had given a prime roast to the Scelties for breakfast, but the young Warlord Prince who walked into the butcher shop didn’t sound like a boy.

٭Jillian.٭

She rounded the corner and stopped, checking that she would be seen easily by anyone walking along the main street. “Dillon?”

He appeared in front of her. Then he grabbed her hand a moment before she felt a whisper of power surround them.

“Sight shield,” he said. “Should have thought of it the last time.”

Before she could protest, before she could warn him, he pushed her against the wall, covered her mouth with his, and thrust his tongue between her lips. Startled, she did nothing, not sure if she liked the sensation or not.

Then fear cleared her head. She pushed him away, breaking most of the contact between them. But he still held her hand.

“Stop it,” she said, keeping her voice low. “You have to drop the sight shield now.”

“It’s all right.” He moved in on her—or tried to.

She pushed back, her hand on his chest.

“Don’t you want to be with me?” He sounded hurt, vulnerable. “If you loved me, you would want to be with me as much as I want to be with you.”

She felt the gentle brush of his thumb over the knuckles of one hand. Of course she loved him, wanted to be with him. But . . . She shook her head, struggling to remember why it would be wrong to have this private moment. Why it would be dangerous. “There’s not much time. You have to listen.”

“Kiss me first.”

Dark Opal power slammed against Dillon’s Opal sight shield. That power struck again, breaking the shield.

“What in the name of Hell . . . ,” he began.

٭No touching!٭ Khary’s voice boomed in the alleyway for everyone to hear.

٭He was touching!٭ Morghann’s voice, equally loud.

٭Bad dog! Grrrrr.٭ Tagg’s barks were loud enough to start a rockslide.

That brought a whole lot of people running to find out what had upset the Scelties—including Daemonar. And standing in the street, his hand around the hilt of his fighting knife, was Lord Rothvar.

“We’re fine.” Jillian gave Daemonar a pleading look and then glanced in Rothvar’s direction, but she didn’t dare meet the Green-Jeweled Warlord’s eyes. “Just a misunderstanding with the Scelties.”

Daemonar turned and went back to the butcher shop. Rothvar studied her a moment longer before continuing on his way. Everyone else went back to their own concerns, since she didn’t need help.

Everyone except the Scelties.

“Lord Dillon was just touching my hand. That’s allowed.” At least, that was all he’d been doing when Khary broke the sight shield and everyone could see them.

٭Daemon said no touching,٭ Morghann said stubbornly. At least she wasn’t telling the whole village now. ٭He didn’t say no touching except for hands.٭

“I need to speak with Lord Dillon.”

They stared at her.

“Privately.”

٭No,٭ Khary said.

It wasn’t lost on her that Khary outranked everyone standing in that alleyway right now, and if provoked, the Sceltie Warlord could hurt Dillon.

“You three stay here. Dillon and I are going to walk down there and talk for a minute.” Jillian pointed to the end of the alleyway.

Turning, she walked away. Dillon trailed behind her.

“Hell’s fire, Jillian,” he hissed. “What’s going on? What are those things?”

“They’re Scelties. They’re chaperons.”

“You’re joking.”

She shook her head. “Everyone is upset about what happened the other day.”

“I thought that was settled when I made nice at the cake shop.” Dillon did not look or sound happy.

“What was settled was that we can see each other and spend time together. Public outings with a chaperon present.” She gave him a wobbly smile.

Dillon stared at her.

“You can come up to the eyrie,” she said.

Now he smiled. “Oh, yeah?” When he reached for her, she took a step back.

He looked hurt. And maybe something else. “I thought you wanted to be with me.”

“I do.”

“You can’t let Yaslana dictate your life. He’s not your father.”

The words made her uneasy, even though she had almost said the same thing to Lucivar herself. “But he is the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih, and everyone who lives in this valley lives under his hand. And that includes visitors.”

“If I don’t kowtow, what’s he going to do?”

Dillon sounded defiant. That he would be willing to defy an Ebon-gray Warlord Prince to be with her was thrilling—and terrifying. Had Dillon ever had personal dealings with a Warlord Prince before, let alone a man as powerful as Lucivar Yaslana? “He is the law in Ebon Rih. He could banish you from his Territory. Or he could kill you.”

“For a kiss?”

She wasn’t sure Yaslana wouldn’t, so she said nothing.

Dillon sighed. Then, tossing a defiant look at the Scelties—and Daemonar, who now stood with them—he held out his hand.

Feeling like she had to draw her own line of how much she would let someone interfere with her choices, she took his hand.

Dillon stepped a little closer, turning his back on the Scelties and the boy. Warm excitement filled her.

“I’m sorry I . . . Well, the thought of not being able to spend time with you made me a little crazy.”

“I told you. As long as we follow Lady Surreal’s rules, we can spend time together. You can visit with me at the eyrie when there is an adult present, or we can have a public outing together, with chaperons. But, for your sake, we have to follow Lady Surreal’s rules.”

He nodded. “Fine. I’ll make nice. But that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.” Now he looked embarrassed. “Remember when I paid the bill at the cake shop? I wanted to make a good impression because I didn’t think Lady Surreal thought much of me. And now I have a bill that I have to pay, and I can’t.” His thumb rubbed across her knuckles. “Do you think you could . . . ? Just to tide me over.”

“Oh,” she said when she finally caught on to what he was asking. Pulling her hand out of his, she called in the embroidered pouch she used as a wallet and removed all the marks. “This is what I have. You’re welcome to it.”

He started to smile until he ruffled the marks. “This isn’t enough to cover what I owe. Is there any way you could get a bit more? Maybe borrow a bit from your sister’s cashbox? Or from the Yaslana housekeeping money?”

She felt as if he’d thrown ice water into her face. “That would be stealing.”

“If they’re as rich as everyone says, they wouldn’t notice if a few gold marks went missing.” When she took a step back, he laughed and touched her hand. “Hell’s fire, Jillian. I was only joking. If you loved me, you’d know I was joking.”

Of course he was joking. He wouldn’t ask her to steal from her sister or from Marian. And since his family was aristo, he would know that things were put on account, not paid for immediately, so housekeeping money wouldn’t be lying around.

Of course he was joking. “I have some money saved. I could take some of that if it would help.”

“That would—”

“Jillian,” Daemonar called. “If you want to stop at the library, it’s time to go before someone comes looking for us.”

A warning, since they both knew who would come looking.

Dillon vanished the marks and gave her a warm smile. “Will you give me the honor of escorting you to the library, Lady Jillian?”

“Thank you, Lord Dillon. That would be pleasant.”

She took the wrapped roast from Daemonar, relieved that the butcher had put a cold spell in the paper to keep the meat fresh. Then she vanished it and strolled to the library with Dillon beside her and Daemonar and the three Scelties trailing behind.

Rothvar stepped into Lucivar’s study, then nodded to Daemon before focusing on the man he served. “If you could spare a minute, Prince?”

“I’ll get out of your way.” Daemon started to push out of the chair but settled again when Rothvar raised a hand to stop him.

“Appreciated but not necessary,” Rothvar said. “Figured you would know about it anyway—or hear about it.”

Daemon sighed. “What did they do, and who should I compensate?”

Lucivar said, “Shit.”

Rothvar laughed. “Nah. If you’re talking about those Scelties, they caused a stir, but no trouble came of it. They were just helping some of the grocer’s customers select the best fruit, is all.”

Daemon groaned. “He’ll start thinking, ‘How clever. If I had one of those dogs around all the time, customers would flock to my shop instead of the fellow on the other side of the village, because who else would have such a unique helper?’ But Scelties herd. That’s what they do with unflagging passion. First the Sceltie will help customers select fruits. Then he’ll want to know why they didn’t buy fruit one week, and the person will brush off the question as they might do with another human. And because he’s small and furry, people forget about the Jewel he’s wearing, mostly because it’s hidden in the fur, and they forget that the nose that can pick out ripe fruit also picks up all kinds of interesting things. And if he’s helping that person select fruit and he can tell she’s unhappy, he’ll want to know why. So he’ll start digging into why she’s unhappy, and if he can’t do it by himself, he’ll have some Sceltie friends help him—or some of the kindred horses that come from Scelt, or an Arcerian cat, because, despite their having distanced themselves from humans once more, the cats have maintained a bond with the Scelties. And a Sceltie will not hesitate to publicly scold a man—or woman—for indulging in sex outside of the marriage bed and will not hesitate to announce, loudly, who the person slept with, because, of course, he can smell that too if the other person gets within range. But if the unhappiness is caused by someone else hurting one of his chosen people . . . Like I said, the Scelties and Arcerians still work together, and a big cat who is hungry doesn’t see any point in wasting the meat.”

“Mother Night,” Rothvar breathed. Then he shook his head and laughed. “You’re having me on.”

Lucivar wagged a thumb at Daemon. “He co-owns a few businesses with Scelties on the Isle of Scelt here in Kaeleer and a couple of farms in Dena Nehele and Shalador Nehele in Terreille.”

“Why?” Rothvar sounded horrified—a sentiment Lucivar shared wholeheartedly.

Daemon’s smile was bittersweet. “I continue what my Queen began, and in this way I serve.”

“If you’re not here because of the Scelties, that leaves the two children,” Lucivar said.

He listened to Rothvar’s account of seeing some “buzz” around the grocer’s and gliding in to take a look. Then Jillian walked into an alleyway and disappeared for a minute before the Scelties voiced their disapproval loudly enough to bring merchants and customers running to find out what was wrong.

“Things are still new with Nurian and me,” Rothvar said. “She hasn’t allowed a man to cross the threshold that way since Falonar hurt her and Jillian, so I’m careful around the girl. Not that Jillian is any trouble, but it’s not for me to be drawing any lines, if you know what I mean.”

“I do,” Lucivar replied.

“Nurian said Lady Surreal had laid down some rules so that Jillian could spend time with this boy?”

Lucivar nodded.

Daemon crossed one knee over the other and steepled his fingers. “If you toss Dillon off a mountain or kick him out of Ebon Rih, he’ll be a romantic, tragic, flawless figure—the boy who would have loved her like no other boy ever will, if the grown-ups hadn’t been mean and sent him away. Right now he dazzles her and she believes she’s in love.”

“She’s not a child anymore, but she’s not grown up enough for any of that,” Rothvar said hotly.

“Physically, she’s not yet ready,” Daemon agreed. “Emotionally?” He raised an eyebrow. “Which is why Jillian is accompanied by chaperons.”

“You can’t square off with Jillian,” Lucivar told Rothvar. “That would bring up bad memories for her and for Nurian. If any rules get broken, let the girl argue with Surreal. But you should spend more time at Nurian’s eyrie, in case someone is thinking about enjoying some private time with Jillian. And if that boy shows up at the eyrie when he thinks an adult won’t be there . . .” He smiled that lazy, arrogant smile. “Nothing says you can’t draw the line with him.”

“Where is Jillian now?” Daemon asked.

“Last I saw her, they were all walking toward the library.”

“I hope she remembers she’s carting around the meat for tonight’s dinner,” Lucivar said.

“Finished my sweep around Doun, but I can do another,” Rothvar said.

He shook his head. “No need. Go home. Sharpen some knives.”

Rothvar smiled. “I’ll do that.” He nodded to Daemon. “Prince.”

Lucivar waited until he no longer felt Rothvar’s presence in the eyrie. Then he looked at his brother. “Well?”

“Who else knows about the money you put aside for Jillian?” Daemon asked softly.

“You, Marian, and your man of business, since you and he helped me set up the trusts for all the children. I should tell Nurian at some point. But Jillian can’t use any of it until she reaches her majority, and you set things up so she could take the interest but couldn’t touch the principal without your permission or mine.” Discussing money always gave him a headache, which was the reason he’d asked for Daemon’s help when he made provisions for his wife and children—including the child who had no actual connection to him except for heart. “There is no reason anyone would think Jillian had money beyond what Marian pays her for her help around the eyrie, so that can’t be a lure.”

“Young aristo males think all kinds of things. But I don’t think it’s occurred to Dillon yet that he’ll be old enough to be a grandfather, maybe even a great-grandfather, before Jillian is old enough to have her Virgin Night and take a lover afterward.” Daemon paused. “He could have genuine feelings for Jillian. Affection rather than lust.”

“But you don’t think so.”

“I haven’t met him. However, based on how you found out about him, no, I don’t think so. Which makes me wonder why he’s playing this game.”

“I told you,” Terrence said. “I told you not to tangle with Prince Yaslana.”

Dillon slouched in a chair in the parlor, feeling everything sliding out of control. Again. “She’s not related to him. Why is he making such a fuss about me courting the girl? And those damn dogs!”

“Scelties.” Terrence leaned forward, looking eager. “You hear stories about them. Are they really bossy and opinionated?”

Dillon gave his cousin a sour look. “Why don’t you come with me to that part of the village and see for yourself.”

“All right.” Terrence hesitated. “But I thought you didn’t want company.”

He didn’t. Since he wasn’t going to have a choice, Terrence’s presence might reassure everyone that his intentions were honorable. If nothing else, it would divide the damn dogs’ attention between them.

Of course, Terrence’s presence would interfere with a business arrangement, but he’d been reluctant about that from the start and wouldn’t have agreed to it if he hadn’t needed the “commission” he received. Having his cousin with him would give him an excuse to withdraw from the arrangement.

Terrence was a young man with an unblemished reputation, and, in truth, he still had an innocence when it came to the distaff gender that Dillon felt oddly compelled to protect. “I would be glad of your company.”

TWENTY-THREE

Flustered by the past couple of days and the sharp scrutiny of everything she did and everywhere she went—an unsettling experience that made her feel tethered when she’d been free to come and go as she pleased for so many years—Jillian needed a few quiet minutes to herself before she helped Marian prepare breakfast for the children. Juggling an armload of books, she used Craft to open the glass doors that led out to the yard and was so focused on reaching the small table and two chairs that were used for “quiet play” that she didn’t notice Prince Sadi until she almost dropped her load of books on his mug of coffee.

The mug lifted and slid to one side, so smoothly the coffee didn’t slosh.

“My apologies, Prince,” Jillian stammered. “I didn’t realize anyone was out here. I just wanted to . . .”

“Look at your books without being pestered?” Daemon said with a smile. “If one child can ask a thousand questions in a day, how many can three children ask?”

“A million. When questions overlap, they spawn new questions that are usually unrelated to anything that was initially asked.”

He laughed. Then he moved his own stack of books and retrieved his mug of coffee. “Why don’t you sit down? I take it you’ll have your hands full the rest of the morning.”

She took the other seat—and felt a bit daring. He, at least, seemed to recognize that she had a woman’s heart and feelings without hemming those feelings in with rules and yappy chaperons like Lady Surreal had done. Would he be amused if she confessed that one of the things that attracted her to Dillon was the fact that Dillon reminded her of him? Just a little. Just enough.

Now Prince Sadi was sitting out here without his jacket, which, despite the white silk shirt, made him appear to be casually dressed, and she felt like they were just two people who could chat as equals. Because of that, maybe she could talk to him about things that Nurian and Prince Yaslana didn’t want to hear.

“What are you reading?” Daemon asked.

“This and that.” Remembering how Dillon had made fun of some of her selections, she cringed when Prince Sadi turned the stack to read the titles.

“You like stories with gore and danger?”

That was one of the books Dillon had mocked. He’d even held his nose as if it smelled bad. “It’s just for fun.”

Daemon pulled out a book from his own stack. “Have you tried this author? Same kind of thing but the characters are less embellished. Not that there is anything wrong with a character having hidden skills that are suddenly required. Those can be good stories for times when, as you said, you want to read something just for fun. But I think this author’s characters feel more real, like someone I could meet in a dining house or in a shop.”

She called in a pencil and the small notebook she used for things she didn’t want to forget and wrote down the author and title of the book.

“This is an interesting choice.” Daemon tapped the spine of another book.

The words came out in a rush. “Dillon says it’s a brilliant account of the service fairs and the choices people made when they came to Kaeleer. The author’s ancestor emigrated through the service fair, and he wrote the book based on personal accounts of those days.” Daemon’s odd smile stopped the flow of words. “Have you read the book?”

“I have.”

“Did you think it was brilliant?” Please think it was brilliant.

“I thought it was pretentious. But I’ll be interested to hear what you think of it.”

Jillian blinked. “Why?”

“Because you were there.”

The words were said so gently, it took her a moment to absorb the meaning.

“You were a girl during that time, but you weren’t a young child,” Daemon said. “While time may have softened some of those memories and details because you haven’t thought about those days until now, you probably remember far more than you realize. You and your sister were among those who fled from the witches who had their claws in Terreille. Nurian signed a contract with Lucivar during the last fair.” He sat back. “No matter how faithfully that author recounts what it was like to come to Kaeleer, he can’t remember, can’t reproduce how it felt the way you can. Those feelings are in your heart and your blood and your bones. History to him. Personal memory for you.”

Such an obvious thing, but it hadn’t occurred to her.

“May I make an observation?” Daemon asked.

“Yes.”

“There is no easy comparison between the long-lived and short-lived races when it comes to age equivalents. We have spurts of development followed by long plateaus. Lord Dillon is a Rihlander who has reached his majority and is considered an adult. If you were a Rihlander, you would be about fourteen or fifteen, and when you turned twenty and reached your majority, Dillon would be in his late twenties. But you’re Eyrien, and it will be decades before your age of majority is within sight.”

“What are you saying? I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

“He’s your first romantic love, and that’s special,” Daemon said gently. “But it’s not forever, even if you’d like it to be.”

She almost snapped at him, almost asked him how he would know. Then she realized he did know. He had married Jaenelle Angelline, and even after decades of being married, her death almost destroyed him.

But he was talking to her, really talking to her, instead of telling her what she could and couldn’t do.

“Can I ask you a hypothetical question?”

“Yes.”

“If two people really love each other and want to be together, you know, physically, intimately, and one of them hadn’t reached the age of majority . . . what would happen?”

“That would depend,” Daemon replied. “If the man recognized his responsibilities when seeing a young woman through her Virgin Night, there might be disapproval but no other consequences. However, if she was damaged in any way, if he became intent on his own excitement and pleasure, which can happen with a young man, and as a consequence broke the girl, stripping her of her Birthright Jewel and destroying the potential power she might have had at maturity; if she becomes pregnant, especially if she is broken that night and can never have another child . . . The debt he would owe would not be tempered with much, if any, mercy.”

“But if she really loved him . . .”

Daemon slid out of his chair, went down on one knee, and took her hand, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles—a gesture so like the way Dillon held her hand.

“Darling, you’re forgetting the other half of that statement. If she really loved him and he wanted sex, yes, she might be tempted to give in to please him because he desperately needs her, and her giving in, despite the risks, is the only way he’ll believe she loves him. But if he really loved her, he would acknowledge that she was too young for more than some romance and kisses. If he really loved her, he would respect her decision when she refused to do something he wanted; he wouldn’t keep pushing until he got his way. When that happens, it’s been my experience that the man doesn’t really love the girl for herself; he only loves what he can get from her.”

Jillian stared at that beautiful face, listened to the voice that wrapped around her—and felt as if she’d walked out of a hot, stuffy room and breathed in crisp, clean air.

“What if she’s already given him some things?”

“Are we talking about material things or her body?”

“Material things.”

“If the loss causes some discomfort but no long-term consequences, then it’s a mistake that bruises but doesn’t destroy, and the person will recognize the signs and not step into the snare the next time.” Daemon looked toward the eyrie. “I think it’s time to go in for breakfast.”

“Hell’s fire.” Jillian leaped to her feet, almost knocking Daemon over. Fortunately, he got out of the way, although she wasn’t sure how he’d managed it. She vanished her stack of books, turned toward the glass doors, then hesitated when she saw Prince Yaslana watching her. Watching them.

Yaslana stepped aside to let her pass.

Glancing back before she went into the kitchen to help with breakfast while Marian fed baby Andulvar, she saw Prince Sadi step into the front room. He smiled at her as he and Yaslana headed deeper into the eyrie instead of coming into the kitchen.

For a moment, Jillian stared at nothing. Daemon Sadi was more beautiful than Dillon and was the patriarch of the most powerful aristo family in the whole of Kaeleer. If Sadi talked to her as if she was intelligent and interesting, why did Dillon leave her with the feeling that she had to prove she was worthy of his attention?

Lucivar followed Daemon into the study and closed the door. Then Daemon turned, wrapped a hand around the back of Lucivar’s neck, and drew him close.

Glazed, sleepy gold eyes. A sweet, murderous smile. Lucivar knew the warning signs, knew what would happen if he made the wrong move, said the wrong thing.

The Sadist’s black-tinted nails were honed as sharp as a knife and could slice a wrist or nick a jugular vein deeply enough for a man to bleed out in less than a minute—and then have his Jewels shattered in the last moments he struggled to survive.

He felt his brother’s breath on his skin before the Sadist said too softly, “That little bastard has been using a seduction spell on your girl.”

Fury blazed through him, creating a fire beneath his skin. His hands closed into fists. But Daemon’s hand was still on his neck, warning him to keep still.

“I won’t insult you by asking if you’re sure,” he growled.

Daemon’s eyes were still glazed but no longer sleepy. His smile now held an edge that was no longer murderous but definitely cruel. “Good.” Moving his hand, he stepped back—and Lucivar sprang to the other side of the room, needing to move.

“I should have ripped the little prick’s arms off when I caught him touching her.” Lucivar turned toward the door, but Daemon sidestepped, getting between him and the easy way out of the room.

“You can’t do that now for the same reason you didn’t do it then,” Daemon said with a mildness that ripped away a little more of Lucivar’s control. “If you squash him, Jillian will always believe he was a wonderful boy and you were the cruel surrogate father who killed her true love.”

“How is a seduction spell true love?” Lucivar shouted, not caring if anyone heard him. Then he took a moment to check the room and realized Daemon had put an aural shield around the walls so they could shout, argue, fight, even destroy the whole damn room and every stick of furniture in it, without anyone hearing them.

“Seduction spells can be used for all kinds of reasons. Don’t tell me you haven’t used a seduction tendril now and then to make things more exciting for Marian.”

Lucivar swore fiercely, a low rumble of sound as he continued pacing. “That’s different.”

“Completely different. One kind is meant to please; the other kind tries to smother choice.”

Daemon knew all about playing games with seduction spells, knew how much to use to add a bit more persuasion to a request without taking away a person’s choice—and knew how to strip a person of any choice at all.

Lucivar glanced at his brother, then stopped moving. Daemon stood there, staring at his own hand, his thumb moving back and forth as if caressing something.

“Bastard?”

“Not just a seduction spell,” Daemon said thoughtfully. “There was something else entwined with it. Something hidden.”

Lucivar approached warily, his attention split between looking at Daemon’s hand and watching for any sign that the Sadist might suddenly return.

“Compulsion spell, maybe,” Daemon continued quietly. “Damn good one if it is. Subtle. Enough to influence thoughts and actions and have the influence linger without the spell being obvious enough to detect. Which means there has to be a particular action or phrase that triggers the spell.”

“What kind of action?” Lucivar asked, keeping his voice just as quiet. Not that he didn’t want to charge out the door and voice his displeasure in a way that would shake the whole damn valley, but he didn’t want to distract Daemon from figuring this out.

“I think you’ll find that Jillian has ‘loaned’ her true love whatever she’s saved from the wages Marian pays her.”

“And you’re going to stand there and tell me I’m supposed to do nothing?”

“She has to discover the truth about him for herself.” Daemon looked into Lucivar’s eyes. “And I’ve already done something. You won’t like it.”

Oh, Hell’s fire. “Tell me anyway.”

“I wrapped a different sort of spell around your girl.”

Lucivar bared his teeth but stopped himself from ramming a fist into Daemon’s ribs. “What kind of spell?”

“When Jillian and I were talking, I detected the seduction spell when I took her hand and rubbed a thumb over her knuckles. So I drained that spell and wrapped her in one of my own. She’ll never feel it, Lucivar. It won’t interfere with her own power or her ability to use Craft, and it will fade in a few weeks. But during that time, any spell anyone tries to use on her will wash over her and be absorbed by my power without Dillon or anyone else realizing he no longer has the ability to control what Jillian thinks or does. She’ll be able to view his actions and words without the veil of seduction or the compulsion to believe what he says.”

Lucivar stepped away and prowled the room again, rolling his shoulders to relieve some of the tension. “Titian.”

“No,” Daemon said. “She’s much too young to weave that kind of spell around her.”

“Now she’s too young. But once she reaches Jillian’s age, if I suspected that someone, some boy, was trying the same thing, would you . . . ?” He looked at Daemon.

“Of course. You have only to ask.”

Lucivar nodded. Having him as a father wasn’t going to be easy for his children as they got older, and he’d figured that his reputation for being volatile and violent would be a layer of protection against anyone trying to make a play for any of them. But Daemon was a different kind of fighter with a different arsenal of weapons, and having him as another layer of protection allowed Lucivar to step back a little.

“Come on,” he said as he swung around Daemon to reach the door. “By now the yappy horde will have cleared out and we can make our own breakfast.”

“Just don’t use any bowls on the counter unless you took them out of the cupboards yourself. Scelties will lick the last bit of oatmeal—or most anything else—out of a bowl and use Craft to set the bowl next to the sink so that the adults can’t tell who did, or didn’t, eat the breakfast they were supposed to eat.”

Lucivar thought about the bowl he’d used yesterday morning to beat the breakfast eggs and said, “Shit.”

Laughing, Daemon opened the door and led the way to the kitchen.

TWENTY-FOUR

That night, Surreal felt Daemon’s sexual heat the moment she opened the door of the guest room. It wrapped around her, smothered her. Frightened her, because the need to have him became so overwhelming she would let him do anything to her. He had shown some restraint for the first couple of days after he’d arrived at the eyrie, leashing the heat enough that she could pretend that sleeping with him wasn’t an ordeal. But it seemed even being a guest in his brother’s home wasn’t a sufficient deterrent for his games tonight.

He lay on his back, his eyes closed and one arm over his head, completely relaxed. The sheet was carelessly bunched just below his waist, showing her his naked, beautifully toned upper body. Looking at him, someone would swear he wasn’t doing anything. He continued to swear he wasn’t doing anything whenever she lashed out at him.

She knew better.

As she looked at him, her heart raced, her nipples tightened to the point of pain as they stood at attention, begging for the feel of his hands, his mouth. And need that threatened to strip her of any choice pulled at her, a liquid heat between her legs.

Had to fight this. Had to hold on to what was left of herself before she became nothing more than need he would come to despise while he denied any responsibility for this sexual addiction.

Daemon turned his head and opened his eyes. Warm gold. Sleepy. Waiting.

“Everything all right?” His seductive voice wrapped around her, creating a different kind of need.

“Fine.” She stripped off the robe and wished the nightgown was one of the modest ones she’d taken to wearing at the Hall instead of the silky gown she’d packed because she’d expected to be sleeping alone while she was Lucivar and Marian’s guest. Getting into bed, she added, “Just not in the mood for sex tonight.”

She knew her physical scent would shout the lie, at least to a Warlord Prince. She turned on her side, her back to him.

She felt him move, could tell he was now propped on one elbow, studying her. One warm hand settled on her hip.

“Surreal?” The bastard actually sounded concerned.

Push down the sheet, pull up my nightgown, put your hand between my legs, and play with me until I beg for your cock. “I’m tired.”

Daemon kissed her shoulder and settled back on his side of the bed. “Sleep in tomorrow if you can.”

He extinguished the candle-light. A minute later, Surreal heard the slow breathing that meant he was already asleep. Knowing he would wake the instant she got out of bed, she waited with gritted teeth until she couldn’t stand it a minute longer.

She’d barely eased her legs over the side of the bed when she felt his hand on her arm.

“Bathroom,” she whispered.

The hand slid down to the bed, the man recognizing the word to mean he could go back to sleep instead of waking fully to meet a threat.

She hurried into the bathroom that accommodated the guest rooms in this part of the eyrie and locked the door. Then she pulled up her nightgown and tried not to cry as she gave herself some relief.

Pain lanced through his head as Daemon tried to tighten his control of the sexual heat. Nausea, the new companion to the headaches, made him grit his teeth and swallow hard. He could hide the pain, had been hiding its severity for months, but the smell of vomit would be much harder to hide no matter how fast he disposed of the basin.

He hoped, with sick desperation, that Surreal meant it about not wanting sex tonight. She remained convinced that he was responsible for her increased sex drive, and telling her he couldn’t—wouldn’t—oblige . . . Putting a Black shield around himself for protection might break what little affection they still had for each other. Putting a shield around himself would acknowledge the Dea al Mon side of her heritage—and admit that he no longer trusted the assassin who slept with him.

As he struggled for control of the pain and nausea, knowing he had only another minute or so before she returned, he heard the song drifting up from somewhere deep in the abyss. Heard it. Focused on it. There were no words—at least, none he recognized. But he understood the message.

Sleep, the song coaxed. Rest.

The nausea subsided. The headache still raged, raping his brain, but moment by moment, it felt more like a storm seen through a window—powerful and potentially dangerous but not immediately threatening.

Sleep, the song coaxed. Rest.

Daemon stretched out on his side of the bed and followed that beloved voice down, down, down into the Darkness, where pain was barely a memory.

Surreal stared at the man so deeply asleep that her return to their room hadn’t roused him at all.

The sexual heat was banked. Not just leashed, banked. Which just proved the bastard could control the heat if he wanted to be considerate.

She eased into her side of the bed—and wondered if this was a new form of torture.

TWENTY-FIVE

Marian felt the sexual heat wash over her a moment before she heard Daemon’s deep, rich voice purr, “Good morning, gorgeous.”

Over decades of marriage, she had adapted to the heat that poured out of Lucivar. Not that it didn’t still arouse her, but she’d gotten used to what she thought of as the everyday sexuality of her man. Despite her being used to Lucivar, that first minute around Daemon was like bracing against a dangerous wind that was strong enough to knock a person off her feet. Letting it roll over her, she would acknowledge—to herself—that her body responded to that unspoken promise of sex that was as much a part of a Warlord Prince’s nature as a volatile temper and being born to kill, and then she forgot about it. He was Daemon, her husband’s brother, and he would never do anything inappropriate. Not with her. Especially with her.

But this wasn’t the first punch of everyday heat. This was like being wrapped in layers of satin while floating safely in a deliciously warm lake. It was a heady, overwhelming feeling—and sensuous enough that she felt her nipples harden, felt the sudden wetness and need between her legs.

Uncertain of his intentions because he hadn’t been quite himself since the headaches that had started several months ago, Marian pulled the biscuits out of the oven and set them on the cooling rack on the counter before she looked at him.

Not seduction. Daemon looked totally relaxed, even a little bit sleepy, with nothing holding back the sexual heat he usually kept tightly leashed in any public setting—heat he kept leashed even in his own home to protect the servants, male and female, from acting inappropriately toward him and provoking a lethal response. But here, now, he had walked into her kitchen with no barriers, no chains, and she didn’t think he was aware that he’d done that.

He feels safe, she thought, stunned by the revelation. Safe enough to let down his guard around me, to be vulnerable around me.

She hadn’t known how much he trusted her until that moment.

“Oh,” she said. “I have to kiss you.” She hurried up to him, grabbed the lapels of his jacket, rose up on her toes, and gave him a hard kiss on the mouth. “You’re too beautiful not to kiss.”

“What? Marian . . .”

She felt him pulling back and waking up, could actually feel him tightening the leash on his sexuality to lessen the impact he had on other people. Could even feel a hint of panic that she might be responding to him, might want something from him that he would never give his brother’s wife. In another moment he would pull away from her, violently, and if she didn’t say the right thing right now, he might never allow himself to feel safe or comfortable around her again.

“But you know what’s better than the way you look first thing in the morning?” She gave him another, lighter kiss and felt his muscles tighten. “You are always willing to help me fix breakfast.”

He didn’t move. Barely breathed. Then he let out a rough laugh so filled with relief it broke her heart. “You were teasing me.”

“Not about helping me fix breakfast.”

“What’s this?” Lucivar walked into the kitchen, his eyes on Marian.

Lucivar would catch the scent of lust and know he hadn’t been the reason for it. She just hoped that when he woke up more, Daemon would assume the scent was because she hadn’t washed thoroughly enough after morning sex with her husband.

“Daemon is making his special scrambled eggs for breakfast. You can cook up some chicken strips and beef. I’ve already made the biscuits, and I’ll get the coffee started.”

“That will get food on the table, and we might even get something to eat before the yappy horde descends on us.” Lucivar moved past Daemon to reach the cold box and remove the meat.

“Are you referring to the children or the Scelties?” Daemon asked, slipping off his jacket and folding it over the back of a kitchen chair.

“Take your pick.” As he passed her on the way to the counter, Lucivar added on a psychic thread, ٭We’re going to talk about this.٭

Yes, they were. But not for the reasons he expected.

As soon as the yappy horde was fed and herded outside to occupy themselves with their own business, Lucivar followed Marian into the laundry room. When she turned to face him, he put his hands on either side of her, trapping her against one of the laundry tubs.

“Want to tell me what that was about?” he asked.

“Not what it looked like.”

“I know you, and I know him, so I’m sure it wasn’t what anyone else would assume.”

“Is he ever like that when it’s just the two of you spending an evening together?” she asked.

“Like what?”

“Completely relaxed.” She rested her hands on Lucivar’s chest, feeling the warmth of his skin through the undyed shirt with the sleeves he’d cut off to form a short cap over each impressive arm. “For some reason, this morning he trusted me enough to show me who he is without any barriers.”

“He’s potent.” Lucivar rested his forehead against hers. “It’s what made him so dangerous when he’d been a pleasure slave forced to serve the Queens in Terreille. He could turn pleasure into agony when he wanted to hurt someone. Even now, it’s the side of him a person rarely sees unless they’re about to dance with the Sadist.”

Marian hesitated, then asked a question she’d held back for a lot of years. “And when he was married to Jaenelle?”

“He gave her everything he was, held nothing back. He could do that with her.” He laughed softly. “And meeting him first thing on some mornings was reason enough to dive into a cold mountain lake.”

Her husband was here, and who knew how much longer they would be alone? Marian pressed against Lucivar and didn’t care that she probably wasn’t the reason his cock was so hard. “I know something better than a cold lake.”

He freed himself from his trousers before she could take another breath. She vanished her underpants and trousers before he ripped them off. Then he was inside her, his cock so hot it felt like a fever as his arms locked around her back and hips and he thrust into her with all the power of a warrior and none of the finesse of a lover. She wrapped her legs around his waist and dug her short nails into his shoulders, remembering just in time not to set her teeth in his neck where he’d have to try to explain a fresh love bite to the children.

Fast. Hard. Hot. Explosive. Responding like a man pleasuring a needy woman instead of a husband taking care of a fragile womb. Responding to her like he used to before the illness that came after birthing baby Andulvar had sapped her strength.

Her climax pushed him over the edge. She bit his shoulder to stifle the scream that would have brought everyone running to find out what had happened.

“Mother Night, Marian.” Lucivar balanced her on the edge of the laundry tub.

They were shaking and panting and still connected, so she was grateful he hadn’t dropped her.

“You should let go of me,” he said.

“I’m not sure I can move my legs yet.”

He made a pleased sound that was abruptly cut off when he turned his head as if listening to something nearby. “Try.”

Happy barking, which meant children and Scelties playing—and the horde could rush into the eyrie at any moment searching for at least one of them, wanting attention, snacks, something.

Lucivar pulled out of her and made sure she was steady on her feet before he grabbed a couple of washcloths from the stack she kept in easy reach and ran them under the water tap.

“We should clean up a bit,” she said, accepting one of the cloths.

“You think?” Giving her an amused look, he washed quickly, tossing the used cloth into the laundry tub before tucking himself back into his trousers. “I’ll distract them.” He gave her a light kiss and left. Moments later, she heard his voice mingling with the children’s—and Daemon’s.

Blowing out a breath, Marian finished washing herself, straightened her tunic, and called in the underpants and trousers, hurriedly pulling them on. Nothing she could do about flushed skin or the rest. The adults would recognize the signs of hot, fast sex, but hopefully the children wouldn’t notice.

As she hurried out of the laundry room, aiming to get to her bedroom and have a few minutes in private to put on other clothes and get settled, it occurred to her that she had no idea how much these Scelties might notice—and share with everyone else.

She reached one of the eyrie’s branching corridors. One way led to the master suite of rooms. The guest room Daemon and Surreal were using was in the other direction. Realizing that she hadn’t seen Surreal yet, Marian headed for the guest room and knocked on the door. “Surreal?”

No answer.

Worried, Marian opened the door enough for her voice to be heard by anyone inside the room. “Surreal?”

“Yeah.”

Taking that as an invitation, Marian slipped into the room, leaving the door partway open in her haste to reach the other woman. Surreal looked feverish, upset. And she looked like she’d been crying, which was so unusual Marian jerked to a stop. Could this be nothing more than moontime moodies, or did she need to send for a Healer?

To heal what? Her friend had been well when she’d arrived in Ebon Rih. “Should I send for Nurian?” she asked.

“I doubt she has a cure for this.” Surreal moved around the room in a restless manner.

“So there is something wrong.” There had been something wrong for months, but maybe Surreal was finally ready to talk about it.

Surreal stopped moving, her back to the partly open door. “I love Daemon. I do. And I want to stay married to him because, for all our sakes, he needs to be married. But more often than not lately, I can’t stand to be around him. Sometimes I even hate him. When he plays games with me, when he uses that sexual heat on me, I hate him.”

Marian couldn’t move, shocked into stillness. Oh, Surreal.

“I feel smothered. His heat rolls over me and I can’t think about anything except having his cock inside me. It’s a fever that has burned inside me for so many months it’s become an addiction. I make excuses to spend time away from the Hall just so I can breathe, just so I can remember who I am when I’m not a sheath for his cock. I feel so damn helpless, and it scares me. He scares me.”

Mother Night. “You’ve never felt this . . . need . . . before? You’ve never seen Daemon act like this?”

“Even when Sadi is in rut, it’s not this bad. Or it is, but it’s three days and then it’s done. This is . . . relentless.”

How to say this? “Men relax after the Birthright Ceremony. They don’t feel vulnerable, don’t feel they could lose the right to be a father to their children, so they let their guard down, allow themselves to be more fully themselves.”

“What are you saying? That this is Sadi as he really is?”

“I think that’s at least part of it.” When Surreal stared at her, Marian tried to find words to describe her encounter with Daemon in the kitchen. “I felt some of that this morning . . .”

“Mother Night, Marian.” Surreal looked horrified.

“. . . and I realized I was seeing him without any barriers. For the first time in all the years I’ve known him, I was seeing Daemon when he wasn’t leashing his power or sexual heat. It was . . . potent.” She flushed with embarrassment but pushed on. “I jumped Lucivar in the laundry room as soon as we fed the children and dogs and booted them outside.”

“No,” Surreal said sharply. “It’s more than that. This started after the Sadist played with me one night . . . and I told Daemon the next morning that I never wanted him to do that to me again. But every time I’m near him, the heat coils around me until I can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t live. This is the punishment for refusing to play his games. That monster has gotten me addicted to sex so that he can torture me every night.”

Marian ached for her friend. For both friends. “I don’t think Daemon would deliberately hurt you. He hasn’t been well, Surreal. The headaches. Maybe he doesn’t have as much control as he did before.”

“It has to be more than that.” It sounded like a plea.

“Have you talked to him? Have you told him the sexual heat is causing a problem for you?”

“Yes, I’ve told him!” Surreal cried. “I can’t count how many times I’ve told him. He insists he has the heat leashed. I know he doesn’t. Hell’s fire, I was a whore for most of my life, so I know about sex. And I know Sadi well enough to know he’s using sex to torture me until I agree to let him do anything he wants.”

Lucivar had told her enough about Daemon’s past—and the warning signs that indicated the Sadist had come to call—that Marian didn’t doubt for a moment that, as the Sadist, Daemon didn’t distinguish between sex and torture. But what Surreal was saying didn’t sound right, didn’t fit the man she knew.

Assuming Daemon was still sane.

Chilled by that possibility, Marian said, “You’re his wife. That means something to him. Surreal, talk to him before he comes to some conclusions about your marriage that you might not be able to change. Talk to him before it’s too late. Or ask someone to intercede for you and find out why things have gone so wrong.”

“Who would dare challenge the Sadist?” Surreal said bitterly.

Marian caught the scent of coffee and looked past Surreal. Lucivar stood in the fully open doorway, holding a mug. But he was looking back down the corridor, and Marian realized he wasn’t the one who had brought the coffee.

Lucivar retreated, making no sound. Marian wrapped her arms around Surreal and felt the weight of her friend’s head on her shoulder as one of the strongest women she’d ever known wept like a heartbroken child.

“Bastard?” Lucivar crossed the flagstone courtyard and caught up to his brother as Daemon reached the stairs leading to the landing web below the eyrie. “You heading somewhere?”

There was nothing for him to read in Daemon’s gold eyes, and that lack scared him. It meant Sadi had retreated deep into himself, no longer allowing anyone to see what he was thinking or feeling. It was the mask Daemon had worn when he’d been a pleasure slave in Terreille.

It was the look Daemon had worn just before the Sadist annihilated a Queen and all the bitches who served in her court.

“Just down to the village to walk around,” Daemon replied.

A rational, reasonable answer to the question—which didn’t mean a damn thing.

Lucivar tipped his head to indicate the eyrie. “What are you going to do?” No need to clarify the problem. He’d found Daemon standing just outside the guest room, had seen the pain and sorrow on his brother’s face, had heard enough of what Surreal had said to understand the danger if Surreal truly couldn’t accept the Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince she had married.

All these years of living around and with Daemon. Living around and with the sexual heat. Living with the cold, dark power of the Black Jewels. It surprised him—and disappointed him—that a woman as strong as Surreal, a witch who wore Gray Jewels, had lasted less than two decades around the Black. Despite what Surreal thought, she wasn’t dancing with the Sadist, wasn’t the focus of the Sadist’s cold, cruel rage.

The chalice is breaking.

The girl would free him to ask for help.

Was it finally time? Was this the moment that Tersa and Karla had seen in their tangled webs?

“What are you doing to do?” Lucivar asked.

“Nothing.” Daemon’s voice, like his eyes, held no emotion. “It was my mistake. I’ll fix it.”

How? “Maybe someone at the Keep could help.”

“If the Gray-Jeweled witch who is my wife can’t stand to be around me anymore, I don’t think the Gray-Jeweled Queen at the Keep can do anything to help.”

Not the Gray, but . . . If Tersa and Karla were wrong about the help that could be found at the Keep, and he persuaded Daemon to ask for help that would never come . . .

“So you’re going down to the village?” he asked.

“I am. For a while.”

“You want some company?”

“No. Thank you.” Daemon went down a few stairs before looking at Lucivar. “Everything has a price, and I have no illusions about what I am.” He walked down to the landing web.

I have no illusions about what I am.

Lucivar had never heard Daemon say anything that had frightened him more, because there had been times when he’d heard Saetan say much the same thing.

TWENTY-SIX

Dillon walked to his appointment and wondered how to extricate himself from a couple of arrangements now that he had a chance for the exact thing he had struggled to achieve.

He’d been imprudent the last time he’d seen Jillian, caught off guard by her four-legged chaperons. He’d also been caught off guard by what Jillian had said. Public outings with chaperons? Visits to her home—or Yaslana’s home—as long as an adult was present? No sneaking around? No need for lies?

This was . . . courtship. This was a chance to show the most powerful men in the Realm that he knew how to be an escort, even if his training hadn’t been completed.

He shouldn’t have been dismissive of Jillian’s thoughts about books and other things. It had become a habit—or a need—to undermine an aristo bitch’s trust in her own opinions in order to keep her believing that he was superior. He’d stop doing that. And he’d start listening, really listening, as he would listen to a respected friend.

He’d forgotten what it felt like to have a friend like that.

Jillian might not even notice the difference. Not at first. But he would. And the first thing he needed to do was stop doing things that added smudges to his honor.

Pain was a faithful, predictable lover. Unlike the woman he had married, the woman who had given him a precious daughter. The woman he had trusted to be honest with him.

Daemon walked down the main street of Riada, pretending not to see how people scurried out of his way, their faces filled with a fear he’d like to carve into their skin so it would never be forgotten.

No. He didn’t want to do that. These people had done him no harm, had offered no challenge. Were not the reason for his pain.

He flicked a glance toward the other side of the street, where Lord Rothvar kept pace with him. Was the Eyrien so foolish—or arrogant—as to think he could survive the Sadist?

He spotted Lord Zaranar up ahead and expected Rothvar to cross the street and come up behind him. But, no, Rothvar remained on the other side, keeping Riada’s citizens away from him, giving him a clear path—the same as Zaranar was doing on this side of the street.

Lucivar’s orders, no doubt. Yaslana would know better than anyone the need to avoid any kind of challenge.

Crack.

He’d get out of this village, get away from this valley if he could. But he wasn’t steady enough to ride the Winds any distance. Getting down to the village had proved that much.

Surreal had seen the truth of who he was and called him a monster who tortured her. The rest of the Blood might see him as a monster, too, but he hadn’t tortured his wife. He’d respected her wishes, had understood he’d made a mistake the night she came to his bedroom, had done everything he could since then to keep the heat leashed so that it wouldn’t distress her. Had endured this unrelenting pain in his effort to keep the heat leashed. For her. But she was the one demanding sex every night they slept together.

Could he stand sleeping in the same bed with her anymore? Maybe . . .

Crack.

. . . she could live in the family town house in Amdarh. Or purchase a town house for herself if she preferred. Jaenelle Saetien could go to school . . .

The taste of sickness and blood filled the back of his throat—and cold rage pushed against the icy calm that provided the last illusion of control.

She wasn’t taking his girl. Surreal could leave, if that was what she needed to do, but she wasn’t taking his daughter. Monster or not, no one was going to take his girl away from him.

CRACK!

He felt Rothvar walking toward him. He turned his head and looked at the Green-Jeweled Eyrien Warlord—and smiled at the terror he saw in Rothvar’s eyes.

Yes.

Then something brushed against his senses. A ripple from one of his own spells. He focused on the female psychic scent and reached out until he located her.

Emotions in turmoil. That wasn’t right.

Cherish and protect.

Turning away from Rothvar, Daemon followed the psychic scent to a village garden between some shops.

Cherish and protect. Even the Sadist, in his own way, valued those words.

٭This isn’t the way to the library,٭ Khary protested as he trotted beside Jillian. ٭You told Marian we were going to the library. This is not the library.٭

“We are going to the library,” Jillian said. “But first we’re going to the shop over there to buy some cakes for Nurian.”

٭Cake? Scelties like cake.٭

No matter what Khary said, Jillian suspected that Sceltie tummies didn’t react well to cake, and she didn’t want to clean up the result. “This cake is for Nurian and Rothvar. It’s a present.”

٭Presents are good. We will go find cake for Nurian. Then we will go to the library, which is where we are supposed to be.٭ That settled, Khary fell a half step behind, and Jillian could feel him eyeing her calf, ready to give her an encouraging nip to pick up the pace.

As they approached the Sweet Tooth, Jillian looked in the window and saw an older, elegantly dressed woman kiss her male companion’s cheek before turning to leave. Jillian stopped so fast Khary ran into her leg. Without conscious choice, she put a sight shield around both of them.

٭Jillian . . . ٭

٭Hush.٭ She stepped closer to the big windows and felt something squeeze her heart. Dillon, there in the shop eating cakes with another woman. An older woman.

Too old, surely, to be a . . . lover? Maybe a woman from the family where he was staying? That made sense. He would want to do something to repay their hospitality.

She could drop the sight shield and go into the shop. After all, it wasn’t like she was spying on Dillon. She had a reason to be there. Maybe, after she bought the cakes for Nurian, Dillon would walk with her to the library. Khary was with her; he’d be enough of a chaperon. More than enough. Too much. Still, she and Dillon would be able to talk and spend a little time together. Now that they could meet openly, as long as there was a chaperon present, he seemed less eager to be with her, and that didn’t make sense.

She’d almost dropped the sight shield when she saw him pick up the plate with the four remaining cakes and bring it to the counter. He said something to the girl behind the counter—the beautiful girl who made Jillian feel like a grubby child. They both laughed when the girl licked her thumb and pressed it against the side of one cake, marring the frosting. Then the girl boxed up the four small cakes, hiding the damage on the one cake by placing that side in the center. She put the box in the glass case where new cakes were sold.

Disturbed by what she’d seen, Jillian hurried away, remembering to drop the sight shield after Khary got his teeth in her trousers to stop her from running into a Warlord who couldn’t see her.

٭You are upset! Why are you upset?٭ Khary asked.

“I need to think. I need to sit down and think.”

٭There is sitting for humans over there.٭

Khary led her to a simple bench located on a little island of green between a couple of shops. Flowers bloomed in a square stone planter. On the other side of the planter, there were a small metal table and chairs that would accommodate wings better than the bench.

Jillian collapsed into one of the chairs. There was an explanation. There had to be. Dillon wouldn’t do something so unkind.

“Lady Jillian?”

She looked up. “Prince Sadi.” She hadn’t heard him approach the table, and Khary had given no warning. Had Sadi noticed her, or had the Sceltie alerted the Prince that something was wrong that required another human?

She felt Khary against her leg, trembling. ٭Khary?٭

٭The Prince smells sick. Be careful.٭

Gold eyes that looked sleepy—a danger sign in a Warlord Prince—but those eyes also held a feverish glitter.

“Darling, what’s wrong?”

The look in Prince Sadi’s eyes, for one thing. The odd note in his voice for another. Brittle. Pained. Chilling.

He’s riding the killing edge . . . and something more. Which meant anything could snap Sadi’s control and start a slaughter.

But there were ways to help a Warlord Prince step back from the killing edge. She remembered Lady Angelline stopping by Yaslana’s eyrie one afternoon when Lucivar was with the other Eyrien men and Marian had been at the market. Daemonar had been down for his nap, so Jillian had been out in the garden, weeding the herb beds. And there was Lady Angelline, her gold hair heavily silvered, kneeling next to her, chatting about nothing and everything.

Not nothing. It was never nothing, but Jillian hadn’t appreciated that at the time, although she remembered those chats, those quiet lessons. Knowledge passed on from one witch to another. About Warlord Princes.

“Sometimes a Warlord Prince needs assistance to step away from the killing edge,” the Lady had said. “Ask for his help. Give him something to do, some safe way to channel all that power and temper.”

“Won’t he realize you’re trying to distract him?”

“Of course, but it’s part of the give-and-take between the distaff gender and the spear. Don’t make up something ludicrous. That will insult him and do you no good. The task can be small as long as the need is genuine.”

What she saw in Sadi’s eyes as he waited for a response terrified her. Did she have the courage to do this? “I . . . I need to talk, but . . .”

Sadi settled into the other chair with a grace that suddenly seemed predatory. “You need to talk through something, but it’s not something you want to explain to Yaslana because he’ll react and you just want someone to listen.”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll listen.”

Was listening enough of a task? “You won’t tell him?”

He hesitated. “If you’re at risk, I can’t promise that. If that’s not the case, I can tell him as much or as little as you want him to know.”

She wanted to ask for a promise that he wouldn’t hurt anyone, but she suspected that request might snap his control and start something no one could stop.

Slowly, measuring each word as if she were walking down a steep, treacherous mountain path and the next step could start a rockslide, Jillian told Sadi what she had seen through the shopwindow.

“I don’t know why Dillon laughed,” she said when she finished. “It wasn’t funny to do something mean. And it was wrong for the girl to put the damaged cake into a box and sell it as fresh cake—especially since it had been on someone’s table already.”

“That upsets you.” A quiet statement spoken in a voice closer to his normal tone.

“I know how I would feel if I had bought that box of cakes and brought it home, thinking it would be a wonderful treat for Nurian. And then to open the box and see that one of the cakes had someone’s thumbprint in it, as if someone was saying that the people who buy the boxes with the four small cakes don’t deserve to have the best the shop can offer because they aren’t important enough to deserve the best . . .”

“It would have hurt your heart to give someone who matters to you the best you could offer and then realize you failed,” he said.

She nodded—and then wondered who had thought that the best he could offer wasn’t good enough.

“We can’t know why Dillon laughed. He could have been embarrassed by what the girl had done but didn’t feel it was his place to say anything. However, we can confirm if cakes are being sold as new that shouldn’t be.”

“How are we going to do that?”

He smiled. “I’m going to treat a young friend to a plate of cakes.”

As they walked the short distance to the Sweet Tooth, she mentioned stopping at the library and he asked her about the books she intended to pick up.

Now that Prince Sadi had started backing away from the killing edge, Jillian couldn’t help comparing Dillon and Sadi. That wasn’t fair. Prince Sadi was older and a Warlord Prince, but hadn’t she been comparing them all along? She’d thought they were similar, but she wasn’t so sure anymore. Dillon would have made fun of her book selections, and then said . . . Well, it didn’t matter what he would have said. But Sadi asked questions, expressed interest in why she chose a book, even if she was sure it wasn’t anything he would want to read.

As they walked into the shop chatting like old friends, Jillian noticed the look on the beautiful girl’s face when she realized who Jillian’s companion was. Despite the flutter in her own belly that was caused by being close to him, Jillian suddenly felt protective because she was sure girls looked at him that way all the time—or tried to do more than look—because he was beautiful and sexual, like some kind of dream lover. But when a Warlord Prince married, he was never unfaithful to his wife, and he would kill anyone who tried to compromise his honor. Only foolish women would respond to the lure of that sexual beauty, because it wasn’t meant to be a lure. And with him still so close to the killing edge, she didn’t want anyone upsetting him.

“What should we order?” Sadi asked when the girl pranced up to their table, her blouse pulled lower than it had been when they’d walked in.

Did women do that when Prince Yaslana went into shops? Maybe a Warlord Prince’s sexual heat wasn’t as noticeable in an Eyrien, because Eyrien males were warriors, bred and trained, and quick to fight. So the sexual heat could be masked by temper.

“Jillian?”

She blinked, then realized Sadi had asked a question and had been waiting for an answer. “My apologies, Prince. I was distracted by another thought.”

“Must have been a good thought to distract you from cake,” he teased.

She felt the heat in her face and said nothing.

“We’ll take the large plate of assorted cakes and two cups of coffee,” Sadi said.

“That’s all you want?” The girl licked her lips—and the room instantly turned cold.

“Yes, that’s all I want,” he replied too softly.

The girl hurried back to the counter to fill their order.

The room returned to its previous temperature.

“What are you reading now?” Jillian asked, hoping to draw his thoughts toward something other than the girl’s inappropriate invitation. “For fun, I mean?”

For a moment, Sadi stared at her with gold eyes that looked sleepy and glazed. Then he released a breath and returned from whatever dark place he’d been in for that moment. As they ate some of the cakes and drank coffee, he told her about the books he was reading. Some sounded terribly dull—not that she would say that—but she called in her small notebook and pencil and wrote down the titles of some mysteries that sounded like fun. Then . . .

“You read romances? Why?”

He raised one perfectly shaped eyebrow. “Why not?”

“But you know about lovemaking and all that stuff.” Jillian blushed.

Sadi leaned closer. “I saw a copy of the book on Beale’s desk in the butler’s pantry.” His voice felt like a warm breath against her cheek. “And while I shudder to imagine the Hall’s butler and cook doing . . . that . . . I confess to a macabre curiosity as to why Beale is reading it.”

“Maybe it’s too . . . informative . . . for some of the younger servants at the Hall, and Beale saw one of them reading the book and confiscated it?”

“Oh, Mother Night, I hope so.”

He sounded so relieved she had to laugh.

“Have you had enough to eat?” he asked.

Jillian looked at the last four frosted, fancily decorated cakes. “Yes. Plenty.”

“In that case . . .”

She saw the small gold coin he held between thumb and forefinger. Then it was gone.

He paid the bill and escorted her out of the shop.

“Now what do we do?” Jillian asked.

Spotting two Rihlander Warlords walking down the street, Sadi met their eyes. Jillian saw no gesture, heard no command, but the men changed direction and joined them at a point on the sidewalk where they wouldn’t be seen by anyone looking out the shop’s windows.

“We need your assistance,” Sadi said. He took his wallet out of an inner pocket in his black jacket and handed each man several silver marks. “Please purchase two of the boxes of cakes—the four-cake size.” He turned to her. “Do you remember the color of the decorations on the cakes we didn’t finish?”

“Two had blue flowers and two of the cakes had yellow trim,” she replied.

“If you see a box with that combination, buy that one in particular,” Sadi said.

“What if someone asks why?” the scruffier-looking Warlord asked.

“Because your auntie is visiting and the blue flowers look like the ones in her garden,” the other one said. “I’ll look for that box.” He hesitated. “Then what do we do?”

“Wait for us.” Sadi gave them a smile that had them hunching their shoulders.

Jillian and Sadi waited a couple of minutes before strolling back to the shop.

“You can wait out here with Khary,” Sadi said.

٭I am waiting outside? Again?٭

The Sceltie sounded more relieved than disappointed. Since Khary lived at the Hall and knew the man better than she did, Jillian took it as a sign that Prince Sadi wasn’t as calm as he seemed.

“Yes.” Sadi looked at Jillian.

“I was the one who started this,” Jillian replied. “If there is an explanation, I would like to hear it.”

“Very well.” Sadi opened the shop door and escorted her inside. He stepped up to the counter. Jillian lagged behind, not eager to draw attention to herself. She could have been wrong about what she’d seen. If she was, she was causing trouble for people. Dillon would say she was acting like a child.

“I’d like to speak to the owner of this shop.” Sadi’s cold civility was as much of a warning as a blade being pulled from a sheath.

“She’s not available, but . . .”

Jillian could see the girl’s face, but Sadi’s body blocked the rest of her. The girl didn’t say anything—at least not out loud—and Jillian didn’t know what she might have done. But the next instant, Sadi smiled a cold, cruel smile—the kind of smile that Jillian had never seen before and hoped never to see again.

The girl backed away from the counter.

“She’s not available? Really?” Sadi said too softly.

A moment later a roll of thunder filled the building. The two Warlords set the boxes of cakes on a table. They looked at her, then at the door.

Yes, Jillian thought, viewing everything as if she were on the edge of a violent, terrible storm. If the warning turned into something more, the Warlords would do their best to get out of the shop alive—and would do their best to take her with them. But the girl behind the counter, being the target of that cold rage, would be forfeit.

A woman rushed out of the back of the shop. “What’s going—” Seeing Sadi, she froze.

٭Jillian?٭

Recognizing Rothvar’s voice, she looked over her shoulder. He stood outside the shop, his Eyrien war blade in one hand, a fighting knife in the other. If he walked into the shop right now, he would die. She knew it. So did Rothvar. But he would walk into the shop and try to protect her because she was Nurian’s sister.

٭I’m all right.٭

“P-Prince?” the woman said. “Is there something I can do for you?”

Jillian was sure everyone could feel the effort Sadi was making to step back from the killing edge. Again.

“You can explain why you’ve been selling cakes left by the customers eating here as if they were fresh and untouched,” he said.

“You’re mistaken, Prince. We always offer to box up anything that is left for our customers to take home. If they don’t want the cakes, they’re set aside on that glass-covered tray and sold as remainders at a steep discount at the end of the day. Or my employees are permitted to take the remainders home with them.”

Sadi stared at the woman, then looked at the girl. “It would seem you weren’t informed of a change in policy.”

The two boxes of cakes the Warlords had purchased floated over to the counter. The lids opened. The cakes rose out of the boxes and settled gently on the counter. Raising his right hand, Sadi flicked his index finger with his thumb, then made a motion as if the black-tinted fingernail was a small knife. He didn’t touch any of the cakes, but the eight small cakes were cut cleanly in half. He moved the first two fingers of that hand apart, and the halves of each cake separated.

Jillian and the two Warlords moved closer to the counter.

The woman stared at the gold coin sticking out of the middle of one of the cakes. “I don’t understand.”

“I had heard your shop was reselling cakes as new that had already been on the table. My young friend and I came in to find out if the rumor was true. I put the gold coin in one of the cakes that we didn’t eat. We weren’t given the option of taking the cakes with us. From what you say, the cakes should have been put with the remainders. But these Warlords just purchased as new a piece of cake that had a gold coin inside—a coin I put in as a test.” Sadi pointed to a cake that had been in the other box. The thumbprint the girl had put on the cake was clearly visible. “Cakes that were already purchased by customers eating in the shop are being resold at full price. Someone is pocketing the profit of selling the same food twice.”

The woman squared her shoulders. “Clearly, I haven’t been paying as much attention to the front of the shop as I should have been. That error will be rectified.”

Sadi tipped his head in the slightest of bows, walked out of the shop . . . and disappeared.

“Come along, Lady.” One of the Warlords touched Jillian’s elbow, gently urging her to get out, get away, even though the danger was past.

As she reached the door, she looked back and met the eyes of the girl. Shaken by the hatred she saw in those eyes, she rushed through the doorway.

“My thanks, Warlords,” Rothvar said to the two men. “I’ll see Lady Jillian home.”

They glanced at her but didn’t challenge the Eyrien Warlord. Either they recognized Rothvar and knew he was Yaslana’s second-in-command, or they realized they had no chance of surviving a fight with him.

“You all right?” Rothvar asked, leading her away from the shop. “You look pale.”

“I’m all right,” she said weakly.

٭No cake?٭ Khary asked. ٭Why is there no cake?٭

“I changed my mind.” She wanted to run home, wanted to hide. But she was Eyrien, and she had a connection to the Yaslana household—and no one connected to that name hid from trouble. She looked at Rothvar, who had asked no questions, made no demands for her to explain the part she had played in a Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince rising to the killing edge. “I still need to make a stop at the library.”

Rothvar studied her. “Do you need an escort?”

٭I am standing escort,٭ Khary said with a growl.

“A second escort,” Rothvar amended.

“No, thank you. We’ll be fine. I’ll be going home right after the library.” When Rothvar started to walk away, she said, “Why was Prince Sadi so angry about the cakes? It wasn’t right for the shop to sell the cakes twice at full price, but he seemed . . .” He would have killed the women in the shop. She was sure of it. Should she tell Rothvar that Khary thought the Prince was unwell?

Rothvar returned, standing close to her. She braced for a slap, then realized he stood that close to speak quietly.

“Something else was already riding his temper, and something besides the cakes pushed him to the edge. Yaslana asked us to keep an eye on him. I would have stepped in when he approached you, but it seemed to calm him.”

“He looked”—like a man in agony—“upset when he sat down to talk to me.”

“The thing to remember is that, even upset, Sadi didn’t lose control. A man who stands so deep in the abyss can’t afford to lose control of his power or his temper—not until he steps onto a killing field.” Rothvar looked puzzled. “If you suspected there was a problem at the shop, why did you tell Sadi instead of telling Yaslana?”

She couldn’t meet his eyes. “I didn’t want to cause trouble.”

TWENTY-SEVEN

Pain coiled around his chest, an ever-tightening chain that squeezed his heart and smothered every effort to take a full breath. But he didn’t ask for help. If he asked, help would be given. Maybe this pain, and where it would take him, would make things easier. After all, sexual heat was a burden placed on the living, not on the demon-dead.

Daemon glided through the corridors of the Keep, shrouded by pain. He saw no one, which wasn’t unusual. He was well-known to Draca and Geoffrey, the Keep’s Seneschal and historian/librarian respectively, and his presence didn’t attract the attention of whatever guarded Ebon Askavi.

Eventually he approached the airy metal gate that blocked the corridor leading to the rooms reserved for the Queen and her triangle—Steward, Master of the Guard, and Consort. He pushed one side of the gate and was surprised to find it unlocked and swinging open at his lightest touch. That was unusual. The gate to those rooms had always been locked. But, perhaps, since there was no longer a Queen in residence, there was no need for that symbolic protection.

How many years since he’d walked this particular corridor, opened the door of the Consort’s suite, stood in the room that had been his personal territory in this sprawling place? Thirty-five years? More? He’d expected dustcovers over the furniture and the bed stripped of linens and covering. But it looked no different from what he remembered. Looked as if he’d been gone no more than a week or two. Looked as if the years between today and the last time he’d made love to Jaenelle Angelline in the Queen’s suite hadn’t existed at all.

He wasn’t sure how much longer he could breathe, how much longer his heart would beat. Wasn’t that why he was here? Assisting Jillian had dulled the pain just enough for him to be able to catch the Winds and reach the Keep. Here, in this place where he’d been accepted, his heart could beat for the last time and he could step away from the pain he caused the living—and the pain the living caused him.

That’s a fair dose of self-pity, old son. Lucivar would kick your ass down the mountain and up again if he heard any of that.

Which didn’t make the truth any less true. Surreal might breathe a sigh of relief once the High Lord of Hell—and the Sadist—resided in Hell.

Crack.

“Prince?”

Turning, he saw Draca standing in the doorway.

“I’d like your permission to move back into this suite for a while,” he said quietly. He didn’t mention that he doubted he would need the rooms for long.

She who had once been the last Queen of the dragons, the ancient race that had created the Blood so long ago, took a step toward him. “A Conssort cannot entertain a wife in thiss room.”

At least, not a wife who wasn’t also his Queen. “I’m aware of that.” He looked around the room. “I need this, Draca. It’s the only place I can be who I am. Everything I am. It’s the only place where I can stand at the full measure of my strength and not frighten people who don’t deserve to be frightened by what I am.”

She didn’t ask who now feared him that he wanted to protect. Maybe she already knew. Maybe she’d always known this day would come, and that was the reason she had kept the Consort’s suite ready for him.

“Very well. Would you like ssomething to eat?”

“Not right now. I’d like to be alone for a while.”

Draca walked out of the room. The door closed behind her.

He removed his black jacket and hung it over the clothes stand before exploring the room. Nothing in the closet or the chest of drawers except . . . He smiled when he opened the bottom drawer and saw all the pieces that made up the game called cradle. He should purchase the original game, not this labyrinthine version Jaenelle and the coven had devised—and, all right, he’d added a few layers and rules of his own to the damn thing over the years—and teach Jaenelle Saetien how to play.

Would he have the chance to teach her how to play?

Crack.

Flinching at the pain scraping the inside of his skull, Daemon closed the drawer. Checking the bathroom, he found new bars of soap and fresh towels. Then he approached the door that connected the Consort’s suite with the Queen’s suite. He turned the handle, half expecting it to be locked. But the door opened for him, as it had for seventy years.

He could smell her in this room. Jaenelle Angelline. His wife. His life. His Queen. Oh, the physical scent was gone after so many years, but her psychic scent still filled the room—a room that, like his, looked ready to receive the living myth, as if she were traveling through Kaeleer and would be back any day now.

Tears stung his eyes. He had set aside the misery of living without Jaenelle, had focused on ruling Dhemlan and Hell, had made the commitment to be a good husband to Surreal and a good father to Jaenelle Saetien. He had leashed everything he was as tightly as he could, had done everything he could to protect and please Surreal during these past few months while he battled the debilitating headaches and tried to understand why she had turned away from him in every way except for sex. Now he knew why. She truly believed she’d been bedding the Sadist. Her inability to tell the difference meant she couldn’t accept what he was, despite how many years they had known each other and the years they had already spent together. Her words had sliced him deeper than any knife, and that pain had reopened the wound of missing the love of his life, and he didn’t know how to heal that wound a second time.

He didn’t want to heal it a second time. He wanted to bleed from that wound. Bleed and bleed until he was hollow, until he was nothing more than intellect and power. Until Daemon Sadi disappeared and there was only the High Lord of Hell—and the Sadist.

Maybe someone at the Keep could help, Lucivar had said.

Who could help a man who wore Black Jewels?

Removing his shoes, Daemon stretched out on the bed he had shared with Jaenelle most of the nights they had stayed at the Keep. Bunching a pillow under his head, he squeezed his eyes shut, denying the tears, while his heart pounded, pounded, pounded, and his breathing became more pained and shallow.

Maybe he could sink into a dream of being with his Queen and never wake, leaving the body behind.

Except there was still the child. His daughter. She would need him to teach her and protect her for many years to come. He couldn’t walk away from his daughter even if his wife saw him as a monster.

“Jaenelle,” he whispered. “If any part of you is still here, please help me. Please . . .”

The headache pounded, pounded, pounded like a hammer breaking bone—or breaking a crystal chalice. His heart clenched—another kind of pain.

The tears fell, and he couldn’t say if he wept for himself or wept for his father, who had also worn the cold, glorious Black, had also been thought a monster by some, and had also felt the same terrible loneliness.

CRACK!

The bed felt cold and hard enough to pull him out of sleep.

Rolling to his side, Daemon struggled to sit up. Then he looked around.

It had been a long time since he’d seen the Misty Place, even in dreams.

And there, drumming her claws against the stone altar, stood Witch. The living myth, although no longer among the living. This form was the Self that had lived within the flesh, the Self that had been shaped by the dreams of so many of Kaeleer’s races.

The joy of seeing her was almost as sharp as pain.

“Jaenelle,” he whispered. “Jaenelle.”

He couldn’t interpret the look in her sapphire eyes before she returned her attention to something on the altar.

“Hell’s fire, Daemon,” she said, shaking her head and sounding perplexed. “I can guess how you did this, but what I don’t understand is why.”

“Did what?” Grabbing one end of the altar, he pulled himself to his feet—and wondered if he’d be able to stay upright.

Witch pointed to the crystal chalice. He recognized it as the representation of his own mind. It had shattered twice and been repaired—by Witch. He could see the mends, the veins of power that held the pieces together. But the chalice had many new cracks; it even had a small hole in the bottom that was oozing . . . something.

Four leashes were looped around four posts. Three were simple leather. One was leather and chain. The last time he’d seen these images in another dream, the leash that kept his sexual heat under control . . .

He couldn’t see the loop beneath the hardened pus and rot.

“I didn’t do this,” he said, looking away from the damage.

“No one else could have done this to you. The pain must have been hideous. If someone else had tried to do this, you would have fought back long before you reached this point.”

He stared at the posts, at the damaged chalice. “The headaches.”

“Clearly a warning you didn’t heed.”

The snarl under her words gave him a weird kind of comfort. “I went to Healers. More than one. None of them could find a reason for the headaches.”

“That was the reason!” She pointed to the post encased in hardened pus and rot. “You tried to leash the sexual heat tighter than your current maturity could tolerate. You’re a man in your prime, Daemon. You were never going to succeed in choking the heat back to a less mature stage of your life, but you gave it a damn good try and this is the result.”

The love and concern he saw in her eyes almost broke him.

“Why, Daemon?” Witch asked. “Why did you do this?”

“I made a mistake.”

“And this was your way of punishing yourself for that mistake?”

He might have believed the mild tone of voice if thunder hadn’t rolled through the Misty Place, if the lightning of fury hadn’t flashed and sizzled over the chasm that held a web that spiraled down and down and down into the Darkness—a web that was the reservoir for the vast power Jaenelle Angelline had set aside when she had dreamed of having an extraordinary ordinary life.

“Show me,” Witch said.

“What?” He knew what she was asking; he just didn’t want to do it.

“Show me.” A Queen’s command.

“I can show you what happened as I remember it, felt it. Surreal’s feelings are very different.” Jaenelle was no longer his wife, but she was still his Queen. He flinched at the idea of sharing a memory of himself with another woman.

“Show me.”

She wouldn’t ask again. If he didn’t obey now, he would have to walk away from the Queen whose will was still his life.

Opening all of his inner barriers, he offered the memory of the night Surreal had walked into his bedroom and he’d thought, Mine. He offered every word, every touch, every taste, every sound. Then he offered the memory of the following morning when he’d realized Surreal feared him because of the way they had played the night before, even though staying had been her choice. Finally, the memory of Surreal telling him it would never happen again and to leash the damn heat.

He closed his inner barriers, and his mind, damaged as it was, was his own again.

“She kept saying I was playing with her, kept demanding that I leash the sexual heat and wouldn’t believe me when I said it was leashed.”

Witch sighed. “Well, Surreal is right in one way, and this is why she was very wrong in another way.”

She called in four brass rings and placed them on the altar. First, she arranged them in a row from smallest to largest. Then she nested the rings, making the difference in sizes apparent. The difference between the first and second brass ring was significant. So was the difference between the second and third. Not much difference between the third and fourth, but enough that the third fit into the fourth.

Witch pointed to the smallest ring. “Like other traits that are part of a Warlord Prince’s nature, the sexual heat begins to manifest at puberty.”

Oh, Hell’s fire. They would have to deal with Daemonar when the boy reached that age.

“When a Warlord Prince reaches the age when he makes the Offering to the Darkness and comes into his mature power, the sexual heat becomes more potent.” She pointed to the second ring, then went on to the third. “And then he reaches physical maturity, a man entering his prime.”

“Which is where I was when we were married. Which is where I am now.”

“Not quite.” She tapped the fourth ring. “A century ago, you were just coming into your prime. Your sexual heat hadn’t reached its peak yet. Now you are solidly in your prime, and I’m guessing the last phase of sexual heat happened right around the night you had invited Surreal to play, and by the following morning, it had settled into where it will be until you reach your autumn years, when it starts to decline.”

Horrified by the thought, he shook his head. “It can’t stay at this level.”

“It can—and will. But you’ll adjust, and so will the people around you.”

“Jaenelle, no. You don’t know the misery this has already caused.”

“Daemon,” she said gently. “This is part of who you are.”

“How am I supposed to cope with that?” Was Lucivar going through this too?

“For one thing, you’re going to stop hurting yourself. For another, you’re going to use that brilliant mind to recognize that every Warlord Prince goes through this. You’ve seen men go through this. Clearly it didn’t make much of an impression.”

“I would have noticed.”

“Really? Chaosti. Rainier. Aaron. Elan. You knew every one of them before he reached his prime and went through this last phase of the sexual heat. Every one of them, Daemon. You knew their wives or, in Rainier’s case, a woman he lived with for decades. The difference is the depth of power. Like so many other things about the Blood, the potency of the heat is connected to the power that flows through the veins.” She reached out and tapped the pendant that held his Black Jewel. “That little bit more that might go unnoticed in a Warlord Prince who wore a lighter Jewel is going to be felt by everyone who is dealing with the Black.”

Surreal would never want to endure that.

Witch vanished the four brass rings. “You went to Healers who couldn’t help you. Why didn’t you talk to someone else?”

“The only other man who wore the Black and went through this is gone,” he said bitterly.

“Yes, Saetan is gone, but there are two people at the Keep who knew him when he was your age. And there is a Black Widow who might have supplied some answers—”

“Oh, she was a lot of help. Cryptic dreams about the wiggle-waggle.”

“Which you ignored.”

She said it with a sweetness that made his balls want to tuck up inside his belly. Just in case.

“There is also a Warlord Prince currently residing at the Keep, at least some of the time. If you had bothered to talk to him, he would have recognized what was happening and why.” Witch looked back at the posts and the chalice on the altar. “You tried so hard to repress your sexual heat, you’ve actually done some damage to your heart and lungs. It may be centuries before you feel the effects, but what you’ve done here will extract a price.”

Daemon studied the posts and chalice. “The headaches won’t abate, will they?”

Silence. Finally, she looked at him. “Not while this remains as it is. I can try to fix what is broken.”

A broken vessel mended again. Did he want that? If he wanted to be there for Jaenelle Saetien while she grew up, there wasn’t a choice. “Will that relieve the pain?”

“That will depend on how much of the damage I can repair.” Witch hesitated. “Daemon, this healing will hurt.”

“Everything has a price. Do what you need to do.”

Pain washed over him, through him, became him. Beyond the pain, he was aware of nothing but her voice. Sometimes she sang cadences of healing Craft. Sometimes she swore at him viciously in several languages as she carefully broke through carapaces of pus and drained swellings created by his attempt to please Surreal and subdue the sexual heat.

Hours? Days? A lifetime? He didn’t know how long she worked, how long he endured the healing, before she finally said, “It’s done. Look. And learn.”

Daemon climbed to his feet, having no memory of sinking to the floor next to the altar.

The crystal chalice—his mind, his sanity—had been repaired. Again.

The three posts and leashes that represented his control over his power, his temper, and the Sadist looked as they had before. The fourth post, his sexual heat . . . Cleaned and back to its normal size. But the loops that should have snugged the leashes to the posts were loose, and when he tried to tighten them, he discovered a ring of Witch’s darker power forming a cushion between loop and post, making it impossible for him to tighten the leashes all the way.

“Jaenelle . . .”

She pointed at the chalice. “I did what I could, but even I can’t mend this a fourth time. Daemon, you can’t afford to risk your sanity by being careless with yourself. You wear the Black. If you slide into the Twisted Kingdom, you could be a weapon powerful enough to destroy Kaeleer.”

“Could you break the Black?” As soon as he said the words, he felt everything in him resist the idea. Give up the Black without a fight? Never.

Witch gave him a look that would have shriveled his balls if this wasn’t a dream. “It doesn’t matter if I could. It will not be done, because the Shadow Realm is going to need the Black. Your family, your daughter, are going to need the High Lord.”

He swallowed hard. “War?”

“I don’t know, Daemon. Even I can’t see everything.”

“But enough,” he said quietly.

“Enough to know that the man you are will be needed. Everything you are will be needed.” Her hand moved around the chalice, not touching it, but he still felt her nearness like a caress. “You need to keep the reservoir in your Black Jewel drained enough to make room for the power your body and mind can no longer hold.”

“Not an easy thing to do.”

He saw the question in her eyes. He waited for her to ask why he wasn’t helping Surreal drain her Gray Jewel before her moontime. But Witch didn’t ask. Maybe she already knew.

“I have some thoughts about that.” She pointed at the posts. “As for these . . .”

“They’re too loose.”

A hesitation. “Everything has a price, remember? It may take decades of slow healing before you can hold the leashes as tightly as you used to. It may be never. Your mind is too fragile to exert that kind of force on any part of you right now.”

“At least tighten that one.” Daemon pointed to the leash made of chain and leather.

“I can’t. I’m sorry, Daemon, but I can’t. Not if you are going to stay sane and whole.”

“The Sadist . . .”

“A little more easily provoked, but there are things you can do to help yourself and the people around you.”

She seemed to be struggling to find the words, and that wasn’t like her. “Tell me.”

“You should arrange to have a . . . sanctuary . . . at the Hall, a place different from your bedroom suite. You need a place where you can retreat when people’s response to the sexual heat starts to scrape your temper, because now the aspect of yourself most likely to respond will be the Sadist. You should discuss this with a few people you trust without question, and it must be without question. You will give them an agreed-upon phrase that they will speak if they notice your control slipping. If you hear that phrase, you will not challenge their reason for saying it; you will retreat to your sanctuary and maintain solitude until your control gently returns. If you want a phrase in a language that wouldn’t commonly be spoken, I can help you with that.”

“Maybe the language of the Dea al Mon.” That language wouldn’t be known to many outside the borders of the Territory ruled by the Children of the Wood.

How much of that language had Surreal learned over the years?

“Who should know the phrase?” Witch asked.

“Beale and Holt at the Hall. Chaosti here at the Keep. Lucivar.”

He considered Tersa, since a woman might sense something in him a man wouldn’t, but that would be too much weight for her broken mind to bear. Besides, Tersa would tell him in her own way if she saw trouble. If he’d talked to her all those months ago when she’d first noticed he wasn’t well, maybe he wouldn’t have endured so much pain.

And he wouldn’t be in the Misty Place now, feeling a joyful sorrow at being with Jaenelle again, even in this limited way.

“And Marian,” he said. She had seen—and accepted. He could trust her.

Witch made no comment about him not including Surreal in the list.

He didn’t know what she searched for as she studied his face, looked into his eyes, but she must have found it, because she said, “You need to stay among the living, Prince. You need to stay connected to the living. Do you understand?”

Daughter. Brother. Maybe still a wife. Maybe. “Yes, I understand.”

“If you give me your word that you will do your best to stay connected, I’ll make you a bargain.”

“What bargain?”

“When you’ve set up your sanctuary and talked to the people you named, then we’ll discuss the bargain and what to do about the Black.”

Suddenly he was furious. Coldly, savagely furious. “What difference does any of this make?” He waved at the chalice, at the leashes, at the posts. “Dream. Vision. What difference does it make? The pain will still be there when I wake up. The misery will be there. But I’m expected to survive another day and the day after that and after that for centuries to come.”

“If I am still your Queen, then my will is your life, and, yes, Prince, I expect you to survive. To do more than just survive.”

“Bitch.” Wondering why his temper had slipped the leash—and wondering why it should matter—he turned away from her.

“You asked for my help—and I answered.”

“You’re usually kinder when I dream about you.”

A freezing silence. Then, too softly, “You think this is a dream?”

Something lightly brushed against his upper arm. Then he felt the shivering sensation of his skin parting moments before he felt the pain and . . .

Daemon tumbled off the bed.

Panting, he looked at his right arm, at the sleeve of his white silk shirt turning wet and red.

Witch’s midnight voice thundered up from somewhere deep in the abyss. ٭Remembrance. Reminder.٭

Shocked, he stumbled into the Consort’s suite, turned on the light in his bathroom. No slices in the shirt.

Stripping off the shirt, Daemon stood in front of the mirror and stared at the four bleeding wounds that had been made by Witch’s claws.

Remembrance. Reminder.

When Jaenelle Saetien was born, Surreal had ripped his arm with a taloned gauntlet, but those wounds had healed, leaving no scars.

He looked at his left wrist, at the only scar he carried. Tersa had given it to him on the day she told him that Witch walked among the living. And now . . .

Daemon sat on the edge of the bathtub and pressed the bloody shirt to his arm.

Not a dream. He’d been back in the Misty Place, talking to Witch. Arguing with Witch.

He didn’t know what sort of bargain she would make with him, but it meant he would see her again. Until then, he would set up his sanctuary, do what he could to repair his marriage, and help Lucivar deal with Jillian and her suitor. He would prove to his Queen that he was willing to do more than survive.

Swaying on his feet, Daemon washed his arm, then used healing Craft to close the wounds. Calling in the small cabinet he kept filled with healing supplies, he spread an ointment over the wounds before wrapping his biceps in gauze and putting a protective shield over the whole upper arm.

He knew with absolute certainty that those wounds would leave scars, because they were a reminder from Witch that he wasn’t alone. They were the message that he would see every single day for the rest of his life.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Still shaky from her crying jag and confession to Marian, Surreal finished dressing moments before Lucivar barged into the guest room, grabbed her left arm, and pulled her toward the door.

“We’re going to talk,” he snarled.

“Get your hand off me,” she snarled back as her right hand curled in preparation for calling in her favorite stiletto.

He turned on her, his hand tightening on her arm. “You call in a weapon, you’d better be ready to fight. And you’d better be ready for the pain that will follow, because I’ll hurt you, Surreal. Today, right now, I will hurt you.”

Mother Night. He means it.

She didn’t resist as he hauled her through the corridors. She caught a glimpse of Marian’s startled expression before Lucivar shoved her into his study and slammed the door. Ebon-gray shields barricaded the room. She couldn’t get out and no one could get in.

“You want to tell me—,” she began.

“Pretend I’m holding a weapon,” Lucivar said. “I’m pointing it at you. Threaten, threaten, blah blah blah.”

That stupid phrase sounded a lot more terrifying when he said it.

“We’ve already concluded the part where you threaten me, so what is this about?”

“You tell me. What in the name of Hell is going on between you and Daemon?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Considering what I heard this morning, it damn well is my business.”

“You . . .” Surreal felt the blood drain out of her head. She wanted to sit down but couldn’t afford to show any weakness. “Did you tell Daemon?”

“I didn’t have to.”

Hell’s fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful.

“You don’t know what it’s like to have the Sadist in your bed night after night!” she cried.

“Neither do you.” Lucivar spread his wings, then folded them halfway. “You have brushed against that side of Daemon’s temper over the years, and you have seen what he can do. But believe me, Surreal, you have never danced with the Sadist when he has been focused on you.”

“How would you know?”

“Because I have danced with him. If that’s what you’d been facing every night for the past few months, you would not have survived this long.”

She shook her head. She knew what she felt. “He’s been different since the night I stayed with him in his bedroom.”

He folded his wings all the way and stepped closer. “How has he been different? And why didn’t you say something? I told you I would help you.”

“What was I supposed to say? That I can’t think of anything but screwing him whenever he gets near me? That some days I feel like I’m nothing but a sheath for his cock?”

“Why didn’t you say something if his sexual heat was making you uncomfortable?”

“I did! Over and over again. What could I have said that he would hear?”

“Something like, ‘Sugar, I need to rest tonight. Could you bank the heat?’”

She snorted. “Could Marian say that to you?”

“She does. Only she doesn’t call me sugar.”

Surreal blinked. Using different words could have stopped this? No. Not possible. “I have been dealing with the Sadist.” She had to believe that, needed to believe there hadn’t been a choice.

Lucivar shook his head. “I’m not saying there isn’t a whisper of the Sadist or an edge to the way he sometimes plays in bed. Daemon likes to play. But you’re his friend, his partner, his lover, and his wife. When he plays with you, he knows exactly where the line is between pain and pleasure, and he will never cross it. Not with you.” He thought for a moment. “Well, he used to know where that line was, but neither of you told the other that something had changed, so I’m thinking both of you have crossed a few lines you wouldn’t normally cross—and there are wounded feelings on both sides because of it.”

Annoyed by the scold, Surreal shrugged off those words and concentrated on something else Lucivar had said. “The Sadist crossed that line with you.” Daemon and Lucivar had a complicated history, but her stomach started flipping at the thought of them doing . . . what?

Lucivar’s smile was bitter. “Even when we were younger and both wore the Birthright Red, he would hit me with that sexual heat and wind his particular kind of seduction spells around me, and there was nothing I could do. He played with me in front of an audience of bitch Queens. Do you have any idea what it’s like to be so mad with need, to have so little control over your own body, that your own brother could make you come in front of all those bitches?”

Lucivar walked away and stood for a minute with his back to her, before returning.

“I hated him for what he did to me during those entertainments. It took years before I figured out that he did it out of love. He offered those bitches an entertainment they couldn’t resist as a substitute for whatever they’d intended to do to me. Because what they’d intended would have been permanently disfiguring. I could have lost my balls or my wings. Lost my eyes, my ears. They wouldn’t have killed me and brought Saetan’s rage down on their heads, but they could have maimed me to the point of being a helpless lump that they could continue to torture. I’d seen them do that to other men. But the Sadist offered them a game that was entertainment and lesson—a lesson because he made it clear that if they touched me after he was done, he would do the same to them . . . without any mercy.”

“Mother Night,” Surreal breathed.

“I don’t know what it cost him to play those games.” A pause. “Well, I broke his ribs a couple of times when I beat on him afterward. But playing those games did things to him in here.” Lucivar tapped his chest. “He’s a lot more powerful now than he was then, and so is the Sadist. If you truly believe that’s who is coming to your bed, I need to know. If he’s acting oddly toward you, I need to know. If you’re thinking of leaving him, I need to know. You help him stay connected to the living, Surreal. But if something happens and he goes cold and the Sadist starts sliding into the Twisted Kingdom, I need to know because I’ll have to choose to join him in the destruction or stand against him.”

“You couldn’t stand against him,” she said wearily. “He would kill you.”

“Yes, he would.”

She stared at him. He said the words so simply, with such acceptance.

“Despite the past, or maybe because of it, I love him and I enjoy spending time with him. But I also keep an eye on him for the same reason that Andulvar kept an eye on Saetan, especially after what happened with Zuulaman. Men that powerful have to be protected in some ways, have to know there is a hand that will reach for them if they flounder, have to know someone will say ‘stop’ before they’re out of reach and can’t be stopped. That was true for Andulvar and Saetan. It’s true for me and Daemon. More so for us, because Daemon is a lot more dangerous than Saetan ever thought to be.”

Surreal pushed her hair away from her face. “What do you want me to do?”

“What do you want to do?” he countered.

“I don’t want to leave him.” And she didn’t want to leave Jaenelle Saetien alone with Daemon without a buffer. Not permanently. No one needed to tell her that if she walked away, the High Lord’s daughter wouldn’t be coming with her. “I’ll talk to him, explain why I can’t handle being around the Black every night.”

Lucivar looked past her and frowned. “Come on. We have other things to deal with.” He dropped the shields and hurried out of the study.

She hurried after him, not sure what he’d heard that made their discussion end so abruptly.

“Marian?” She looked at Marian’s pale face and the way one hand clung to Lucivar’s arm as soon as he reached his wife.

Marian sighed, a shuddering sound. “Surreal. Jillian asked if you could meet her at her home. Apparently something happened and she needs to talk.”

“All right.” She looked from Marian to Lucivar. “Something else?”

Marian’s hand tightened on Lucivar’s arm. “Rothvar needs Lucivar down in the village. There was some trouble. Daemonar . . .”

“I’ll take care of it,” Lucivar said. “You look after yourself and the baby. Let Morghann keep watch on the girls.”

Marian nodded.

The tender way Lucivar pressed his lips to Marian’s forehead made Surreal’s heart ache.

She followed Lucivar out the front door of the eyrie.

He looked toward the far end of the valley. “You’d better go if you’re going. That’s a wicked bitch of a storm heading this way, and everyone with any sense is going to go to ground until it passes.”

“After I talk to Jillian, I’ll talk to Daemon,” she said.

He watched the sky. “Well, that might be difficult, witchling. I don’t feel the Black in Ebon Rih anymore, and Daemon isn’t answering my call. Right now I have no idea where he is.”

Lucivar flew down to Riada as fast as he could, aiming for the knot of people and the scattered debris in front of one of the shops. He glided toward Zaranar, Hallevar, and Rothvar, who was holding Tagg. Backwinging, he landed lightly on the street just beyond the debris and the crowd, which was divided into such distinct groups he wondered if this was the start of a fight between Eyriens and Rihlanders or an isolated problem. On one side stood the three Eyrien Warlords. On the other side stood a dozen guards who served the Queen of Riada, including her Master of the Guard, who looked furious.

Between the two groups of warriors were five young men and the man who owned the shop. Four of the young Warlords were bloody—black eyes, split lips, a couple with broken noses. And two of them were cupping their balls and groaning, their clothes spattered with vomit. The fifth young Warlord looked rumpled, but Lucivar saw no sign that he’d been in the fight. A couple of men carried a sixth youth out of the shop on a stretcher.

“Need to get this one to the Healer,” they said. “He was thrown through the shopwindow, and the defensive shields he had around himself didn’t hold. His back and legs are cut up pretty bad.”

Lucivar nodded, giving unspoken permission.

٭When we arrived to break up the fight, Daemonar ran off,٭ Rothvar said on a psychic spear thread. ٭Don’t know where he is right now. He’s hurt. Can’t say how badly.٭ He put a hand on the puppy’s head. ٭This one was told to stay out of the fight, but he started barking loud enough to bring us and the Queen’s guard running.٭

“Something has to be done about that brat!” one of the young men shouted as soon as the men carrying the stretcher headed down the street with their injured friend. “Who does he think he is?”

“He thinks he’s the son of the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih,” the Riada Master of the Guard replied. He waved a hand, drawing everyone’s attention to where Lucivar stood. “So why don’t you tell his father why all of you got into a fight with one boy?”

Two of the Warlords who had been in the fight and the one who had stayed out of it looked at Lucivar and turned sickly pale, confirming that they lived in Ebon Rih, even if they didn’t live in Riada. The other two were stupid enough to look defiant.

“The brat started the fight,” one of the fools said. “We were just having a little fun.”

Lucivar smiled a lazy, arrogant smile. “And what was said that provoked that first punch?”

“We didn’t say anything,” the second fool said.

٭Bitch,٭ Tagg said, squirming in Rothvar’s arms. ٭Whore. Suck cock.٭

Lucivar watched as fury filled Rothvar’s eyes. Zaranar’s and Hallevar’s too. What surprised him was feeling the same level of fury pumping out of Riada’s Master of the Guard.

“What do you want done with these curs, Prince?” the Master asked.

Thunder rumbled. Lightning flashed. The storm would reach the village in minutes.

Lucivar looked at the shopkeeper. “You figure out the cost of repairing or replacing everything that was damaged in this fight, then double it. Give the figure to the Master of the Guard and Lord Rothvar. Everyone who was involved in the fight—and that includes my boy—will each pay a share of the cost.” He looked at the Master. “Get them cleaned up and have the Queen’s Healer deal with whatever needs healing. Then hold them until I find out if the debt’s been sufficiently paid or if they’re going to forfeit their tongues.”

He ignored the young men’s protests and turned to Rothvar. ٭I’m going to find my boy. You get to shelter and take the pup with you.٭

٭Done.٭ Rothvar studied the sky and the advancing storm. ٭Not a good time to be flying.٭

٭No.٭ Turning away from all of them, he launched himself into the air and flew into the storm, heading for Ebon Askavi, the most likely place to find his son.

Hearing the quick knock, Daemon gave the Consort’s bedroom one swift look to be sure he’d eliminated all signs that he’d been hurt. Then he opened the door.

“Geoffrey?” He smiled at the Keep’s historian/librarian.

Geoffrey didn’t return the smile. “You’re needed.”

They hurried away from the Queen’s section of the Keep and continued on until they reached one of the areas reserved for guests and visitors. Spotting the boy and the Warlord Prince who stood next to him, Daemon rushed past Geoffrey.

“Daemonar! What . . . ?”

Daemon looked at Chaosti, who rested a hand on the shoulder of the defiant, bloodied, trembling boy. Still a Gray-Jeweled Warlord Prince, Chaosti had been the Warlord Prince of the Dea al Mon before he’d died in his sleep at the natural end of his life. He’d been a vigorous old man who made the transition to demon-dead with enviable ease, continuing his role as an advisor to those who now ruled his people. More important to Daemon, he had become a friend again over the past few years.

“I’m glad I beat the snot out of those wingless Jhinkas,” Daemonar shouted. “I’m glad!”

Calling anyone a Jhinka—a winged race that was an old enemy of the Eyriens—was the worst kind of insult. And calling someone a wingless Jhinka was the epitome of insults if you were an Eyrien boy.

“There’s a fire going in the sitting room,” Chaosti said, nodding to the open door. “I’ve asked for a basin of warm water and cloths, but there hasn’t been time to find out what sort of damage our little Brother has done to himself.”

They led the boy into the sitting room and stripped him out of his drenched clothes, since he’d managed to reach one of the Keep’s courtyards before the storm began pounding on the mountain, but hadn’t reached shelter. Between them they washed the simple cuts—Daemon using healing Craft on a couple of deeper ones—and examined him for injured muscles and damaged bones. Bruised ribs, a split lip, and some cuts, including ripped skin on his knuckles. The worst injury was a broken bone in the boy’s left arm.

After setting the bone, Daemon wrapped healing spells around the damage, then added a shield to hold the bone. And then . . .

“Hell’s fire, Uncle Daemon.” Daemonar stared at his arm in disgust. “What is that?”

“That?” Daemon looked mildly surprised by the question. “That, boyo, is a shield that will keep your forearm protected until the bone fully heals.” He turned to Chaosti. “Isn’t it obvious?”

Chaosti studied the arm and said solemnly, “It’s quite obvious.”

“It’s blue,” Daemonar protested. “It’s bright blue. Everything and everybody will be able to see it halfway up the mountain!”

Daemon smiled at his nephew. “Only halfway? Maybe I should . . .”

Daemonar tucked the arm beneath the blanket they had wrapped around him.

Setting aside the healing supplies, Daemon remained sitting on the footstool. “It’s time to tell us what this was about,” he said with a quiet gentleness that wasn’t any less a command made by the patriarch of the family.

Daemonar shook his head. “I can’t. I won’t tell you.”

Daemon felt cold anger whisper through his blood, saw the flash of fear in Daemonar’s eyes—felt Chaosti descend to the level of the Gray. Not that Gray could survive against the Black. Not that a man who was demon-dead didn’t understand what it meant to challenge the High Lord of Hell.

“They said mean things about Jillian and about . . . I won’t tell you. I won’t.”

“If you feel it isn’t prudent to tell your uncle what was said, are you willing to tell me?” Chaosti asked.

Did the boy realize or remember that Chaosti had a family connection to Surreal? Probably not, since Daemonar looked relieved at the suggestion.

“All right,” Daemon said. “You give Prince Chaosti a full report, including everything that was said. He will decide if it’s best that your father and I not know the details.”

“Yes, sir.”

Rising, Daemon walked to the door. He looked back to see Daemonar studying the bright blue shield—and saw Chaosti’s amused smile before the Dea al Mon Warlord Prince settled his lined face into a suitably grave expression before sitting on the footstool Daemon had just left.

He’d barely closed the door when he felt the presence of the Ebon-gray. Lucivar walked toward him, soaked to the skin, gold eyes hot with temper.

“Is he here?” Lucivar asked. “And when did you get back?”

Get back? He hadn’t left the Keep. At least, his body hadn’t left.

“He’s here,” Daemon replied. “He’s fine. Better than you.” Grabbing Lucivar’s arm, he hauled his brother into another room, dragging him the last few feet until they reached the fireplace. Using witchfire, Daemon lit the logs that were stacked in the grate before turning to his brother. “Hell’s fire, Lucivar! What were you thinking, flying through a storm like that? You could have been hit by lightning.”

“Almost was. Twice.”

“Idiot.”

“You would have done the same.”

“Of course I would have, but that doesn’t make you any less of an idiot.”

Lucivar smiled and moved a little closer to the fire. “Temperature has dropped. Almost got hit with some hailstones that would fill the palm of my hand.”

“Get out of those wet clothes.” Daemon called in a couple of the towels from the bathroom in the Consort’s suite. As soon as Lucivar stripped out of the clothes, Daemon handed him one towel and then started wiping down Lucivar’s back and legs, checking for injuries. “Are your wings all right?”

Lucivar opened them. “They’re fine.” He didn’t give Daemon time to pat the wings dry before he closed them and turned around. “The boy.”

“He’s bruised and a bit bloody. Has a broken bone in his left forearm. That’s the worst of it. What happened? I gathered he was in a fight, but he wouldn’t tell me what started it. He is giving Chaosti a full report.”

“I’m surprised Chaosti isn’t resting at this time of day.” Lucivar wrapped a towel around his waist.

Daemon found a blanket folded over the back of one of the chairs in the room—a blanket he was certain hadn’t been there a minute ago—and gave it to Lucivar.

“Five aristo Rihlander Warlords who are close to their majority if they haven’t already reached it against Daemonar,” Lucivar continued. “There was a sixth youngster, but he stayed out of the fight.”

Daemon stared at Lucivar. “Five against one?” Of course, it was five Warlords who probably didn’t know much about fighting beyond the basics against a Warlord Prince who had been learning how to fight almost from the moment he left the womb—and learning from a man who was a brilliant warrior on a killing field.

“One of them went through the glass window of a shop and is hurt fairly badly,” Lucivar replied. “I’m not sure that was deliberate. The other four look like they’ve been in a down and dirty brawl.”

Daemon shook his head. Eyrien arrogance and the natural inclination of the males to fight could never be underestimated. “What set him off? Did anyone tell you?”

“‘Bitch.’ ‘Whore.’ ‘Suck cock.’”

Daemon rose to the killing edge before he made a conscious decision that violence was required. “I beg your pardon?” he said too softly.

Lucivar watched him. “I don’t think Tagg knows what the words mean—except for ‘bitch,’ which means something different to him—but he didn’t hesitate to repeat the words he’d heard before Daemonar tore into those prick-asses.”

He stepped back from the killing edge, a little surprised by the effort it took to do it—and wondered if it was going to take more effort from now on. “I guess the boy was right about not wanting to tell us what was said.”

“But he’s telling Chaosti?” Lucivar snorted a laugh. “Well, safer, I suppose, since this isn’t Chaosti’s territory.”

A tray appeared on a nearby table, holding a pot of coffee, a bottle of brandy, and two mugs.

“Drink?” Daemon asked.

“Sure.”

He filled the mugs two-thirds of the way with coffee and topped them with brandy, giving the drinks a quick stir before bringing the mugs back to the fire.

Lucivar seemed lost in thought but roused when Daemon held out one of the mugs.

“I just contacted Marian to check on everyone. Surreal is at Nurian’s eyrie, talking to Jillian,” Lucivar said. “Marian and the girls are at our eyrie. The girls are teaching Morghann how to play hawks and hares, so Marian is playing with them to make sure the Sceltie learns the proper rules.”

“Thank the Darkness for that,” Daemon muttered. Then he studied Lucivar. “You know . . .”

“You brought three, you leave with three.”

“You are so strict.”

“Damn right.” Lucivar studied him in turn. “You all right? You feel . . . different.”

“Do I? How?” He wasn’t ready to talk about being in the Misty Place with Witch.

“After the headaches started, your psychic scent felt jagged. Now it doesn’t. Like something was mended and you’re well again.”

Not a dream. “That’s accurate enough.”

“Is it? Then I’m glad.”

“When things are settled about the boy, I need to talk to you and Marian about my . . . recovery. About changes I need to make.”

“Whenever you’re ready,” Lucivar replied.

They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes before Chaosti walked into the room.

“Should I ask Draca to send in some yarbarah?” Daemon asked.

Chaosti shook his head. “But I thank you for the offer.” He used Craft to position another chair near the fire. They waited while he got comfortable. “What was said was sufficient cause for a Warlord Prince to defend members of his family. I believe it is in the best interest of everyone in this valley that the two of you don’t seek to know the details.”

“I haven’t seen Daemonar yet, but . . . if I may?” Lucivar said.

Daemon felt the brush of Red power against his first inner barrier—a request to share information. Glancing at Chaosti, he realized the same request had been made of the other man.

Eyriens on one side. Riada guards on the other. A shop with its outside displays in shambles and a large window broken. And the four Warlords who were almost standing after the fight.

“Has the debt been paid?” Lucivar asked.

“It’s been paid,” Chaosti replied. “It’s fortunate for those Warlords that your boy isn’t quite old enough yet to carry a honed knife and only had the wooden practice knife I gave him.” He smiled at Daemon. “As Lucivar shared Eyrien fighting techniques with some of my children and grandchildren, so I have offered instruction to Daemonar in the use of Dea al Mon fighting knives. He had a practice blade. When used with intent, they can be a formidable weapon without being a lethal one. Well, not lethal in the hands of one so young.”

The door opened. Daemonar walked into the room and came to stand before his father. He wore pants he must have left at the Keep after he’d outgrown them, because the legs were high above his ankles and he’d barely managed to close enough buttons on the fly for modesty. And yet everything about him, from the way he stood to the look in his eyes, was a blend of defiance and wariness.

May the Darkness have mercy on any man who had to raise an Eyrien boy.

“I’m not sorry,” Daemonar said.

“Yeah, boyo, I didn’t think you were,” Lucivar replied. He looked pointedly at the boy’s left arm. “Nice shield.”

“It’s blue.”

Lucivar snorted. “You’ll be able to see the damn thing halfway up the mountain.”

Daemonar turned to Daemon. “I told you.”

“So you did,” Daemon replied mildly—and then smiled. “Everything has a price. This will help you remember to consider the odds before you leap into a fight.”

٭You think that’s going to work?٭ Lucivar asked on a Red spear thread.

٭Not likely. He’s your son, after all. He won’t consider the odds a day after the color fades.٭

Lucivar focused on Daemonar again. “You’re going to pay for your share of the damage to the shop out of your allowance.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Anything you want to tell us?”

Daemonar shook his head.

“Then make yourself comfortable, boyo. We’ll head home as soon as the storm passes.”

Within a minute Daemonar was sprawled on the rug in front of the hearth, sound asleep.

Daemon watched the boy for a moment, then laughed softly. “He does stop moving once in a while.”

Sighing, Lucivar rested his head on the back of the chair. “Sometimes I wonder how Marian and I had time to make two more with him being the first one.”

The three men talked for a few minutes more before Chaosti rose to take his leave.

“Wait for me,” Daemon said quietly.

Chaosti nodded and left the room.

“Problem?” Lucivar asked.

“No, nothing like that.” Daemon set his mug on the tray. “Unless you need me, I’m going back to the Hall for the night, but I’ll return in the morning.”

“What about . . . ?”

“Unless you need me.”

They looked at each other, so much being understood in the silence.

“We’ll be fine,” Lucivar said. “See you in the morning.”

Daemon left the room. Chaosti held out a note. “This came for you.”

Daemon broke the seal and opened the single sheet of paper. “Lady Perzha has asked me to meet her tomorrow morning. Early.” Tucking the note into his jacket pocket, he headed for the Keep’s Dark Altar—that place that was a Gate between the Realms.

“Is there something you need from me, High Lord?” Chaosti asked, falling into step.

Daemon sighed. Queen’s command. “I need to tell you about some changes I have to make because of a healing that was done today—and to ask you about the sexual heat.”

“A healing? Someone besides the boy?”

Daemon stopped outside the room that held the Dark Altar. “Me.” He hesitated, then asked a question he had never thought he’d ask. “Do you ever hear from Witch?”

Chaosti didn’t reply for a long moment. Finally, “Dreams made flesh cannot become demon-dead. You know that.”

“That much power didn’t disappear when the flesh died,” he whispered. “Witch’s Self is still in the Misty Place—and still here in the Keep.”

“Why do you think that is so?”

Not a denial. Not telling him it wasn’t possible.

Daemon vanished his shirt, then shrugged out of the jacket enough to reveal the gauze bandage around his biceps. “I pissed her off. This was her response.”

A thoughtful silence. “You needed her particular healing skills so much that she reconnected with the living to help you? What needed healing?”

“The crystal chalice—and other things.”

He saw a flash of fear in Chaosti’s eyes, there and gone. Proof enough that the man knew what that meant.

“Was she successful?” Chaosti asked.

“For the most part. But everything has a price.”

“Is this why you need to make some changes?”

“Yes. She said Kaeleer is going to need everything that I am. In order for me to stay sane and be who I am, I need her help. And yours.”

“Then I will give what help I can. After all”—Chaosti smiled and gestured toward Daemon’s arm—“I have no desire to rile my cousin’s temper.”

“I wasn’t trying to rile her,” Daemon muttered. “I thought I was dreaming.”

“Tell me what you need. I will do what I can.” Chaosti looked toward the Altar room. “You have business in Hell?”

“Not tonight. But unless there’s also a storm in Hell that makes riding the Winds dangerous, I can ride the Black Wind back to the Hall and go through the Gate there to return to Kaeleer.”

“Unless you need to return to the Hall right away, why don’t you tell me about these changes you need to make and what help you’d like me to give? Hopefully I will have some answers for you when you return in the morning.”

Daemon told him about the headaches and the sex and the heat and the months of pain that had led to the crystal chalice cracking again and Witch’s power restricting his ability to tighten the leashes beyond what she deemed safe after repairing what she could. It surprised him that Chaosti didn’t express much sympathy for Surreal.

“You are nothing now that you haven’t been in all the years I’ve known you—and in all the years Surreal has known you,” Chaosti said. “I can understand how a woman can need to live away from that much power part of the time. Gabrielle needed time away from my Gray Jewels, especially after my sexual heat settled into that last phase. I do not doubt it is harder for a wife or lover to live with the Black.” He paused. “Unless, of course, your wife is the living myth and outranks you to such a degree that she has to be reminded that the Black is a very dark Jewel. We all found it amusing that you had to work so hard sometimes to seduce your wife. Occasionally Gabrielle would nudge Jaenelle and point out that you would like to give your wife some husbandly attention.”

“Enough,” Daemon said, laughing.

Chaosti laughed with him and then sobered. “Her power was vast—is still vast, from what you’ve said. As her Consort and husband, you should have felt the crushing weight of being intimate with someone who wielded that much power.”

“I never did.”

“No, you never did. Neither did the rest of us, even before she somehow set aside all of that power to wear Twilight’s Dawn. Jaenelle never feared you, any more than she feared Uncle Saetan. Maybe that’s one reason why this is harder for you. You didn’t expect Surreal to fear you as a husband. Now you’ll have to find out how much can be mended—and if you both can accept what can’t be mended.”

Daemon nodded. “I’ll be back to talk to Lady Perzha first thing in the morning. Then I’ll return here to talk to Lucivar—and to listen to your suggestions.”

Entering the Altar room, Daemon lit the candles in the four-branched candelabra, opening the Gate to Hell. Once he reached the Dark Realm, he caught the Black Wind and rode it to Dhemlan and the Gate that stood within the grounds of SaDiablo Hall.

TWENTY-NINE

That girl pushed her thumb into that cake on purpose, and Dillon just laughed like it was funny to ruin someone else’s treat,” Jillian said after telling Surreal the whole story of going to the Sweet Tooth and everything that happened afterward. “Why didn’t he say something to the girl, tell her she was wrong to do that?”

“I don’t know,” Surreal said. “Sometimes a person makes a bad choice. Even the most honorable men make mistakes, Jillian.”

“I guess.” Disillusioned, Jillian watched the rain. It looked like one of those hard, fast storms that rolled down the valley and would be gone in an hour. But for that hour, everyone would be stuck where they were. There was an extra sizzle in the lightning this time, and Prince Yaslana had already sent a command that reached all the Blood in Ebon Rih that no one was to try to ride the Winds or fly until the storm passed.

A regular storm shouldn’t have affected the Webs of power that the Blood used to travel through the Darkness, but that warning meant there was another kind of storm combined with a regular storm. But who was strong enough to make it unsafe to ride the Winds? Not Yaslana, since he was the one who issued the warning, but there was one other man in Ebon Rih right now whose temper might be feeding the storm.

She glanced at Surreal, who looked pale and worried but was trying to hide it. Jillian had seen plenty of adults try to hide the same kind of fear or worry when bringing a sick or injured child to Nurian’s eyrie, so she recognized that look.

“Do you think Dillon has been less than honest with you?” Surreal asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe.” Part of her hoped he could explain it all away the next time she saw him. Part of her remembered how he dismissed her thoughts about things, making her feel her opinions had no value. If her thoughts had no value, if she had no value, then the only reason he wanted to spend time with her was for whatever he could persuade her to give him. That made everything he did a kind of transaction.

She didn’t want to think that of him, because she loved him. Didn’t she?

“It could have been a mistake,” she said, not sure if she was talking about the cakes or about Dillon’s interest in her—and her interest in him.

Surreal smiled, but her gold-green eyes were suddenly bright with tears. “Seems like the day to make them.”

THIRTY

The moment the storm moved on, Surreal left Khary with Jillian and returned to Lucivar’s eyrie, arriving just ahead of the man and the boy.

“Daemonar!” Marian rushed to meet them, then stopped, clearly struggling with whether to treat the boy as a boy—which was what she wanted—or as a warrior youth, which was what he clearly wanted.

Lucivar gave Daemonar a light push. “Hug your mother and apologize for being stupid.”

“I’m sorry, Mother.” Daemonar, as boy and son, threw his arms around Marian. “I’m not sorry I hit the prick-asses, but I’m sorry I upset you.”

Surreal looked past Lucivar, expecting Daemon to walk in behind him.

Titian, Jaenelle Saetien, and Morghann rushed to the front room from wherever they had been playing.

“What happened?” Titian asked.

Daemonar carefully withdrew from his mother’s embrace. “Got in a fight.”

“Why?”

“Don’t have to say.” There was a finality in the boy’s voice that sounded so much like his father, neither girl pushed for details.

But Jaenelle Saetien pointed at Daemonar’s arm. “What’s that?”

“It’s a shield to protect his arm while the bone heals,” Lucivar said.

Marian made a distressed sound.

“It’s pretty,” Jaenelle Saetien said, hooking her black hair behind her delicately pointed ears.

Daemonar and Titian looked at their cousin like they couldn’t believe she didn’t understand how terrible this was, and said in unison, “It’s blue.”

Titian reached out but didn’t quite touch the shield. “Could you put another shield over it to hide the color?”

Daemonar looked disgusted. “Already tried that. It made the color brighter.”

Surreal studied Lucivar, who was struggling to keep a straight face.

“The color doesn’t matter,” Lucivar drawled. “Daemonar won’t be doing any hunting or weapons training until the bone fully heals.”

“Papa!” Daemonar sounded horrified by that prospect.

“But you and I will be spending your training time reviewing how to properly shield before and during a fight.”

“Yes, sir.”

٭Healing requires food,٭ Morghann said. ٭Daemonar should eat. We will eat with him, to keep him company.٭

Lucivar turned away, coughing.

Marian stared at Morghann, who just wagged her tail and looked hopeful.

“Fine,” Marian said, glancing at Surreal and Lucivar. “We’ll have a snack while I start preparing dinner.” She led the yappy horde into the kitchen.

As soon as they were alone, Surreal hurried over to Lucivar. “Where is Daemon? Was he at the Keep? Why didn’t he come back with you?”

“He went to the Hall for the night. He’ll be back in the morning.”

“I have to talk to him. Can you keep Jaenelle Saetien?”

“Surreal . . . Leave him alone tonight.” A warning, not a suggestion.

Shaking her head, she rushed out of the eyrie and went down to the landing web so fast she almost lost her footing on the wet stairs. Then she caught the Gray Wind and headed for SaDiablo Hall.

Daemon waited while Beale and Holt absorbed what he’d just told them about the headaches, the healing, and what needed to be done. Neither man asked how a Queen who shouldn’t have existed anymore was still present in some way and still giving orders. Maybe they were so relieved to know her strength was still balancing his that they didn’t want to know how it was possible, only that it was.

“There is the suite of rooms deep beneath the Hall,” Beale said. “I believe your father stayed there when he needed a particular kind of solitude. However, I would recommend using the bedroom suite he used when the Queen lived here. You would have sunlight and fresh air. The other suites around that square are empty now, so you could easily put Black shields around the whole square and have access to the garden. I think that would feel less like . . .” The butler finally stumbled on the words.

“Like a cage?” Daemon said.

“Yes, Prince. There is no need to feel walled up in stone when you require solitude for your well-being and ours.”

“That suite would be far enough away from the family quarters you’re using now,” Holt said. “The Black—or the heat—shouldn’t cause problems for Lady Surreal at that distance, especially with Black shields around the rooms.”

He had considered his father’s private study deep beneath the Hall, but Beale had the right of it. He didn’t think feeling walled in would do anything good for his continued healing or control. But if he put Black shields around the whole square of rooms that overlooked the same garden as his father’s suite, he would have the isolation necessary without feeling confined. And he would have another safe way to use the Black.

“Ask Helene to get that suite ready,” Daemon said. “I don’t know how soon or how often I’ll need it.”

“If you’ll permit my discussing this with Mrs. Beale in general terms, she can consider what kind of foods she can prepare that you could heat or eat as is,” Beale said. “I would bring the meals to you.”

“The less interaction, the better,” Daemon replied. “Until we know . . .” He almost felt like himself, but he didn’t have a sense of how much control he had over his power and temper—or anything else.

Beale nodded. “Until we know.”

Surreal’s abrupt arrival at the Hall startled Beale.

“Is he here?” she demanded. A psychic probe would have given her the answer, but she didn’t want to do anything that might seem like a challenge.

“He’s in his suite,” Beale replied, sounding uncharacteristically flustered. “We weren’t expecting you. The Prince said he would take a plate of whatever Mrs. Beale had prepared for the staff’s dinner, but I can tell her that you’ve returned as well and—”

“Just fix two plates, if there’s enough to spare.” There would be plenty. No one who worked at the Hall went hungry. “We can eat in the family room.” In many ways, that room was where their life together had begun, because that was where they’d been when grief over Saetan’s final death turned into a physical need to give and receive comfort.

Maybe that subtle reminder would help her talk to him.

Hurrying to their suites in the family wing, she knocked on the door of Daemon’s bedroom and walked in before giving him a chance to reply—or deny her entrance—and only then remembered why she shouldn’t be alone in that room with him ever again.

“Surreal?” He didn’t sound angry that she had followed him home, but he also didn’t sound pleased to see her. “Why are you here?”

I live here. Don’t I?

Instead of the tailored black trousers and jacket paired with the white silk shirt—his usual choice of attire—he wore a white cotton pullover. The casual trousers were black but loose. And he wore house slippers instead of his usual polished shoes. Nothing unusual about Daemon being dressed so casually for an evening at home. He’d learned years ago that such clothes were easier to clean after dealing with baby poop or little-girl puke. But, somehow, seeing him like this . . .

Relaxed. At least, he had been until she’d walked into the room. She braced for the feel of his sexual heat washing over her, but the heat was banked to a sensual warmth, like it had been the day of Jaenelle Saetien’s Birthright Ceremony.

And the Black? Daemon’s power felt like it had when she’d been pregnant, after he’d carefully drained her Gray and Green Jewels to make her comfortable and protect the baby. He’d had to use his Black power to siphon off her Gray, and when it was done, they’d often cuddled for the whole evening, content to be in each other’s company.

Seeing him like this, feeling him like this, made her consider that maybe the overwhelming sexual heat had been a symptom of whatever had been causing his headaches.

“Daemon . . .” How to explain what he’d overheard that morning?

He looked away. “I’ve caused you significant distress over the past few months. I am sorry for that. Despite what you think, it wasn’t deliberate.”

“I didn’t know the headaches were causing you to—”

“The headaches were a symptom, not the cause. I learned today that a Warlord Prince’s sexual heat continues to gain . . . potency . . . until he’s fully in his prime. I had been trying to keep it leashed to what it had been instead of accommodating this final stage. It’s reached its peak now and will remain at this level.”

“For how long?”

“Centuries.”

Mother Night. How will I endure it?

“I’ve known that your visits to the family’s other estates weren’t about you fulfilling your duties as my second-in-command, that they were excuses to stay away from me,” Daemon continued quietly. “You were unhappy being around me, so I assisted in making whatever arrangements kept us apart. The truth, Surreal? It was a relief whenever you weren’t home, because I didn’t have to provide sex to a woman who wanted me and hated me at the same time.”

“I didn’t hate you.”

He gave her a bitter smile. “Yes, you did. Maybe you still do.”

Surreal shook her head. Why hadn’t she said something beyond demanding that he leash the heat?

“There is nothing I can do about the sexual heat that won’t threaten my sanity,” Daemon said. “That was another truth that was impressed on me today.”

The words shocked her. Terrified her. His sanity had been threatened?

“But there are things that I can do to protect you and keep you from being overwhelmed by it. To that end, I am making some changes.”

“What changes?” she whispered. “Are . . . Do you want me to leave?”

“No.” He shook his head. “I still love you, Surreal, and I would like to remain married to you. But if you want to end the marriage, if you need to do that, I won’t make it difficult for you.”

“I don’t want to do that.”

He seemed relieved, and she relaxed a little.

Then he said, “It will benefit both of us to have some time alone—a few days each month. That will give us a chance to rest from the pressures produced by the heat. Even when we’re both in residence, some . . . distance . . . at times will be required.”

“You want to live apart?” Would she and Jaenelle Saetien live in Amdarh most of the time, with Daemon staying at the town house a couple of days a week to see his daughter and have sex with his wife? Or would he and Jaenelle Saetien live here while she was the one who became the guest?

“Nothing so drastic, unless that is what you’d prefer. I’m taking over my father’s suite and will reside there part of the time. It’s far enough away from these rooms that, with the use of Black shields around the suite, the heat shouldn’t cause you discomfort.”

“Sadi . . .”

“My control over my temper and . . . other things . . . is not what it used to be. Will never be what it used to be. I will need solitude at times, and that’s when I’ll use the other suite.”

She struggled to find her voice. “And the rest of the time?”

He looked around the room. “Here. Or with you when you want company.”

“So I’m supposed to invite my husband to my bed every time I want him to provide me with sex?” Fool! Don’t challenge him!

“Yes,” he replied.

“No,” she snapped, embracing temper and itching to call in her crossbow. “I am perfectly capable of telling you if I’m not in the mood for a ride. I can take care of myself.”

“Except you didn’t.” His voice sharpened, grew colder. “You didn’t, Surreal. You felt tormented by your response to the sexual heat and said nothing. You felt tortured. Wasn’t that the word you used?”

She flinched.

“I can trust you to draw a line and defend Jaenelle Saetien. You’ve done that since the day she was born. But it’s painfully clear that I can’t trust you to stand up for yourself. Not against me. I thought I could—I thought you would—but you proved me wrong.”

“Don’t do this, Sadi,” she warned.

“Do what?”

“Play games with me. Break the promise you made when we married that you would be a husband in every way.”

She saw the change in his eyes, felt fear shiver through her. Remembered again where she was standing at that moment and what it meant when dealing with a Warlord Prince.

“No games, Lady,” the Sadist said. “Not with you. Never again with you. At least, not for fun. But if you try to play with me . . .” He smiled that cold, cruel smile.

Then he looked away for a moment, and the feel in the room changed—and Daemon looked back at her. “Whether I remain your husband is your choice. Whether I remain your lover is your choice.”

“But when you’re available to be a lover is your choice?”

“Yes. It has to be that way now. But I give you my word that I will not refuse your invitation without reason.”

Something had happened to him today after he left Lucivar’s eyrie. He didn’t quite feel like the man she’d known for the past few decades. His psychic scent was a bit . . . feral. But this wasn’t the Sadist. This was the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan, in absolute control of himself, offering to provide his wife with sex out of duty to his marriage vows.

That was a knife in the belly.

Daemon studied her. “As I said, this change is nothing drastic.”

And that was twisting the knife.

Nothing drastic? Maybe he believed that. But he hadn’t taken one step toward her since this conversation began.

“It simply restores the distance that had previously been between us—the distance that kept you safe from dealing with the full measure of what I am,” Daemon continued.

٭Lady?٭ Beale said on a psychic thread. ٭Dinner is waiting for you.٭

“Dinner is served in the family room,” she said. “Unless you prefer to eat here.”

Now, finally, he moved toward her, but his smile was the same one he gave other women—a warning that he would remain friendly as long as they kept their distance. “In the family room is fine.” Then amusement warmed his gold eyes. “While we eat, you can tell me just how disgusted Daemonar is with having a bright blue shield around his arm.”

She put on a nightgown that he always admired.

At dinner, they had talked the way they used to—the way they hadn’t talked in weeks—sharing information and thoughts about family and books, and Jillian’s first love, and so many other things. His presence didn’t overwhelm her, and while the things he’d said worried her, she thought he would want to reestablish a feeling of physical closeness, and had made it clear that she would like his company that night.

She needed to show him that she loved him, that she desired him. That she didn’t hate him.

But she waited and waited . . . and waited.

She went to the connecting door, wrapped her hand around the handle. What if he didn’t let her in? How could she show him she still wanted him if he locked her out?

Relief filled her when the door opened. No lights were on in the room, but the heavier drapes didn’t cover the glass door that led out to the balcony, so there was enough natural light to see that Daemon was in bed and clearly preparing to sleep in his own room, despite her invitation—and despite his assurance that he wouldn’t turn down an invitation.

“Daemon?” Surreal whispered.

He turned his head. “Something wrong?”

You’re here.

This was dangerous. Potentially lethal. Being in his bedroom invited him to play with her. And if he took offense and thought she was playing with him? He’d warned her—he had—but she couldn’t allow herself to believe he would unleash the Sadist and really hurt her over what amounted to a marital quarrel. If she allowed herself to believe that, she’d run and never stop running.

Slipping into his bed, she leaned over to kiss him as her hand stroked down his chest and headed for the part of him hidden under the covers.

His hand caught hers a moment after she touched the fabric at his waist and realized he was wearing pajama bottoms—something he did only during the winter or at the rare times when he didn’t feel well or when he slept with her doing her moontime, turning a piece of clothing into a visual reassurance that he wasn’t offering, or looking for, anything but her company.

“I’m tired,” he said quietly.

During the whole of their marriage, he had never refused her when she wanted sex or lovemaking. He had never been too tired. Not even when she’d been relentlessly demanding, caught in the addiction his sexual heat had produced. He must have been in pain from the headaches, but he hadn’t denied her his attention. Was he really going to set limits on when he was available to make love?

“Can I stay with you?” she asked, shaken.

A hesitation. “Of course.”

Words politely spoken. In some ways worse than a slap, because it was duty, not desire, that said the words.

He raised his hand. Hopeful, she moved her hand once again to touch him, stroke him, invite him to take pleasure in their bodies coming together. But his hand closed over her wrist again, his touch now so cold it burned.

“No,” he snarled.

All kinds of messages in the finality of that word, and none of them good.

She lay down, far enough away that she wasn’t touching him, but still close enough that if he changed his mind and reached for her, she would be there to tell him without words that she did love him, that she hadn’t meant the things she’d said about him torturing her with sex.

Eventually she fell asleep. When she woke in the still-dark hours of early morning, Daemon was gone. Worse, a quick look through his dresser and dressing room confirmed that he’d taken several sets of clothes with him.

Worse than that, when she found Holt and Beale already awake and working—and pretending they weren’t aware of the potential collapse of her marriage—neither man knew where Daemon had gone. Neither had been given instructions about how to find him. All Daemon had said before he left was they should contact Lucivar if they needed to reach him.

A single ball of witchlight softly illuminated the stone steps that led down to the sunken garden Saetan had built long ago as a place for private meditation. A place meant to offer peace.

Carrying a large mug of coffee heavily flavored with cream and sugar, Surreal walked down the steps. She had never felt peaceful in this garden. Too much grief had been absorbed by the ground for her to feel any peace. That wasn’t why she came to this spot in the Hall.

Ignoring the statue of the crouched male that was a blend of human and animal, she walked over to the fountain where a woman with an achingly familiar face rose out of the water. Then she raised the mug as if to catch someone’s attention.

“I brought you coffee.” Setting the mug on the grass beside the fountain, Surreal raked her fingers through her hair. “Hell’s fire, Jaenelle. I made a mistake, a bad mistake, and I don’t know how to fix it. But how was I to know that—”

The ball of witchlight disappeared. The cool predawn air turned viciously cold. And for just a heartbeat, maybe two, Surreal felt as if she was falling in the abyss, felt as if she was being crushed in body and mind because she was falling deeper than she could possibly survive.

Then a pale light returned and the air was chilly but no longer viciously cold.

Stone and mist. A slab of dark stone that looked like an altar. More slabs that were low enough to be seats.

“What I’m wondering,” said a midnight voice, “is why you ignored the signs and let this go on for so long.”

Chilled to the marrow, Surreal watched the figure shaped out of dreams walk out of the mist.

“Mother Night,” she whispered. “Jaenelle?” She looked around. “Where . . . ?”

“This is the Misty Place.” Witch approached the altar and stood within reach. “Why, Surreal? You’ve never backed down from anything. Why back down because of something that should have been simple? It’s not like you haven’t seen it before.”

The tartness in the words scratched Surreal’s temper enough for her to ignore questions about where she was and if she could get back to the Hall. Focusing on those ancient sapphire eyes allowed her to ignore the rest of Witch’s shape and pretend she was dealing with the friend she remembered. “Let me tell you something, sugar. I’ve never felt like I was being swept away and drowned by a man’s lust. I’ve never felt desperate to ride a cock. So you’ll have to forgive me if I missed the warning signs. And when, in the name of Hell, have I seen this before?”

“You and Rainier were sharing a house when he came into his full prime and went through the same thing,” Witch replied with razor-sharp sweetness. “You shrugged it off despite living with it every day.”

“Rainier did not go through this,” Surreal snarled.

“Of course he did. All the Warlord Princes did. But Rainier wore Opal and you wear Gray, so the increase in his sexual heat rolled off you, barely noticed, let alone acknowledged. Also, you and Rainier weren’t lovers, so you weren’t primed to be aroused by his sexual heat as you are to your lover’s interest in you.” Witch huffed out a sigh. “But even the Gray can’t ignore the Black when the sexual heat’s potency matures, so it’s not surprising you felt swept away. What is surprising is that you and your crossbow didn’t meet Daemon in the bedroom one evening so that you could tell him that something felt wrong before things had gone so wrong.”

“But this fever of sex has opened the door for you to reclaim him, hasn’t it?” Surreal snapped.

She regretted the words the moment she said them.

The air turned so cold it was hard to breathe—and the feeling of pressure being held at bay by something, or someone, reminded her that she was so deep in the abyss that she had no chance of surviving on her own. “Jaenelle . . . My apologies, Lady. Those words were unkind—and untrue.”

“I didn’t intend to come back,” Witch said too quietly. “I didn’t expect Daemon to need me beyond my being a song in the Darkness that reminded him that he wasn’t alone and helped him stay connected to the living. Do you think this is easy, that I welcome this? Solitude is like ice, Surreal. When it’s thick and unbroken, the world beyond it is muted, a memory that can be offered gifts that reach the living in dreams. But when that solitude is smashed, like it is now? When I know the ice will have to be smashed again and again because the survival of so many now requires it, and I will be reminded again and again that I may still be heart and mind and a great deal of power, but this”—she swept a hand down to indicate her body—“is a shadow, an illusion, not flesh that can be held. Do you really think I wanted this continual contact with the living when I had every reason to believe that you and Daemon would be happy being together?”

“I . . .” Surreal looked away, aching for both of them. All of them.

“But this is where we are now, you and I—and Daemon. Married to you, he could have survived with me being nothing more than a comforting dream, and Kaeleer could have survived him without me. But a vital kind of trust has been broken and will never again be strong enough to do what it could have done. What it should have done.”

“He said his sanity is at risk.”

“It was. It is. It will be, even beyond his last day among the living.”

“All because I demanded that he leash his sexual heat.”

“Not because you demanded it, but because you didn’t believe him when he told you it was leashed.”

“Would you have believed him?”

“Yes. And then I would have looked for another reason for the change in my reaction to the heat. The knowledge was available, but neither of you asked the right questions—or asked the right people.” Witch sighed. “Some practical adjustments in your living arrangements will have to be made, and the lingering pain of the past few months will leave a coating of bitterness on your marriage that will take time to fade. You have to decide if you love him enough to give him—and yourself—that time.”

“I do love him.” She looked at Witch. When Jaenelle had walked among the living, she had made living with Daemon seem so easy. But living with that much power day after day after day wasn’t easy. Would never be easy. “What can I do?”

“You’re still his second-in-command.”

She nodded, although the words were a statement, not a question.

Witch studied her. “I made a conditional bargain with Daemon. Now I’ll make one with you. Continue being his second-in-command, whether you remain married to him or not. Continue being the buffer between him and women who would ignite his temper by trying to push themselves into his bed uninvited. In other words, do for him now what you did for him when he and I were married. In return, I will be the buffer between you and Daemon, giving him a place at the Keep where he can exercise all that he is without any constraints and also draining the Black enough to keep him, and everyone else, safe.”

Surreal looked around. “We’ll all be safe, but you’ll be reminded over and over again of how alone you are in this place.”

“Everything has a price,” Witch said quietly.

“You love him that much?”

“Daemon is worth whatever price has to be paid. That was true when I walked among the living, and it’s just as true now.” A beat of silence. “It’s time for you to go.”

“Will I see you again?”

“There are other people in easy reach who will listen if you need to talk and who can offer advice if you ask. I don’t think you’ll need to come here again.”

The light disappeared. The air turned viciously cold. But those feelings passed in a heartbeat and Surreal found herself standing in the sunken garden, staring at the statue of a woman with an achingly familiar face.

“Jaenelle,” she whispered. “Ah, sugar. I promise I’ll do my best for all of us.”

THIRTY-ONE

Daemon arrived in Little Weeble shortly after dawn. Lord Carleton greeted him effusively and beamed so much goodwill toward him he wondered if there was something wrong with Lady Perzha’s Steward—until he guessed the reason for Carleton’s pleasure.

“The shipment of yarbarah arrived?” Daemon asked.

“It did. A case of beef and a case of lamb,” Carleton replied. “I took the liberty of sampling a bottle of the lamb and am ashamed of the inferior quality of yarbarah we had been purchasing from . . . another supplier . . . and had been serving to Lady Perzha.”

“You know about supplying Perzha with fresh human blood added to the yarbarah as well as how much undiluted blood she should have each month?”

“Yes. The Queen of Ebon Askavi had provided instructions when Lady Perzha first developed her allergy to sunlight. The Lady is out on the garden terrace,” Carleton continued as he led the way. “She enjoys doing a bit of gardening before she reviews paperwork and meets with me and Prince Arrick prior to retiring until evening.”

Perzha smiled at Daemon when he reached the table where she sat looking over her garden and drinking yarbarah from a ravenglass goblet. “Please join me, Prince. There were storms all along the coast yesterday. You also had storms in Ebon Rih?”

“We did. I’m sure Prince Yaslana will be flying to each of the villages in the valley to check on the people. Is there anything I should convey to him about Little Weeble?”

“Carleton and Arrick will be doing their own assessment this morning, but I don’t believe we had any significant storm damage. Sit down, Prince. Please, sit. And mind the bucket.”

As he pulled out a chair, Daemon eyed the bucket filled two-thirds with water. Since they weren’t sitting under an awning or other kind of roof, he wondered what might be leaking.

“Carleton, have Cook prepare a plate for Prince Sadi,” Perzha said. “I’m sure he didn’t have time to eat this morning before coming to see me.”

“Thank you.” Daemon looked at Carleton. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

“No trouble at all, Prince.” For you.

Carleton didn’t need to say it, but Daemon heard the addendum.

He and Perzha chatted about the garden until Carleton brought the tray and set the meal in front of Daemon, along with a cup and a pot of coffee. Steak, eggs, pancakes with butter and a small jug of warm syrup, and thick slices of bread toasted to perfection.

Picking up his knife and fork, he touched the stack of pancakes, looking forward to the meal.

The top pancake suddenly bulged in the center. Suckered tentacles slid out between two pancakes and felt around until they found the edge of the plate.

Daemon shoved back from the table. “Mother Night!”

Something erupted from under the pancake and swiftly flowed across the table until . . .

Plop.

. . . it went over the edge and fell into the bucket of water.

Perzha patted her chest and looked flustered. “My apologies, Prince. Our little friend escaped from his tank this morning and we’ve been looking for him everywhere. Almost everywhere. Didn’t think he would hide in the pancakes, but the little creatures have the ability to change color, and I suppose pancakes have a similar coloring to rocks or sand.”

Carefully setting the silverware on the table, Daemon leaned over to look in the bucket. Tentacles were reaching out of the water, reaching up to the rim of the bucket.

“It looks like your beastie is trying to escape from the bucket as well,” he said dryly.

“Be a dear and put a shield around the bucket.”

“Over the top?”

“Oh, no. You’d have to leave openings for air, and that’s a problem, you see. They’re very good at squeezing through the smallest openings. I’m sure that’s how he got out of the tank in the first place. You’d be surprised how far one of them can travel before needing to return to water.”

At least that explained the bucket beside the table.

Daemon created a circular shield that began just below the rim of the bucket and went up a couple of hands high. He watched the beastie probe the new barrier before retreating to the bottom of the bucket to sulk—and change color to match the bucket. If he hadn’t seen it change, he would have thought the bucket still contained nothing but water. “You have a tank of these as fresh seafood?”

“Oh, no. This one has become a kind of pet. Even so, we don’t eat this kind of octopod.” Perzha turned in her seat as her Steward hurried to their table. “Carleton, please bring Prince Sadi a fresh plate of food. This one had an unexpected addition. And have someone return our friend to the tank.”

“Found him, did you?”

Carleton sounded as if it wasn’t the least bit unusual to find a beastie hiding under the pancakes. And it wasn’t unusual, actually. But the little surprises at Perzha’s dinner parties had been shadows, illusions of something real, not an actual critter hiding in the soup.

Daemon reached for his cup of coffee, then picked up a spoon and probed the liquid. When he didn’t feel anything but liquid, he took a cautious sip. “That is some kind of octopus?”

“That,” Perzha said with a delighted smile, “is a weeble. You are the first person outside our village to see a real one.”

Daemon stared. “I beg your pardon?”

“That is a weeble.” She waved a hand, setting all her bracelets jangling. “They might have another name somewhere else, but that’s what we’ve always called them.”

“They’re a food?”

“Other kinds of mollusks and octopods are, but not the weebles. At least, we don’t eat them. They’re quite clever little creatures. Down the beach a ways, it’s too rocky for the fishing boats to be brought to shore, but there are a lot of tidal pools. Well, generations ago, the men here put out traps for crabs and lobsters, but they noticed the catch was much better around the same time the weebles gathered to breed. As you noticed, the weebles can change color to blend in with the background. Normally it’s to make them invisible to predators, but during their mating time, the males use their ability with color for another purpose. Each male stakes out a small tidal pool or a piece of a larger one and does a bit of decorating with stones and seaweed. Then, at night, when the females come to the pools, the males do a display of bright colors to attract the females. It’s like watching all these little rainbows under the surface of the water. Quite lovely.”

“I imagine that display also attracts all the creatures that like to eat weebles,” Daemon said as Carleton set another plate of food in front of him. “Thank you.”

“Best to stick a fork into everything, just in case,” Carleton said cheerfully.

He did exactly that before spreading butter and warm syrup over the weeble-free pancakes.

“Yes, attracting females is always a dangerous business,” Perzha agreed. “And weeble numbers were dropping because predators could devour the females as well as the males before they finished mating. Then a group of men discovered weebles in their traps eating the fish chunks that were meant to be bait for the lobsters and crabs—which were clinging to the outside of the trap, trying to get at the weeble, which, it turns out, is a preferred food. So the men built a few weeble houses as an experiment, setting in a chunk of fresh fish before closing the opening until it was too small for a lobster or crab to enter but a perfect size for a weeble. Wonderful idea. The men would go out in the morning and haul up the traps and take the crabs and lobsters that were clinging to the outside, then tuck in a new piece of food before lowering the house into the water. The weeble would leave the house when it chose, scurrying here and there in order to select its decorative bits, then return. It would do its color display to attract a mate—who discovered that the weeble males who had laid claim to the houses could provide food as well as shelter so that the business of mating could be done in relative safety. Their numbers increased, making it a beneficial arrangement for everyone.”

“Except the crabs and lobsters,” Daemon said, as he cut into the steak.

“Even they benefit in a way, since they can hunt the weebles who have to make do with the tidal-pool love nests.”

“So that’s how the village got its name?”

“Yes. Which is not something we usually share with outsiders.” She smiled at him. “Although, being his brother, you may want to share that information with Prince Yaslana.”

He would have loved to tell Lucivar about the origin of the village’s name, if he could be sure he’d been told the truth and not one of the best damn stories he’d heard in a long time. He could picture Perzha and Jaenelle Angelline sitting around one evening, laughing themselves silly as they created this story about how the village got its name. And who here would ever contradict either Queen?

When the dishes were cleared, Perzha set her empty goblet aside and sighed. “But the next story I have to tell you is a sad one. I’m sure it’s a familiar tale, but that doesn’t make it any less sad.”

“You have some information about Lord Dillon?” he asked.

“Pieced together from gossip and whispers.” She looked at her garden. “Love betrayed leaves its own kind of scars, doesn’t it?”

Even when the betrayal is unintentional, Daemon thought.

“Lord Dillon is the eldest of three sons from a minor aristo family. Regrettably, they have just enough connections to rub elbows with more influential aristo families but not enough influence themselves to be included—or given consideration when it comes to abusing a young person’s heart and honor. It’s a bit like standing in front of the window of a sweetshop and being offered a treat but always being on the wrong side of the glass. From what we could discover, Dillon was bright, charming, and good-looking—and was training to be an escort.

“Shortly after making the Offering to the Darkness, Dillon met a pretty girl from one of the significant Rihlander families and fell in love. The girl was a few years older and had already had several lovers since her Virgin Night. Unfortunately, she was Dillon’s first love, and he believed her when she said he was different from her previous lovers and her feelings for him were real. All indications are he truly loved the girl, and she persuaded the boy to let her teach him the pleasures of sex.” Perzha slanted a glance at Daemon. “Men are darling creatures, but being so easily petted and aroused does make you vulnerable when you come in contact with unscrupulous women.”

“I can’t disagree,” he replied. “So she lured him into bed.”

Perzha nodded. “There were promises of a handfast, if Dillon proved himself to be a capable lover. Believing that she truly loved him, he abandoned his training as an escort—at her request—and devoted himself to learning how to please her. After a few weeks, the girl discovered that Dillon had told his parents about her, despite her insisting that this had to be a ‘discreet’ liaison, and his family actually expected the girl to honor her promise of a handfast. Well, his family line wasn’t good enough for that, so the girl broke things off and set about tarnishing Dillon’s reputation, claiming that she hadn’t been his first, and while he was suitable when a girl wanted a good time, he wasn’t the kind of man a Lady wanted for a husband.

“Dillon’s family was furious and ashamed—and blamed him for their family name being connected to scandal. Fearful of what that would do to the other boys’ chances of making a socially valuable marriage or finding service in more than a District Queen’s court, Dillon’s family did create enough of a stir about the girl’s reputation and her numerous lovers that the girl’s father paid Dillon to leave the city. He left, and his family was relieved to see the back of him.

“New town, fresh start.”

“Until he met a girl from another aristo family,” Daemon guessed.

Perzha nodded. “No indication that he did anything that would get himself in trouble, but the rumors about him reached the girl’s father. Once again, Dillon was paid to go away.” She sighed. “Aristos can be such gossipmongers.”

Daemon choked on a laugh, since Perzha was so good at netting the social tidbits others tossed away. Then he sobered as he considered a boy’s descent from first love to an unsavory way of life where he was reduced to using a combination of spells to hold a girl’s interest.

“At some point he turned rejection into a business?” he asked quietly. “Decided he would be the betrayer instead of the betrayed?”

“I don’t think it’s that simple. If he’s the betrayer, it could be because he no longer believes he has any other choice. If you ask me, he still wants what he wanted with that first girl. He wants to be with someone who loves him—and he wants a way to repair his honor and reputation.” She shook her head and tsked. “The foolish boy had no idea what he was up against when he fixed his attention on young Jillian. I doubt it even occurred to him that Eyriens do things a bit differently when it comes to suitors, especially when the Eyrien is a Warlord Prince.”

Daemon snorted. “Lucivar would be more inclined to kill the problem than pay off someone who touched a girl in his family.”

He refilled his coffee cup.

“I’ll call for a fresh pot,” Perzha said. “That must be cold by now.”

It was cold and bitter, but that suited him right now. “It’s fine.”

They both looked at her garden, aware that there wasn’t much time left before Perzha needed to retire for the day.

“He used a combination of seduction and compulsion spells on Jillian,” Daemon said quietly. “It was too skillfully done to have been the first time. That’s probably how he’s been convincing girls that they were desperately in love with him. After that, if they were forbidden to see him, the girls themselves would cause such turmoil that the rifts created within the family might never be healed.”

Surreal had been right; while under the influence of Dillon’s mix of spells, Jillian would never have forgiven Lucivar if he had driven Dillon away.

Perzha nodded. “Having his own heart broken doesn’t excuse his behavior since then.”

“No, but it makes it more understandable.” Daemon smiled reluctantly. “We’ve offered Dillon the chance to become acquainted with Jillian—and us.”

Perzha chuckled. “Properly chaperoned?”

“Of course.” More than properly. One Sceltie would be enough. Three guaranteed a boy couldn’t do more than hold a girl’s hand. “If he takes advantage of the invitation, we’ll give him the chance to set his past aside and show us who he is now.”

“Why?” Perzha asked.

“Doesn’t everyone deserve a chance to learn from past mistakes and move on to the next part of his or her life?”

“Should someone be allowed to continue doing the same harm because she got away with it?”

Everything inside him went still as he descended to the Black—the cold, glorious Black. “Do you have a name?” he asked too softly.

Perzha called in a piece of folded paper and pushed it toward him. He picked it up and vanished it before rising to the level of his Red Jewel.

“And now, Prince, I must go in and review the court’s work for the day,” Perzha said.

Daemon rose and pulled out her chair. “Thank for you for the information—and the entertaining breakfast.”

She gave him a big smile, showing her buckteeth. Then the smile softened and warmed. “This is a small village and my court is not large. But it would be a different experience for a heart that is bruised and needs time to heal. A safe place for a girl who might want to look at things beyond her own community.”

“Far enough away but not too far?”

“Exactly.”

He raised her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. She walked to the doors where Carleton hovered, waiting to coax her inside before she weakened from her allergy to sunlight. Prince Arrick, her Master of the Guard, escorted Daemon all the way to the landing web.

“If Lady Perzha needs anything that her court can’t provide, you let me know,” Daemon said.

Arrick tipped his head, a small bow of respect. “Thank you, Prince. We will.”

Daemon stepped onto the landing web, caught the Black Wind, and returned to the Keep. Then he called Lucivar on a psychic spear thread and requested a meeting.

THIRTY-TWO

Daemon studied the listings in the two registers, which Geoffrey had fetched from the private part of the Keep’s library. The listings didn’t tell him much, since he wasn’t familiar with the aristo families in Askavi. The registers certainly didn’t provide a list of the lovers the girl had had before and after Dillon, but they did give him a good idea of the social distance between Dillon’s family and the girl who had been his first, disastrous love.

There were other ways to find out about the girl’s sexual conquests—and Dillon’s.

“Is there something else I can help you find?” Geoffrey asked, approaching the large blackwood table.

“Not at this time, thank you,” Daemon replied. When the historian/librarian didn’t leave, Daemon raised an eyebrow in inquiry.

“You’re asking about two Rihlander families who live in Askavi, which isn’t your Territory.”

A subtle reminder that rulers were not supposed to interfere in the Territory of others.

“This isn’t about Territory, Geoffrey,” Daemon said quietly. “This is about family.”

Geoffrey gave him a long look and then smiled. “I understand.”

Daemon closed the second register and set it on the table. “Let me know when Lucivar arrives. I’ll be in the Consort’s suite taking care of some paperwork.”

“Would you like anything to eat?”

A laugh caught in his throat. “No, thank you. I’ve already had an interesting breakfast.”

He’d been working steadily for an hour—and wondering if Holt could have stuffed one more piece of paper into the bulging satchel his secretary had handed him before he’d left the Hall that morning—when he felt a hand rest on his shoulder.

Not substance that he could touch, but he felt her warmth.

Daemon capped the pen and set it aside but kept his eyes focused on the desk. “Surreal and I made mistakes and hurt each other. Not out of malice, but that doesn’t lessen the hurt. I won’t hold her to the marriage if she wants to leave.”

“Yes,” Witch said. “Staying has to be her choice.” She gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “I never intended to be this much of a presence in your life again. This arrangement won’t be easy for her, Prince.”

Or for you. “Maybe not, but you must have known this might happen. Dreams made flesh don’t become demon-dead, but you found a way to stay. For me.”

“Yes. For you. For as long as you need me.”

“You’ll be here?” Not a body he could touch, but being with her even this much settled something deep inside him and gave him peace. “I’ll be able to talk to you?”

She didn’t answer right away. “Mend as much as you can of your marriage, and take care of Surreal as best you can, whether she stays with you or not. Stay connected to the living. In return, when you reside in this suite, I will be with you to talk—and to help you drain enough of the reservoir of power in your Black Jewel to keep you, and everyone else, safe.”

“That’s our bargain?” Daemon asked.

“That’s our bargain.”

“Then I gratefully accept your terms, Lady.”

Her hand slipped off his shoulder. He searched for something to say that would keep her with him a little while longer.

“Did you know weebles will hide in a stack of pancakes?” he asked.

Silence—but he wasn’t alone.

“Oh, dear,” Witch said. “You had breakfast with Perzha?”

“I did. It was educational.”

“Did the weeble try to take your fork?”

Daemon twisted in the chair. Witch stood just out of reach. “Did it what?”

“Well, wouldn’t you make a grab for it if someone poked you with a fork? Besides, a fork is a ready-made weapon. Very useful for discouraging lobsters and crabs, which have claws.”

A fork-wielding weeble was absurd. Wasn’t it?

“So towns along Askavi’s coast might suddenly have—what would we call them?—pods of weebles entering houses by masquerading as appetizers in order to steal the cutlery?”

“Not all the cutlery. Just the forks.” She gave him a bright smile.

Hell’s fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful. He remembered that smile. He also remembered a couple of . . . memorable . . . dinners when Perzha and Jaenelle had still been among the living.

He imagined Lucivar being called to deal with tentacled thieves—and felt laughter bubbling up. “You and Perzha already did it, didn’t you?”

“That was a long time ago. No one would remember that.”

“Lucivar?”

“Ah. Well. Lucivar.” Witch shrugged. “They were shadow weebles, and it was a very dull party, and Perzha and I did return all the forks. Most of the forks. Turns out a couple of live weebles ended up with the shadows, and they learned a trick or two that night. Did Perzha mention they’re smart little critters?”

“Yes, she did,” he replied dryly.

She looked at him and her smile warmed—and he realized another part of himself that he hadn’t known was hurt had begun to heal.

“Hold on to the living, Daemon. They need you.”

“Your will, Lady.”

She disappeared, but her psychic scent lingered in the room like a promise.

THIRTY-THREE

Are we going to the library again? I like the library. There are lots of smells. But no books for Scelties. Why aren’t there books for Scelties?٭

Jillian looked at Khary, who hadn’t left her side except when she’d closed the bathroom door in his face. His barks and howls of protest had brought Rothvar running and almost had the Eyrien Warlord breaking down the bathroom door just when it would have been most inconvenient for her to get off the toilet. It had taken Nurian’s and Marian’s insistence that women viewed bathroom time as private time to get Khary to agree that, even if he was her escort for the time being, he didn’t need to know everything she was doing when she was in her own home—or in the Yaslana eyrie.

And it had taken Rothvar pointing out that Khary wore an Opal Jewel and could have used Craft to pass right through the door to reach her for her to realize that the howls of protest had been an effort to show some restraint.

Scelties. Stubbornly certain about some things and curious about everything. And this one liked her, wanted to know her—and didn’t confuse her by making her feel desirable one minute and inadequate the next.

“Scelties have books?”

٭Yes. There is Sceltie Saves the Day and Unicorn to the Rescue and Dragon’s Dangerous Deed. Daemon is teaching me and Morghann to read and how to do the counting things. Like us. One plus one equals two.٭

“Prince Sadi reads to you?”

٭Yes. Daemon is our teacher. Jaenelle Saetien was teaching Morghann, but Jaenelle Saetien told Morghann to do a wrong thing, so Daemon’s pup is still our playmate but not our teacher.٭

So many things had happened in the few days since Prince Yaslana had found her kissing Dillon, and her feelings had been so confused, she hadn’t appreciated that, unlike the kindred wolves who lived on Yaslana’s mountain, Khary was chatty and wanted to interact with humans. Was someone she could talk to about things she didn’t want to share with anyone else.

“I don’t think the library here has those books, but we could look for another story that you might like. An adventure story.” There were plenty of children’s books at Yaslana’s eyrie. Being male, Khary might not like the stories that appealed to Titian, but what about the stories that Daemonar had liked when he was little? She could borrow a couple and read them to Khary, same as she’d read them to Daemonar.

Khary growled at the same moment Dillon stepped in front of her and said, “Is that smile for me?”

Startled, Jillian almost dropped the book she was returning. She should have been delighted to see him. She was delighted to see him. So why was there this sudden weight in her chest? “Dillon.”

“May I join you? We’re in public.” Dillon gave Khary a sour look. “And you have your chaperon.”

Both true. “Of course.”

He fell into step with her as they continued toward the library. “You finished it already?” He waved a hand to indicate the book.

“I stopped after a couple of chapters. It didn’t appeal to me.”

“What? How could a recounting of such a significant event not appeal to you? Especially when it’s based on firsthand accounts?”

“What the author’s ancestor wrote about the service fair may have been true for the aristos who had come to Kaeleer, but it wasn’t true for everyone. It was dusty and dirty and there wasn’t always enough water. And everyone was so scared of being sent back to Terreille.”

“That might have been true for the dregs coming in, but not for the people who were an asset to the Blood in Kaeleer.”

Jillian jerked to a stop and stared at Dillon.

٭Jillian?٭ Khary sounded confused.

“My sister and I are not the dregs of anything, Lord Dillon,” she said in a low voice that edged toward a growl. “We were desperate, yes, but we weren’t drudges or dregs.”

“I never said you were.”

“You just did. Nurian and I came to Kaeleer during the last service fair. Prince Yaslana showed up on the last day and offered Nurian a contract. I was there, Dillon. I wasn’t much older than Titian is now, but I remember what it looked like and felt like. It wasn’t about a better opportunity; getting a contract that would allow us to stay here was about survival.” She shook the book in his face. “So don’t you dare dismiss what I think about this account of what you call history just because I don’t agree with you.”

Dillon looked stunned. “You were there? How old are you?”

Too old, Jillian thought. And not old enough. “Eyriens are one of the long-lived races.”

“Yes, of course, but . . .”

She’d been so flattered by Dillon’s attention that she hadn’t seen the truth, hadn’t fully appreciated what Prince Sadi had tried to tell her. She’d been caught up in her first romance, but Dillon was looking for an adult relationship.

٭Jillian? You are sad? Why are you sad?٭

Was this another lesson, that the male who expressed concern for her feelings was the Sceltie and not the man who had said he loved her?

Had Dillon ever said he loved her?

“There’s a coffee shop right over there,” she said. “Why don’t we get a cup of coffee and talk?”

Anger and something else she felt she should recognize filled Dillon’s eyes for a moment before he donned a social mask.

“Yes, let’s talk,” he agreed.

When they reached the coffee shop, Jillian folded her wings and crouched so that she and Khary were closer to the same height. ٭Can you tell time?٭ she asked on a psychic thread.

A hesitation. ٭Daemon is teaching us, but clocks are hard.٭

Jillian called in a ten-minute hourglass timer and used Craft to float it at eye level for Khary. ٭When all the sand runs into the bottom part, ten minutes has passed. You turn it over and let it run again. Ten plus ten equals twenty minutes. I need to talk to Dillon alone. Twenty minutes, Khary. Then you and I will go to the library.٭ And then I’ll go home and feel sad about the first boy I loved.

٭I am your escort! I am supposed to stay with you.٭

٭We’ll be in the coffee shop, a public place, in view of other people. Please, Khary.٭

He wasn’t happy, but he said, ٭I will wait.٭

When the last grain of sand fell a second time, he’d either be in the coffee shop with her or raise such a fuss he’d have every Warlord in Riada running to the shop, ready for battle. Yesterday that would have annoyed her. Today it gave her comfort.

Not many customers at this time of day, which was good. She didn’t want to be overheard. She was headed for a table farthest from the door when Dillon grabbed her arm in a grip that hurt and pulled her through the shop and out the back door.

“I know another place to talk,” he said.

“No. Let me go.”

The look he gave her was close to hatred—or desperation. “I don’t think so.”

Before she could pull away, he launched them on the Opal Wind and she clung to him. The Webs of power the Blood used for travel stretched through the Darkness. If he shoved her off the Web, she might not find another one, might fall through the Darkness and keep falling until her body died or her mind broke.

٭Khary! Khary, help!٭ The Sceltie wouldn’t be able to hear her while she was riding the Winds, but maybe, because he was kindred, some whisper would reach him.

He finally had a chance to turn his life around, and she was going to ruin it.

Terrence had tried to tell him that Jillian looking old enough for a handfast didn’t mean she was old enough to have a lover in the fullest sense. But how could she be too young and still so old she’d been at that last service fair?

She intended to end this romance. He’d seen that truth in her eyes. It was too late for him to focus his attention on another girl in the village, so he had to make this work, at least for a little while longer. Once he showed Yaslana that he wasn’t a cad or disposable entertainment, he could admit that Jillian was a pleasant girl, which she was, but he now understood the significant difference in their ages and felt that stepping back was the honorable thing to do.

But he needed Jillian to remain enamored with him a little while longer.

٭Yas! Yas!٭

About to launch himself skyward to meet Daemon at the Keep, Lucivar hesitated when Khary called him on a psychic thread. The Sceltie sounded upset and angry, never a good sign. ٭Where are you?٭

٭Coffee shop.٭

٭Wait there.٭

There was more than one coffee shop in Riada, but only one Sceltie currently down in the village. The kindred’s psychic scents felt different from humans’. He wouldn’t have any trouble finding Khary.

He forced himself to take a moment to consider. Then he called on a spear thread, ٭Rothvar! Meet me in the village. There’s trouble.٭ Breaking the link before his second-in-command could reply, he spread his wings and flew down to Riada with reckless speed.

He didn’t have to look hard to find the right place. The large ball of witchlight floating in the street near a shop was one clue. The number of Warlords converging on the shop was another.

The other men cleared a path for him as he backwinged to land near the shop.

“Lord Khary, report,” he said, choking back temper and worry to avoid scaring a young male who was, essentially, an escort still learning his duties.

٭Jillian wanted to talk to Dillon alone,٭ Khary said. ٭She told me to wait. She told me how long. But she’s gone, Yas. I can’t find her!٭

Rothvar strode up at that moment. “Prince?”

“Jillian is missing.” Lucivar ignored the murmurs of the men surrounding him and Rothvar. If that prick-ass Dillon had convinced her to ride the Winds with him, they could be anywhere. It was also possible they were just far enough away to elude a Sceltie who wasn’t familiar with the village.

He looked at all the men who were ready to stand with him and said, “Check the alleyways between the shops in case Lord Dillon didn’t believe I’d break his bones because of a tryst. Lord Rothvar and I will fly over the village and see if we can spot them.”

As the Rihlander men scattered to search, Rothvar stepped closer and said in a low voice, “Should I call the other Eyrien Warlords?”

“Not yet. Let’s see if we can find her. It’s only been a few minutes since Khary sounded the alarm.”

“A lot can happen to a girl in a few minutes.”

He knew that too well. “I’ll check the outskirts around the northern end of the village; you check south.”

Rothvar flew off. Before Lucivar could head skyward, Khary said, ٭Yas?٭

He looked at the unhappy Sceltie. “It wasn’t your fault, little Brother. Any escort would have given her time in a public place like this.” Not quite true. An experienced escort, human or otherwise, would have come into the shop and sat at another table to avoid hearing a civil conversation. “You stay here in case Jillian comes back.”

Khary took up a position beside the door. ٭I will wait.٭

Khary would wait. Lucivar didn’t. Every minute he delayed increased the chance of his girl getting hurt.

They dropped from the Winds and landed near the old cabin on the outskirts of the village. They could have walked here faster than the time they had spent on the Winds. Did Dillon think she wouldn’t recognize this place? Everyone who lived in Riada knew about this place.

The moment her feet touched the ground, Jillian tried to pull away from Dillon. He grabbed her hand and rubbed his thumb over her knuckles, but it didn’t fill her with giddy warmth the way it used to.

“Hell’s fire, Dillon! Are you trying to get killed?”

“I just want to talk.” He gave her an odd smile. “We could go inside for a while. Nobody lives here.”

“We can’t go in there,” she protested. “That cabin belonged to the Queen of Ebon Askavi. The only people who go inside are Lady Marian and Prince Sadi.”

“Just on the porch, then.” He rubbed his thumb over her knuckles again. “If you loved me, you would want to spend time with me.”

She yanked her hand free. “Why do you keep saying that? And why is it always about me doing something to show that I love you and never you doing, or not doing, something because you love me?”

“How can I love you?” he snapped. “You’re too young, but you led me on, let me believe you were old enough for a handfast, for the things I need.”

“I never led you on,” she snapped back. “I liked you, and it was flattering to have your attention because you were more sophisticated than the other boys in the village. But you were a visitor, Dillon. I had no reason to think this was more than a summer romance, and Prince Yaslana wouldn’t have given his consent for anything more.”

“Why should he care about the hired help?” Dillon sneered. “No matter what you let people believe, he’s not your father.”

Hearing Dillon say what she’d almost said to Lucivar because they had been arguing about this . . . male . . . ignited her temper.

“You bastard,” she growled. “He’s more of a father to me than yours is to you.”

Fury filled his eyes. “You bitch!”

She realized he put a defensive shield around himself a moment before he lunged at her. She threw up her own shield—and the extra defensive shield as she’d been taught.

Dillon grabbed her, a blast of his Opal power breaking her first shield. She hadn’t expected that kind of aggressive anger from Dillon, and it scared her, because he was taller and heavier and wore a darker Jewel than hers. But she was an Eyrien who had been trained to fight.

Jillian stopped thinking about who her adversary was and let training dictate her moves as she fought back.

Spotting Jillian, Lucivar folded his wings and dove for the ground. ٭Rothvar! She’s at Witch’s cabin.٭

He didn’t need Rothvar to deal with a Rihlander Warlord. He needed Rothvar to take Jillian away from the place before he started skinning the prick-ass alive.

He spread his wings and backwinged hard to avoid slamming into the ground. Landing a few feet behind them, he pushed aside hot fury enough to realize Jillian was on her feet and Dillon was on the ground, cupping his groin. An impressive-looking fist-sized bruise had already started to color one side of the prick-ass’s face.

Dillon’s eyes widened when he noticed Lucivar, and he made an effort to get to his feet.

Lucivar bared his teeth. ٭Stay down or the next fist you feel will be mine, and my fist will shatter bone.٭ When Dillon flopped back on the ground, Lucivar focused on the girl. “Jillian?” No answer. He took a step toward her, his heart pounding unmercifully hard. “Witchling? Are you hurt?”

She turned and looked at him, her lower lip quivering with the effort not to cry, her left hand cradling her right fist. She looked more like the young girl who had first come to Ebon Rih than the girl who was on the cusp of being a woman.

“Witchling, are you hurt?” he asked again, barely able to breathe.

“I shielded like you taught me,” she finally said. “I did. But . . .” She held out her hand, like Titian did when she had a boo-boo and wanted him, not Marian, to make it better.

He approached slowly, carefully.

٭Lucivar?٭ Rothvar called.

٭I have her,٭ he replied. Then to Jillian, “Let me see.”

He took her right hand, probing gently. “Can you open your hand? That’s it.” More probing. Fingers. Knuckles. “Close. Open.” His chest muscles eased their grip on his lungs, allowing him to breathe. “You’re all right. Nothing broken. You just need some ice on those knuckles.” He pulled her close, wrapped his arms around her—and felt relief when her arms came around him and held on hard.

٭She’s all right,٭ he told Rothvar as the other man approached slowly. ٭She’s all right.٭

Rothvar studied Dillon. ٭He wears Opal; she wears Purple Dusk. She clobbered him hard enough through an Opal shield to leave that kind of bruise?٭

Lucivar smiled. ٭Yeah, she did.٭ Then he looked at the Warlord lying on the ground. He wanted to skin him. Here. Now. But Daemon was waiting for him, and he needed to tend to his girl. ٭Take that piece of carrion to the communal eyrie and lock him in a room until I decide what to do with him.٭

٭Done.٭

“Come on, witchling. Let’s go home and find some ice for your hand.” He waited until she let go of him. Then he waited a little more while she sniffled before she spread her wings and headed for his eyrie.

٭Bastard?٭ he called.

٭Prick?٭

٭I’ll be there as soon as I can. There’s something I have to do first.٭

He’d been trembling, like he’d been afraid. She’d felt it when he put his arms around her. Lucivar Yaslana. Afraid. For her.

Jillian sat at the kitchen table at the Yaslana eyrie, watching him chop up ice and wrap it into a cloth to form a cold pad. He laid it over the knuckles of her right hand.

“I remembered what you taught me.” It was the only thing she could think to say that might make him feel better.

He huffed out a laugh. “You certainly did.” Then he sighed. “I have to go.”

She nodded. He was the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih. “Are you going to scold me later?”

“Should I?”

She almost wanted him to. Almost.

“I think I’ll leave it to Khary to do the scolding. He’s primed for it.”

She looked at him, alarmed. “I wasn’t that stupid.”

She hadn’t meant it to be amusing, but he laughed, kissed the top of her head, and walked out of the kitchen. A moment later, Khary rushed in and jumped into the kitchen chair beside her.

٭Jillian!٭ The Sceltie’s joy was real, but so was the other emotion she picked up from him.

“I’m hurt, Khary,” she said quickly. “You can’t scold me when I’m hurt.”

٭Your paw is hurt, not your ears.٭

A quarter of an hour later, her ears—and head—did hurt as she listened to Khary’s scold about wandering off without him and upsetting all the males who belonged to their family pack, but she figured listening to the Sceltie was a fair penance and price for making Lucivar Yaslana feel afraid.

THIRTY-FOUR

Sadi asked me to meet him here,” Lucivar said when he finally arrived at the Keep.

“Yess,” Draca said. “He iss in hiss ssuite.”

“I know the way to the guest rooms.” He started to walk away.

“Not thosse roomss, Prince. He iss in the Conssort’ss ssuite.”

Lucivar froze, turned back to look at the Seneschal. “Why is he there?”

“He needss to be there.”

Worried now, Lucivar strode through the winding corridors. He knew the way to these rooms, but he hadn’t seen this part of the Keep in decades. And yet the moment he walked past the decorative gate that separated the Queen’s part of the Keep from the rest of the mountain, he felt the power. Familiar, like the psychic scent that shouldn’t be that strong, not after so many years. Unless . . .

He put his hand against the stone wall. ٭Cat?٭

Was something’s—someone’s—attention turning toward him, focusing on him?

٭My thanks, Lady, for helping Marian heal. And if you’re the one Daemonar comes to for advice . . . remember to give him a whack upside the head once in a while whether he needs it or not. Just to keep him honest.٭ Lucivar smiled and blinked back tears. ٭You’re still my Queen, so if there is anything you need from me, just ask.٭

No answer. He didn’t expect one. Didn’t need one. Besides, he already knew what she would ask of him right now.

He gave the door of the Consort’s suite one hard rap of his knuckles before walking in. Daemon rose from a desk piled with neat stacks of paperwork.

“Everything all right?” Daemon asked. “It took you a while to get here.”

“Jillian had an argument with the prick-ass and clobbered him. Right now he’s confined to a room at the communal eyrie and she’s icing bruised knuckles.”

Daemon raised one eyebrow. “Didn’t he shield?”

“Yep. She didn’t break his shield—couldn’t, since he outranks her—but she put enough power and temper behind that punch to have him kissing dirt. Gave him an impressive bruise on his face, not to mention sore balls.”

Daemon chuckled and shook his head. “At least you know she paid attention to her training.”

As Lucivar studied his brother, he understood what Draca meant about Daemon needing to be here, in these rooms. Where else could a man like Daemon Sadi be accepted for everything he was? Where else could he be everything he was without being feared?

“I’d like you to do me a favor,” Daemon said.

“Ask.”

“I’d like you to leave Dillon’s fate to me.”

“Why?”

“Perzha told me some things about Lord Dillon’s past, about actions that have brought him here. His actions—and the actions of others.”

“You want me to forgive him,” Lucivar said flatly.

“That depends on what he’s done, and what others have done to him.”

“Why in the name of Hell should I do that?”

“Because I’m asking.”

Lucivar paced and swore. “Why are you asking, Bastard? Why should we do this? Why should I do this?”

“Because we’ve made our share of mistakes over the years. Because I’d like to believe—I need to believe—that a man can earn a second chance.”

Hell’s fire, Bastard. Yeah, they had made their share of mistakes, but . . . “He used spells on those girls.”

“On Jillian, certainly. I don’t know about the others. And that spell may have been used on him first.”

“He’s hurt girls.”

“And he’s been hurt by them. We’ve both had experience with that.”

Yes, they had, and they both carried their own kinds of scars because of it.

“Prick, you have my word that if Dillon has caused any girl serious harm, he will live just long enough to regret it.”

Lucivar stopped pacing. He wasn’t sure who had just made that promise—Daemon, the Sadist, or the High Lord of Hell. Didn’t matter. The promise had been made.

He stepped up to his brother, close enough to touch. “All right. I’ll let you handle this in whatever way you think is best.” He locked his fingers around the back of Daemon’s neck, knowing he left himself vulnerable to nails that were, right now, sharp enough to slice clean through his ribs. “In exchange for letting you handle this, I want a promise in return.”

“Ask.”

“I don’t know what was wrong with you. I don’t need to know.”

“Yes, you do. There are things we need to discuss. About me.”

“Fine. We’ll do that. The point is, old son, I feel the difference in you, which is why I know that whatever was wrong with you has been mended, and with you being in this suite, I can guess who did the mending. I want your word that if you start to sense that something isn’t right, regardless of the reason, that you will tell me, that you’ll let me help.”

“And if you sense something isn’t right, we’ll have an agreed-upon phrase that tells me I need to retreat. That’s one of the things we need to discuss.”

“We’ll figure it out.” Lucivar squeezed Daemon’s neck. “Listen to me, Bastard. If you need to fight, we’ll fight. Remember when we were slaves and used to beat on each other as a way to release power and tension? We could do that again.”

“Since I have a clear memory of how I felt after we did that, I’ll pass, thanks.”

“If you do need to scrap with someone, you come to me.” Lucivar swallowed hard. Everything had a price. “And if the Sadist needs to play with someone, you come to me.”

“Lucivar . . .”

“If that’s what you need, you come to me. Understand?”

“Yes. I understand.” Daemon rested his forehead against Lucivar’s. His hands slowly rose and curled around Lucivar’s wrists. “Being here helps. I can breathe here.” He hesitated, then whispered, “Being here will help me stay sane.”

Now Lucivar hesitated, then decided he would never bring it up again. “Surreal loves you. You know that, don’t you?”

“Not all of me,” Daemon whispered. “She loves what she’s known, which is who I am when all the leashes are in place, but she’s afraid of who, and what, I am without those leashes. And now those leashes may never be tight enough for her to be around me without feeling fear.”

A hard truth. “Daemon . . .”

“It’s all right, Prick. We’ll work things out.”

“I know you will.” Lucivar eased back enough to give Daemon a soft kiss on the mouth. “You’re staying here today?”

Daemon nodded. “I’ll go over to the communal eyrie and have a little chat with Lord Dillon.” He hesitated before adding, “I also have a couple of thoughts about Jillian.”

“Let’s talk about her later. You can come by the eyrie.” Lucivar stepped back. “And you can loosen the leash on the sexual heat once the children are in bed.”

“Lucivar, no.”

“Daemon, yes. Marian was so pleased that you finally trusted her enough that you could relax completely in our home. You’re not going to hurt her feelings by making her think it isn’t true.”

“I do feel comfortable in your home, but the heat . . . She’ll feel it.”

“Yes, she will. Which means you’ll come back here and take a cold shower—and Marian and I won’t get much sleep, but we’ll have a good time.”

Shock followed by a burst of laughter. “Go home. I have work to do.”

As Lucivar reached the door, he said, “See you later, Bastard.”

“That you will, Prick.”

When he reached the gate to the Queen’s part of the Keep, he brushed his fingers against the wall. “Yeah, I know. I’m a pain in the ass.”

He didn’t get an answer. But he thought he heard Witch’s silvery, velvet-coated laugh.

THIRTY-FIVE

Dillon paced the room in the communal eyrie and wondered if he’d ever see anything beyond these walls of stone. Why had he tried and tried and tried to repair a mistake if all that effort was going to end like this?

They’d brought him food and water. He’d ignored the food but drunk the water, almost hoping it was poisoned. That sounded like a more merciful end than whatever the Eyriens might be planning for him.

He didn’t know what to think when a stunningly beautiful man walked into the room, moving with predatory, feline grace.

“I’m Daemon Sadi.”

Mother Night. Dillon’s voice cracked as he said, “Prince,” and he hoped his long jacket hid his physical reaction to the sight of the man.

“My brother wants to break you into pieces,” Daemon crooned, his deep, sensual voice wrapping around Dillon like silk chains. “But I’m going to give you a chance to explain yourself.” He settled into a straight-backed wooden chair, crossed his legs at the knees, and steepled his fingers, resting the forefingers against his chin, drawing the eye to the luscious mouth and the long black-tinted nails. “One chance, Warlord, that will decide whether you live or die.”

The words—and the sudden chill in the air—snapped Dillon out of an aroused haze. Embarrassed by his response and feeling like he had nothing left to lose, he swelled with reckless anger. “What would you know about betrayal?”

“Quite a lot, actually,” Daemon replied calmly.

“A lot?” He laughed, a harsh sound, and pointed to the Black-Jeweled ring on Daemon’s right hand. “Who would dare betray you?”

“I was young once, and I didn’t always wear the Black. Tell me about Lady Blyte.”

His painful arousal and the chill in the air faded, leaving him feeling a little sick but clearheaded. He paced, trying to gather his thoughts so he would sound reasonable, rational. But feelings that he’d had to swallow for so long rose in him and demanded a voice.

“I made a mistake,” he said. “One mistake. I believed that bitch when she said she loved me. I wanted to be an escort. I wanted to serve in a court. But in order to prove I loved her, I had to walk away from the training, because she didn’t want me to be around other women, didn’t want me to have to meet someone else’s wishes above hers. When I balked at having sex, she offered me a handfast to prove our suitability. And when she found out I had told my family about the arrangement, she denied it all, said I was the seducer, did everything she could to destroy my reputation and honor. Her family’s more aristo than mine, and they backed up her story. The District Queen, who is related to her family, backed up her story. She walked away with no penalty at all, free to do it again to someone else, just like she’d done it to me.

“I wasn’t the first one. Did you know that? Does anyone care about that? I wasn’t the first to fall for her game, and I wasn’t the last. I looked for some of those other men. They’re toys for aristo bitches now. The men those girls have fun with while they wait for the men with the right family bloodlines and social standing to be husbands.

“I tried to find work, tried to stay away from the aristo girls. But they wouldn’t let me. I was soiled, so I was fair game. So why shouldn’t I play games with them? Why shouldn’t I get something out of them? The moment one of those girls said my name and ‘handfast’ in the same sentence, their fathers couldn’t pay me off fast enough. I figured it was a better way to earn a living than being a real whore.”

Panting, sweating, Dillon faced Daemon Sadi.

“And Jillian?” Daemon asked, still sounding calm and reasonable.

He wiped sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. “I like Jillian. I really do. I knew she was young to enter into a handfast, but I didn’t think she was too young. I really didn’t. And I didn’t realize she was that old.” He paused. Considered what he should say to this man. Careful words, but nothing less than the truth. “I wasn’t as kind as I should have been, and I’m sorry for that. I wanted to be important. I wanted her to be impressed. She thought I was special, and it had been so long since someone had thought well of me, let alone thought I was special, and I thought . . .”

“You thought?”

“I thought a handfast with Jillian would help me restore my reputation, repair my honor. She worked for Prince Yaslana, so I figured that connection would help me find work, would give me a year when I didn’t feel hunted. I thought she was old enough.”

“She’s not.”

“No, she’s not.” Dillon felt wrung out, purged of emotions. “But suddenly there was an aristo family who expected me to court a girl properly, with chaperons and supervised meetings. And not just any family—the most powerful family in the valley.”

“You felt protected.”

“Yes.” Dillon relaxed a little. Someone understood—and that someone was an aristo Warlord Prince. “If I could show the ruling families here that I wasn’t a cad, I could find work, could stop moving from place to place because the aristo girls forced me out by demanding I be something I didn’t want to be.”

“You took Jillian away from her escort,” Daemon said too softly.

“I was using a spell to make her think I was wonderful, but it stopped working.” Admitting to using a spell would be enough to have him executed, but Dillon didn’t care anymore. “Just when I had a chance to do things properly, Jillian was going to end things between us. I saw it in her eyes. I thought if I could make her believe in me a little while longer . . .” He smiled as he gingerly touched his face. “I thought she was malleable, but she’s got a mean side to her temper.”

“She’s Eyrien.” Daemon sighed. “Everything has a price, Warlord.”

“Is Prince Yaslana going to execute me?” A day ago, he would have said that for drama. Today he believed it could happen.

Daemon uncrossed his legs and rose, a beautiful man full of power and grace. He called in several sheets of paper and a pen and placed them on the small table that also held the plate of food and the carafe of water.

“I want the names of every girl you dallied with, everyone who believed you wanted a handfast or who loaned you money because of the spell you used on them, every girl you had sex with, every girl who was a virgin before you entered her life. Every one of them, Lord Dillon. On another page, I want the names of every girl or woman who used you, who played games with you. Start with the first one. Lady Blyte. Yaslana and I are going to investigate every person on those lists, and when we’re done, we’ll decide what happens to you.”

Dillon approached the table but stayed out of reach of the man. “Do you want the names of the other men she and her friends ruined? At least, the names of the ones I know about?”

“Yes.”

Dillon’s mouth twisted into a bitter smile. “One of those men killed himself after she was through with him, so I hope you know someone in Hell who can talk to him.”

He couldn’t interpret the odd light in Sadi’s gold eyes or the meaning of the gently murderous smile.

Sadi said, “As a matter of fact, Lord Dillon, I do know someone.”

Marian watched the haphazard way Surreal packed up Jaenelle Saetien’s clothes and resisted taking them out of the trunks to fold them more neatly.

“We could keep Jaenelle Saetien here for a few more days, if that would help,” she said.

“She doesn’t have enough clothes for an extended visit,” Surreal replied dully.

“Clothes can be washed. Another trunk can be packed and brought by Lord Holt or one of the other people working at the Hall.”

Surreal hesitated, then shook her head. “It’s best if she and I go home now. Jillian’s love life is sorted out, not that I had much to do with that.”

“Why do you say that? Lucivar followed your advice to let this romance run its course so that Jillian could find out for herself that Dillon wasn’t as wonderful as she’d believed.”

“I wasn’t needed.”

Annoyance flitted through Marian, but she remembered Surreal’s tear-filled confession and smothered the annoyance. “Are we talking about Jillian or something else?”

“Witch has come back. Daemon saw her at the Keep.” A hesitation. “I saw her in the Misty Place. We had quite a chat.”

Marian sucked in a breath. “How? Jaenelle’s body is gone, Surreal. If her Self has somehow managed to stay anchored to the Keep, then what he saw was just a shadow. A shadow isn’t flesh to hold at night and love.”

“How would you feel if she came back because you had failed somehow?” Surreal threw the clothes into the trunk. “How would you feel if Jaenelle was suddenly back in Lucivar’s life?”

“She never left him.” Marian smiled at Surreal’s stunned look. “Lucivar belonged to Witch before I met him. He’ll belong to her until his last breath and beyond. Lifetime contract, Surreal. She was the reason Lucivar and Daemon fought to survive everything that was done to them in Terreille. Loving her healed something inside them that made it possible for them to love someone else.” She took Surreal’s hands in her own. “She saved you once. Remember?”

Surreal’s eyes filled with tears. “I remember.”

“She saved me too. More than once. She was our friend and our sister and our Queen, and you can’t blame her for being the most important love our men will know. She’s their Queen, Surreal. No one comes before the Queen. Not even a wife.”

“He said he needed her to stay sane,” Surreal whispered.

Mother Night. “Then you need to decide if you can accept that she is the reason he can be with you.”

“I—”

Marian wondered what Surreal might have said if Lucivar hadn’t returned to the eyrie at that exact moment.

Lucivar felt Surreal’s Gray power in his home and wondered why she had returned to Ebon Rih instead of staying at the Hall or going to the SaDiablo town house in Amdarh to get some rest and have time to think.

Then she walked into the front room, looking exhausted and resigned, and he knew why she’d returned.

“Can we talk?” she asked quietly.

“Sure.” A swift probe of the eyrie told him the location of the yappy horde. He opened the glass doors that led out to the walled yard. “Let’s talk out here.”

As he walked to the very end of the yard, where he’d helped Marian build a decorative pool that was fed by a stream flowing down the mountain, he directed a psychic thread to his wife. ٭Anything I should know about Surreal?٭

٭She says Witch has come back because she failed somehow. Is that true?٭

٭Daemon asked his Queen for help and she answered.٭ He ended the connection so that he could focus on the woman standing beside him.

“I thought the Sadist was playing with me,” Surreal said. “I made a mistake.”

“Yeah, you did. A couple of them.” Lucivar studied her. “I doubt it was the first mistake you’ve made with him, and I’m certain it won’t be the last. I know I’ve done my share of stupid things where he’s concerned, and he’s done his share with me. You live around someone long enough, it will happen. If you want to stay with him, you’ll work through it.”

“So we’ll go home and everything will be the way it was.”

“No, witchling. It will never be the way it was,” Lucivar said gently. “You have this between you now as part of your history together. There’s been hurt on both sides. That changes things. Maybe a little, maybe a lot. Either way, things will never be the same as they were. You break or build from here.”

“Are you speaking from experience?”

“Yes, I am.” Lucivar looked at the valley below and the village of Riada. He could feel the Black, knew Daemon was still at the communal eyrie or at least nearby. But he couldn’t feel Witch’s power, which was why, despite his suspicions about who gave Daemonar advice, he hadn’t known for sure that some part of her was still with them until he’d walked into the Queen’s section of the Keep.

“Are you angry with me?”

He smiled. “Nah.” He reached out and tucked her hair behind one delicately pointed ear. “Go home, Surreal. Get some rest. Daemon and I have a couple more things to take care of. Then I’ll kick his ass back to Dhemlan.”

She turned to go, then stopped. “The Gray can’t survive against the Black.”

“Neither can the Ebon-gray. Never could. Your head has known that for all the years you’ve known him. But now the truth of that has settled in your gut. He feels different when his power—and the Sadist—are leashed. Almost . . . civilized. He’s never civilized under the surface, any more than I am, but it’s easy to forget that. Daemon makes it easy to forget that because he yields to others in his own household, deals with them without bringing the Jewels, or anything else, into play. Saetan did the same thing for the same reason—to live in a house where he wasn’t feared.” When she didn’t say anything, he added, “When he gets home, point a crossbow at him. It will make him feel loved.”

She laughed, as he’d hoped she would. Then she walked away.

“Don’t forget the Scelties,” he called when she reached the glass doors.

“Take a piss in the wind, Yaslana,” she replied.

The Black arrived on his doorstep. Lucivar ran to catch up with Surreal so she wouldn’t face Daemon alone. They walked in from the yard just as Daemon opened the front door and entered.

No surprise at seeing Surreal. Then again, Daemon would have known the Gray was present just as he’d known.

“Surreal,” Daemon said.

“Sadi.” A beat of silence. “I was packing. Jaenelle Saetien and I will head home in about an hour.”

Lucivar watched Daemon, whose leashes were in place. Not as firmly held as they used to be, which was something everyone would have to accommodate, but Sadi was in control of every aspect of himself, including his feelings. Especially his feelings.

“If you could postpone leaving for a day or two, we could use your help,” Daemon said.

“I don’t need help skinning the prick-ass, but I’m willing to share,” Lucivar said.

“Skinning the . . .” Surreal looked at the two men. “What happened?”

“Jillian and Dillon had a disagreement,” Lucivar said. “He got a knee to the balls and a fist in the face. She has bruised knuckles.”

“If what Dillon says is true, this is more serious than one boy,” Daemon said too softly.

In that softness, Lucivar heard a whisper of the Sadist slipping into a cold rage. Feeling the tension in Surreal, he knew she heard it too.

“What do we need to do?” he asked.

“Three lists.” Daemon called in three sheets of paper. “The girls Dillon played, the girls who used him, and the other young men whose reputations were ruined, either directly or indirectly, by Lady Blyte, who was the bitch who was Dillon’s first love.” He held them out to Surreal.

She took the papers with a steady hand, as if she didn’t feel the cold temper swirling in the room. “I get first pick?” She scanned the lists. “I’ll talk to the girls Dillon had . . . persuaded . . . to love him. Anything in particular you want to know?”

“What harm was done—and how well the girls recovered,” Daemon replied.

“I’ll take the other men whose reputations were ruined,” Lucivar said. He looked at Daemon and added on a spear thread, ٭You would have a better feel for bitches who like to play sex games, so you take that list.٭

“You won’t find one of the men on that list,” Daemon said. “I was told to look for him in Hell.” When Lucivar met his eyes, he said, “I’m sorry, Lucivar.”

He’d known this day might come. “Everything has a price.”

Surreal didn’t ask, and for that, he was grateful. He needed to talk to Marian before anyone else.

“We head out, talk to people, and report back here each evening,” Lucivar said. “No excuses, no exceptions.”

Daemon raised an eyebrow.

“We’re about to kick a lot of hornets’ nests, Bastard. Word is going to spread fast after we start, so it’s either reporting back or going in with Eyrien guards.”

“Well, that will make everyone eager to talk to us,” Surreal said.

They looked at her.

“I can take care of myself.” She gave them a sharp smile. “I’m good with a knife, remember?”

“And a crossbow,” Lucivar said. “We’re not likely to forget. That doesn’t change anything, witchling. My Territory, my rules.”

“Your . . . ?” She stared at him, and he knew the moment she understood what was about to change and what that would mean for him and Marian and their children. Then she nodded. “Okay, sugar. Your rules.”

“I’m going to contact Manny, see if she’s willing to stay here a while,” Lucivar said. “I’d like someone to be here with Marian while we’re checking the names on those lists, and Jillian needs some time to herself.”

“Sadi? If you have a moment?” Surreal asked.

Lucivar walked out of the front room.

Surreal had hit an unexpected patch of rough air that had thrown her into a free-fall spin. Could have caused serious, permanent damage, but this task would help her through it. She just had to find the courage to fly again—and she would. Even if she didn’t realize it yet—or appreciate it yet—Witch would help her find her balance by helping Daemon maintain his own balance.

“You’ll be all right,” he said quietly. “You’ll both be all right.”

Surreal looked at the beautiful, lethal, terrifying man she’d married. If he thought she was a danger to the Realm or the rest of the family, he would kill her without hesitation. She knew that to the marrow of her bones. But she also knew that he loved her and would protect her in every way he could. After she had come away from the Offering to the Darkness wearing the Gray, there were very few men who were powerful enough to be a threat. Daemon was one of them.

“Are you going to stay here at the eyrie?” she asked quietly.

“No,” he replied just as quietly. “I’ll stay at the Keep. Until we see this done, it’s not going to be safe to be around me.”

She nodded. What else could she do?

He stepped close, leaned in as if to kiss her, then hesitated. Before he could withdraw, she leaned toward him and touched her lips to his. Silent permission.

His kiss was warm, gentle, giving—full of affection and empty of desire.

“Will you come back to the Hall after this is done?”

“Of course.”

She didn’t press him for more of an answer. He was pulling back, a Black-Jeweled predator heading out to hunt. Better for both of them if she gave him the distance he needed.

“Tell Lucivar I’ll be in Hell for a while, but I’ll be back in time for his curfew.”

She smiled. “If you’re not, I’ll let him borrow my crossbow.”

Daemon laughed and walked out of the eyrie.

Marian didn’t know what to expect when Lucivar led her to his study, locked the door, and then put shields around the room to assure no one would interrupt them.

“We need to talk,” he said.

He looked troubled. Grim.

She struggled to keep fear out of her voice. “Lucivar? What’s wrong?”

Troubled. Grim. And not meeting her eyes, which wasn’t like him.

“I was the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih when you agreed to marry me,” he said, his voice rough with choked-back emotions. “You knew what you were walking into, what you’d have to deal with.”

“More or less,” she said dryly, remembering some of the adventures she’d had with Jaenelle Angelline.

That made his lips twitch in a hint of a smile. Then even that much humor faded. “More or less. Three Blood villages and a handful of landen villages. Farms. Rustic living compared to the fancier Rihlander towns and cities in other parts of Askavi. And Queens who formed their courts knowing they were going to be living under my hand, and if anyone crossed the lines I had drawn for what I would accept in this valley, they wouldn’t survive.”

“We’ve never had serious trouble here.” At least, not since Falonar’s attempt to kill you and take over Ebon Rih.

“You’re comfortable with the Queens and their courts, with the aristos living in the valley.” Another momentary smile. “Maybe not comfortable, but you’re used to dealing with them.”

Yes, she’d gotten used to the village women stopping by the eyrie when Lucivar wasn’t there in order to express a concern. She’d gotten used to Queens speaking to her in order to get a feel for how Lucivar might react to something that had come to the notice of their courts. They were always polite, even friendly at public events, but they didn’t have much in common with a hearth witch.

Since he seemed to be waiting for an answer, she said, “I’ve gotten used to dealing with them. They’re good women, and good people serve in their courts.”

“We’ve had a good life here. Haven’t we?”

Had a good life? “Lucivar . . .”

“I made a promise, Marian. I’m sorry for what it will do to you and the children, but I made a promise to my Queen, and I can’t break it.” The words almost sounded like a plea.

“I would be disappointed in you if you did.”

That he hadn’t moved since they’d walked into the study when he’d normally pace told her how difficult this was for him—whatever it was.

“Askavi doesn’t have a Territory Queen,” he said. “Every Province has a Queen, and there are District Queens who rule under them.”

He was right, of course. Every other Territory in Kaeleer had a Queen who ruled over the rest of the Queens. With one exception. “Is that important?”

“It wasn’t. It is now.”

“Why now?” She suspected the reason was locked in the communal eyrie, awaiting Lucivar’s judgment, but felt the question needed to be asked.

“Because the District Queens aren’t doing their jobs anymore. They’re ignoring problems, and the Province Queens are letting them get away with it because they don’t have to answer to anyone. Or they haven’t had to answer to anyone for long enough to forget what it was like to face the Demon Prince when they failed to hold the lines of acceptable behavior and live by the Old Ways of the Blood.”

She saw it then, the cliff that was crumbling beneath their lives, their marriage.

“You’re going to claim all of Askavi as your Territory, aren’t you? All the Queens will have to answer to you.” Queens who were from powerful aristo families. Queens who wouldn’t want to dine with a Purple Dusk hearth witch, no matter whom she’d married.

“I was satisfied with our life. I am satisfied with our life, with taking care of this valley and its people. Given a choice, I wouldn’t change anything.” Lucivar shook his head. “But I promised her, Marian. I gave my word that, if it became necessary, I would acknowledge the document I had signed that made me the Warlord Prince of Askavi.”

“What happens if the Queens won’t acknowledge your rule over them?”

He looked at her. She didn’t see her husband. She didn’t even see the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih. She wondered if Andulvar Yaslana had looked the same way when he became the Demon Prince.

She closed the distance between them. The Demon Prince would be ruthless, brutal. But the man who walked off the killing fields drenched in his enemies’ blood would still be Lucivar, her best friend, her husband and lover, the father of her children.

“Being the Demon Prince’s wife won’t be easy for you,” he said quietly. “It won’t be easy on the children.”

She wrapped her arms around him, rested her head on his chest—and felt his arms tighten around her.

“Storms and rough winds ahead of us.” She leaned back enough to look at him. “We’ll help each other get through them.”

“I love you,” he said softly.

Smiling, she added an aural shield to the shields he already had around the room. “Show me.”

“Prince Chaosti,” the High Lord said with a sweetly murderous smile, “I need you and your Dea al Mon warriors to assist me in a hunt.”

THIRTY-SIX

Unsettled by the latest interview with one of Dillon’s “conquests,” Surreal passed by the dining houses in the aristo part of the Rihland town. She was hungry and wanted food, but she didn’t want to be on her guard every minute.

Now, why did she think she needed to be on her guard? Was it because of the father and daughter she’d just spoken with who had heaped complaints and accusations on Dillon? Or was it because of the Warlord who had been tracking her since she’d left that aristo house?

She chose a dining house that looked clean, at least from the outside. On the inside . . . ? Definitely didn’t cater to aristos. The men and women who studied her when she entered wore the clothes of shopkeepers or laborers. Maybe some farmers who had come into town for supplies and were treating themselves to a meal before heading home. But she’d wager the food here was simple and good.

She was shown to a table at the back of the room and had made her selection from the day’s menu when the Warlord walked in. He didn’t wait to be seated. He strode to her table, pulled out the chair opposite hers, and sat down. He wore a Sapphire Jewel, and the fire in his dark eyes said he was looking for a fight.

As the dining house’s owner put a glass of wine in front of her and a tankard of ale in front of him, she noticed how everyone else abandoned their meals and left, forming a crowd outside the dining house.

“I won’t insult you by pretending I don’t know who you are,” he said, wrapping the fingers of his left hand around the tankard’s handle—leaving the gently curled right hand free to close over the sight-shielded knife she was sure he had ready.

Couldn’t blame him for that. Her right hand was gently curved around the handle of her sight-shielded stiletto.

“Just what is it you think you know, sugar?” she asked.

He looked at her right hand. “You’re the wife of the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan. And you’re Dea al Mon. I’ve heard a few whispers lately that you used to get rid of problems when you lived in Terreille.”

Well, that was interesting. She looked at his right hand in the same way he’d looked at hers. “You have a problem you can’t handle?”

“That depends on why you went to see them about Lord Dillon.”

“I was asked to look into all of Lord Dillon’s . . . liaisons.”

“Then someone should tell you the rest of the story and not just what they want you to know.”

“And that would be you?” She wondered how many other people in the town referred to that aristo family as they in a tone that held nothing but contempt.

He inclined his head. Took a long swallow of ale, his eyes never leaving hers.

She took a sip of the wine. Not a bad vintage. Better than she’d expected. “I’m listening.”

“A while back, Lord Dillon came into town. He’s from an aristo family, but he’s not too far above ordinary folks. Pleasant enough. Crosses paths with the daughter of that family, and she takes a liking to him. Too much of a liking, if you follow me.”

“I follow you,” Surreal said.

“While Dillon is happy to be the girl’s dance partner or escort her to a public gathering, she can’t talk him into warming her bed on the sly. Then a letter arrives from a bosom friend in another town, and suddenly Dillon goes from being a pleasant young man who can say no to unwanted sexual invitations to being a man who is expected to provide sex to any aristo bitch who wants him, because his reputation is being trashed behind calculating smiles. I imagine you’ve heard this story in other towns.”

“Similar stories,” she agreed.

The Warlord gave Surreal a sharp smile. “The girl is a coldhearted, spoiled bitch who is serving in the District Queen’s court to get some polish. If you ask me, the polish she’ll get with that Queen is the kind that will get her killed.”

“Will it be your hand that holds the knife?”

“Probably.”

Oh, he was interesting. “I’m still listening.”

“That whole family cares for no one and nothing but themselves—and they’re a little too proud of their Terreillean bloodlines.”

That was what had left her feeling unsettled—the sense of something familiar in a place where it shouldn’t have been familiar.

“There was a woman who worked at a dressmaker’s shop just down the street. Nice woman who comes from a good family, at least by the standards in this part of town. Met a Warlord at a public dance, oh, seven years ago or so. He was a persuasive and ardent suitor—until she became pregnant. Big surprise for her, since he’d sworn he was drinking a contraceptive brew.”

“Hmm,” she said.

“He can’t marry her, of course. Too far beneath him socially for that to be a consideration. But he’ll help her raise the child and he’ll be there for the Birthright Ceremony.”

“Did he help, at least financially?”

The Warlord snorted. “She never saw so much as a copper from him, let alone anything else. Barely ever saw him again, even though he lives in this town too. But he did show up for the Birthright Ceremony and said all the right things, and that made her hopeful. If nothing else, once paternity was officially acknowledged, her daughter wouldn’t be considered a bastard.”

“But . . . ?”

The Warlord focused on the tankard. “Sweet girl—and smart enough in her own way. But she’s a little bit simple in the way she sees the world. Despite both parents wearing Jewels—lighter Jewels, to be sure, but still enough that you’d have expectations for the child—the girl didn’t acquire a Birthright Jewel at the ceremony, and it’s unlikely that she’ll ever have more than basic Craft even when she’s old enough to make the Offering to the Darkness.

“To say the girl’s sire was viciously disappointed would be gilding him with a kindness he doesn’t deserve. When the girl failed to acquire a Jewel, he refused to go through with the rest of the ceremony so that paternity could be acknowledged. He said loudly—and in front of witnesses—that he wouldn’t have his name associated with a blob of flesh that might have come from the last squirt of his cock or a half dozen other men’s. The woman was crushed, since he’d been her first—and only—lover. Her family is helping her as best they can, but she’s been struggling, barely able to leave her home because that bastard’s ‘jest’ was all over town by that evening and she’s too ashamed to see anyone. And the girl doesn’t understand why her mother is crying all the time.”

“What does this have to do with Dillon?” Surreal asked. She hadn’t been hired for what she was thinking. She didn’t have a client.

Well, Hell’s fire, she’d just hire herself—and give herself a steep discount from her usual fee. Or not.

“The Warlord who wouldn’t acknowledge his daughter because she wasn’t going to be anything useful to him is the uncle of the bitch who took a fancy to Dillon. I don’t know how Dillon heard the story about the woman and her daughter, but when the ground was pulled out from under him and the bitch’s father paid him to leave town so that he wouldn’t soil the bitch’s honor by association, Dillon gave the woman half the money before he left town.”

The Warlord drank until he drained the tankard. He set it aside. “Maybe he’s developed a skin of meanness in his dealings with the distaff gender. But that’s not who he was a few months ago. I thought you should know that.”

“I appreciate it.” Surreal looked toward the owner, who hovered out of earshot, and wondered if she would ever see her meal. “Two things, Warlord. First, tell the woman to write up every encounter she’s had with the man who sired her daughter. Make sure she records what support he provided before and after the Birthright Ceremony.”

“I told you—he didn’t provide anything. He has no interest in the girl. Never did.”

“Exactly. And make sure what occurred at the Birthright Ceremony is part of that account, including what he said. If she won’t—or can’t—do that, you write it. Have that written account witnessed and give a copy to the woman’s family. Another copy should be sent to the Province Queen. And the third copy should be taken to the Keep, with a request that it be included in the information for the woman’s bloodline and the Warlord’s.”

“What’s the point?”

“The point is to show that he shouldn’t be granted any authority over the girl, if he starts showing interest in a year or so, since he wasn’t interested before.”

“Before what?”

Surreal smiled and leaned closer. “The second thing: where can I find that Warlord?”

An art exhibition. People milling around, distracted by the art—and more distracted by noticing who was noticing them attending the exhibition. The Warlord was there, showing everyone how attentive he was to the Lady he’d recently married.

Surreal strolled through the crowd, stopping to look at a painting here, a fired pot there. The spell she had crafted was ready, primed for release.

Bloodless castration. Not as much fun as the other way but useful when it needed to be done neatly. And something that might not be detected for years, since it didn’t take anything away from a man except his ability to sire children.

Jaenelle Angelline had taught her that piece of Craft.

So simple, really. Looking away as if distracted when the Warlord walked toward her. Her shoulder bumping into his hard enough for anyone looking to think she’d lost her balance. Her hand brushing against his cock and balls for just a moment. Just long enough to release the spell.

“What do you think you’re doing?” the Warlord said, sounding outraged. “Have you forgotten who you are?”

The question made her smile. “Actually, sugar, I finally remembered.”

THIRTY-SEVEN

Lucivar landed on the street in a Rihland town, studied the clusters of people standing on the opposite side of the street, then looked at the beautiful man in the perfectly tailored suit waiting for him in front of a shop.

“What brings you here?” he asked.

“Followed a side trail,” Daemon replied. “It led me here.”

“This is the last one on my list.”

“Then this is the last one.” Daemon used Craft to open the shop’s door. “After—”

Daemon’s power broke the aural shield around the shop, revealing the voices and the struggle going on inside.

“Do it!” a female voice screamed. “If you loved me, you would do it!”

“Graham! Don’t. Please don’t.” Another female voice, crying, pleading.

A male voice, angry and anguished. “Bekka! I can’t stop. . . . I have to prove I . . . Get out of here before I hurt you!”

“Do it!” the first female screamed again. “Kill her!”

Wrapping himself in a skintight Red shield, Lucivar strode into the shop, Daemon right behind him.

One young woman trapped between a counter and a young Warlord with a knife. Three other young women—aristos by the look of their clothes. Two of them watched with avid cruelty while the third kept screaming, “If you loved me, you would kill her!”

“Bekka!” the young Warlord cried. “I love Bekka!”

٭I’ll take him,٭ Daemon said. ٭You protect the girl he’s threatening and keep those bitches in the shop.٭

Lucivar formed an Ebon-gray shield around the shop, locking the building. A heartbeat later, Daemon’s unleashed sexual heat hit everyone as he glided over to the Warlord. One of his hands closed over the hand holding the knife. His other hand curled around the Warlord’s throat, pulling the youngster close enough to be swamped with a need that would go unfulfilled—if the youngster was lucky.

Gritting his teeth against his own response to the heat, Lucivar pulled the girl—Bekka—out of reach of the knife. Scared. Shaking. But no injuries. He put a shield around her, partly as protection and partly to keep her from doing anything that might piss him off more than he already was.

“Show me,” Daemon whispered, his lips close to the Warlord’s ear. “Tell me.”

Graham turned his head slightly, revealing the side of his face that had been maimed by something—or someone.

The three bitches had been so focused on Graham and Bekka—and then pulled into lust by Daemon’s overwhelming presence—they hadn’t noticed Lucivar. Now they did.

Two tried to run and slammed into the shield across the doorway. A flick of his Ebon-gray power drained their Jewels almost to the breaking point, assuring they weren’t going to do any damage to anyone—at least, not with Craft. Stunned, they collapsed to the floor and began to cry because the Warlord Prince was being mean.

That left the third bitch, the one who had been screaming at Graham.

Lucivar tightened the leash on his temper, fighting against the fury rising in him, which wanted to wash the walls with her blood. If this was as bad as he suspected . . .

Realizing her game was spoiled, the bitch lashed out with the power of her Summer-sky Jewel. Not at him. She wasn’t that stupid. No, she tried to strike Bekka.

Lucivar shaped another shield around Bekka a heartbeat before the bitch’s power struck. Years ago, Saetan had shown him how to add an extra bit of Craft to a defensive shield when drama was required. The clash of the witch’s power hitting the second Ebon-gray shield sounded like buildings exploding—a sure way to bring everyone who served the District Queen running to investigate.

Of course, they would be running right into him and Daemon. Wouldn’t that be a kick in the balls?

Before the aristo bitch could attempt some other trouble, he stepped close to her, called in his war blade, and held it a whisper away from the side of her face. “You want to be very careful about what you say or do. If I get upset, my hand could slip, and this blade is honed for war, so it would slice right through your jaw.”

“You’ll answer to my father for this,” she said, her haughty expression at odds with the fear in her voice. “He’s an important man, not some grubby . . .” Either she couldn’t think of a scathing enough insult or she’d finally noticed his Ebon-gray Jewel.

“Oh, I hope your father does show up. I have some things to say to him. None of them are good.”

Sensing another male presence behind a shielded door that, most likely, led to the back of the shop, and wondering who was hiding behind that door, Lucivar broke the shield and waited. Moments later, the door opened and an older man rushed into the front room.

“What do you want?” The older man’s voice trembled. “Hasn’t my son been hurt enough?”

“More than enough,” Lucivar agreed. “And that ends now. Lord Graham?”

“Sir?” the youngster said as Daemon released him and stepped back.

“Do you know the names of the men—or women—who gave you those scars? Am I right in assuming that was done to your face as punishment for not accommodating these Ladies in some way?”

“The aristos who did it will know I told you,” Graham said. “They’ll hurt my parents.” He glanced at the young woman wrapped in Lucivar’s shields. “They’ll hurt Bekka.”

“They won’t have time to hurt anyone,” Daemon crooned. “They’ll be dead by morning.”

Lucivar felt fear spike through the aristo women. He felt relief flood the two men who didn’t belong to that social class. That told him he’d postponed this day too long.

Everything has a price.

٭Prick?٭ Daemon glided to the door and studied the crowd. ٭The Master of the Guard has shown up with what looks like all the Queen’s guards. He seems agitated.٭

٭Let the fool come in,٭ Lucivar said, dropping the Ebon-gray shield around the shop.

Only the Master entered the shop. The guards must have looked at Daemon’s glazed gold eyes and the cold, sweet smile and prudently decided not to provoke a Warlord Prince who was a heartbeat away from the killing edge.

Lucivar held the war blade steady against the bitch’s face. He waited a moment to give the Master a chance to realize who he was. What he was. “You know this bitch?”

“My daughter. Release her,” the Master blustered. “She’s done nothing wrong.”

“Oh, she’s done plenty that’s wrong any way you choose to look at it,” Lucivar said as if they were discussing the weather. “She may not have held the knife, but I’m betting she’s responsible for the scars on that boy’s face. And she used a spell to try to force him to kill this young woman. She will pay the debt she owes for what she’s done.”

“This is none of your business!”

“I made it my business.” Now he used Craft so that his voice thundered out of the shop and filled the street, guaranteeing someone would deliver his message to the District Queen. “If you want a war, I will give you a war. But before you gather men to stand against me on a killing field, you tell them that they’re facing the Demon Prince because your daughter likes to abuse men who can’t fight back. You tell them they’re going to die so that she can continue to play games with any man who isn’t strong enough to kill her or aristo enough to cause a scandal if she tries to trap him. You tell your Queen that she is going to forfeit her life because she looked the other way instead of calling your daughter—and you—to account.

“I’ll give you a choice. You can guarantee in front of witnesses and on your life and the life of your Queen that you will keep this bitch confined until I return to collect what she owes, or I can send her to Hell right now.”

Another Warlord stepped into the shop, looking grim. “Prince. I’m the Steward of the Court.”

“I’m listening.”

“My Queen sends her regards and her regrets. She was not aware of this misconduct. If a formal complaint had been presented to the court—”

“We appealed to the Queen,” the older man said. “She did nothing, even after that bitch’s friends maimed my son’s face.”

The Steward flinched, but he looked the man in the eyes. “The Queen did not see your complaint. Neither did I. If we had . . .” He glanced at the Master of the Guard, who was pale and sweating, then offered Lucivar a small bow. “My Queen offers her assurance that we will take this Lady with us now and confine her at the court until you’re ready to collect the debt she owes.”

Lucivar lifted the war blade away from the bitch’s face and stepped back. “Take her.”

The Steward snapped his fingers. Guards poured into the shop—frightened, angry men. They had reason to be frightened and angry. If their Queen had known about the misconduct and had done nothing, her court would fail. She would go down, and most likely they would go down with her.

Two of the guards who wore Jewels darker than Summer-sky took hold of the witch’s arms and led her away, surrounded by the other men.

The Steward looked at the other two aristo women in the shop. “The Queen commands your presence tomorrow morning. She has some questions for you. Don’t be late.”

The two women bolted out of the shop.

The Master turned to the Steward. “You can’t—”

“Don’t,” the Steward warned.

Lucivar had a good idea of what was silently said between the two men. If the Master was lucky, he would lose only his place in the Queen’s court and his social standing in the town. If he’d been warned to curb his daughter’s behavior and had ignored the warning—or had prevented complaints from reaching the Queen—he might be having a chat with the High Lord of Hell very soon.

He waited for the Master and the Steward to leave the shop before he vanished his war blade and released the shield he had wrapped around Bekka. He took the paper from the counter and vanished that too.

“Thank you, Prince,” Graham said. He looked at Bekka. “Thank you for everything.”

“If anyone gives you or your family trouble over this, you come to me,” Lucivar said.

As soon as he walked out of the shop, the people still standing on the other side of the street scurried into shops to get out of sight.

“Are you all right?” Daemon asked quietly. He looked relaxed, standing there with his hands in his trouser pockets, but Lucivar knew better.

“I’m fine. You?” He scanned the street, then used psychic tendrils to get a taste of the emotions of the people around him. More relief than fear.

“Leave the bitch to me.”

Lucivar studied his brother. “Do you know everything she’s done, everything she owes?”

Daemon’s smile was viciously gentle. “No, but she does.”

Nothing he could imagine doing would be close to whatever savagery Daemon had in mind. “Then deal with her.”

“It will be a pleasure.”

He would find out soon enough. “I’m going to need your help for one more confrontation.”

“I thought this was the last name on your list.”

“It was. I’m going to have to attend one of those fancy dances.”

“You need my help choosing your wardrobe?”

“Nah. I know what I’m wearing. I just need your help to stop me from turning a dance into a slaughter.”

Now Daemon studied him. “Are you sure you want me to do that?”

“No, but it’s better if you do.”

“In that case, Prick, let’s get back to your eyrie before Surreal rips into us for missing your curfew.”

He laughed softly, then fell into step with Daemon as they headed for the town’s landing web.

After dinner, all the adults had spent time with the children, playing games. Now the yappy horde was brushed and bathed, and Manny was reading them a story while Marian put the baby to bed.

Surreal settled in one of the chairs in Lucivar’s study.

“Brandy?” Daemon asked, holding up the decanter.

“Please.” The hunt had been invigorating, but spending the past few days listening to girls’ stories about Dillon, who was dreamy or a cad or a little bit of both, had left her feeling uncomfortable, made her think too much of her own mistakes.

She was ready to go home.

Daemon poured brandy for all of them, then sat in the other chair near Lucivar’s desk. He smiled at her and said, “How was your day?”

A polite, husbandly question.

“It would have been better if I could have slipped a stiletto between someone’s ribs and twisted the blade, but the girl who wanted to ‘squeeze his head until his eyeballs popped out’ was quite entertaining.” Surreal sipped her brandy. “I couldn’t decide if she was talking about Dillon or her father, but I can see why Dillon ran from that one. I also talked to a woman who was about a decade older than our prick-ass. She became quite agitated when I said I didn’t know where he lived. She insisted that he had invited her to stay with him, that they had an ‘understanding.’” She took another sip before looking at Lucivar. “You should have a Black Widow take a look at her in order to assess her mental stability. I think she’s going to cause someone serious trouble.”

“Done,” Lucivar said. “Anything else?”

Did she want to tell him? Damn it, she had to tell him. “And I castrated a Warlord at an art exhibition.”

Lucivar and Daemon lowered their brandy snifters and looked at her. She smiled at them. A big, big smile.

“It was very neatly done with Craft, although some of the pieces of art on display would have been improved by blood and gore.”

“Okay,” Lucivar said. “Why?”

“Let’s just say it was a debt he owed the daughter he already has but won’t acknowledge. If the report doesn’t show up at the Keep in a few days, I’ll tell you where to find the Warlord who brought this to my attention.”

“Did the Warlord understand who you are?” Daemon asked.

“He did. And I think he had a good understanding of what I would do with the information.”

Lucivar rubbed his forehead and sighed. “One debt settled. More to go. What do we do about Dillon?”

Surreal set the brandy snifter on the desk. “He played some games with Jillian to make her feel uneducated and socially inferior, and I want to slap him for that. But he wasn’t like that when this started—and there is still a measure of kindness in him. If Lady Blyte had done nothing more than go back on her promise of a handfast after taking him to her bed, Dillon would have been heart-bruised and his reputation would have had a smudge, but he wouldn’t have been any different from plenty of other young men who went to the marriage bed before the marriage. That bitch turning him into prey for every other aristo bitch who wanted a ride and hounding him from one town to the next . . . He could have made other choices, and he’s responsible for his actions, but, Hell’s fire, I feel a little sorry for the fool, and I don’t want to feel sorry for him.” She grabbed the snifter and gulped the rest of the brandy.

“More?” Daemon asked.

“No. Thanks.” The burn was kind of pleasant in a painful sort of way.

“We have a good idea of what Blyte did to Dillon, but what about what he did to the girls who came after her?” Lucivar said.

“He didn’t have sex with any girl who was still a virgin and refused to take any girl through her Virgin Night—which the girls thought was very romantic and proved his good intentions,” Surreal replied. “However, their aristo fathers, not wanting their families’ social standing soiled by association, preferred to pay Dillon to sneak out of town. Paying him to leave didn’t stop them from smearing his reputation further by implying—or saying outright—that he dallied with girls of good families and then left instead of going through with the handfast because he had no honor. In truth, he was driven out of some towns before he had a chance to unpack his trunk, so the actual number of girls he entangled was far fewer than you would have thought, based on what was said.”

“The spell he used on Jillian?” Daemon asked.

“I’m not sure how long he’d been using that spell, because no one but you realized he’d used one.” Surreal hooked her hair behind her delicately pointed ears. “I had the impression he used it more to convince the girls to lend him money than for anything more intimate. When he met Jillian . . .” She sighed and couldn’t look at either man. “I think he hoped having someone love him would give him a second chance at an honorable life.”

She felt a flash of pain rising up in the abyss before it was brutally smothered. That flash was enough confirmation that Daemon’s love for, and marriage to, Jaenelle Angelline had given him the same kind of second chance—and that, along with Jaenelle being the love of his life and the Queen he’d dreamed of serving, was the reason she would always be the presence he needed with him more than he needed breath or life.

She pushed out of her chair. “So that’s it. Jaenelle Saetien and I will be heading out in the morning. I think Manny and Tersa are ready to go home too.”

“And the Scelties,” Lucivar growled.

Two of them, anyway. She was not going to be the one who said anything about the Sceltie who was currently staying in Nurian’s eyrie.

“I’ll be home in a couple of days,” Daemon said quietly.

“We’ll be there.”

She walked out of Lucivar’s study and wondered if Daemon really would give her a second chance.

Daemon stared at the study door a moment longer before refilling his snifter and topping up Lucivar’s. He resumed his seat.

Lucivar called in a paper, then used Craft to float it across the desk. “The names of the bastards who maimed that Warlord to curry favor with the bitch.”

“If you have no objection, I’ll let Chaosti and his men take care of this. They would appreciate the fresh blood, and they’ll take the meat back to Hell for the hounds.”

“That’s fine with me.” Lucivar rested his head on the back of his leather chair and stared at the ceiling. “Hell’s fire, Bastard. I’m tired.”

He understood that kind of tired. “It’s not done yet.”

“I know. The spell to manipulate feelings was bad enough. Using it to compel a person to kill someone out of meanness or jealousy . . .” Lucivar sat up, stretched one side of his neck, then the other. “Whatever you want to do with Dillon, I’ll back you.”

“All right. I’ve made some inquiries already. Based on what we’ve discovered, I think he needs a fresh start someplace where he won’t run into bad memories.”

Lucivar nodded. “Coming to Kaeleer gave us that kind of fresh start.”

“It did. And so much more.”

Another nod. “And Jillian?”

“She needs a change of scenery too,” Daemon said gently.

“She’s so young.”

“She’s not that young, Prick. She’s outgrown what she can find here in Ebon Rih. At least for right now.”

He watched Lucivar struggle with the idea of letting a daughter fly beyond his protection. That was an internal battle every father faced.

“Where?” Lucivar finally said.

When Daemon told him, Lucivar groaned, “Mother Night”—and then laughed.

“My boy.”

Taking a step away from the eyrie’s front door, Daemon looked toward the shadows in one corner of the room.

He and Lucivar hadn’t expected Tersa to accompany Manny when the older woman returned to help Marian look after the children and the eyrie, but neither of them had suggested that the broken Black Widow go home. Manny provided practical help, but the White-Jeweled witch had no fighting skills in the event that Lucivar’s family was attacked during this investigation. Tersa, on the other hand, could be fiercely—and weirdly—lethal.

“Darling, it’s late. Why are you still awake?”

He watched her as she approached him—his mother, with her broken mind and extraordinary knowledge.

Tersa rested one hand against the side of his face. “Not well yet, but healing.”

“Yes. I’m healing.”

Her hand drifted from his face, down his shoulder, stopping at the wounds on his right arm that he’d hidden from everyone. “They will scar.”

“Yes. Remembrance and reminder. I will carry them with me, just as I’ve carried this one.” He pushed up his left cuff to show her the scar she’d given him all those years ago.

Tersa smiled. “She promised that if you asked for help, she would answer.”

It didn’t surprise him that Tersa had been the one to ask Witch for a promise—and receive one. What surprised him was that he’d never thought to ask his mother what she knew about the song in the Darkness. Maybe she’d known all along that some part of Witch was still at the Keep. Maybe that was a gem of knowledge mislaid in the Twisted Kingdom and recently found again because it was truly needed. He doubted she could tell him, and it no longer mattered.

He took her in his arms, rested his face against her head as she rested against his chest.

“I’m not whole, Mother,” he said quietly. “I might never be whole. But I will do my best to heal and stay with all of you for as long as I can.”

“I know.” She eased away from him. “Don’t turn away from help offered with love.”

“I won’t.”

“Don’t turn away.”

That sounded more like a warning that he might not recognize what was offered.

“I won’t,” he said again.

“The Tagg pup will live with the Mikal boy and me.”

“Tagg is too young and—”

“He needs the Mikal boy.”

He could hear his father telling him not to argue with his mother. Not that he’d win this argument. Clearly Tersa had already decided about boy and puppy. He’d have to see if boy and puppy agreed with her. “I’ll make the arrangements.”

Tersa smiled and walked away.

Daemon returned to the Keep and gave Chaosti the list of men who wouldn’t see another sunrise—and wouldn’t make the transition to demon-dead. After the Dea al Mon Warlord Prince and his men headed for that Rihland town, Daemon retreated to the Consort’s suite.

He called in a wooden frame and his supply of spider silk and wove a tangled web for the aristo bitch who had tried to turn love into a weapon.

“Does she deserve that?” Witch asked when he sat back to consider his work.

“She does,” he replied. “For everyone else, it is warning and lesson that, from now on, there will be a steep price for using the ‘if you loved me’ spell.”

He felt her hand on his shoulder, watched her face as she leaned forward to study the tangled web. Then Witch smiled at him and said, “You need to make the teeth sharper.”

If you loved me . . .

If you loved me . . .

If you loved me . . .

At first, she couldn’t remember where she was. Not her own bedroom.

Now she remembered. She hoped Graham ended up in the bowels of Hell! If he’d done what she’d told him to do instead of fighting her control, that manthief Bekka would be dead, ripped up by Graham’s own hand, and he would be so sorry that he hadn’t been nicer to her, hadn’t done what she’d wanted.

Something coiled around her legs, around her arms, around her waist.

If you loved me, you would tell the truth.

Before she could scream, the darkness in the room softened until she could clearly see the plant coiled around her limbs and torso.

If you loved me, you would tell them about the games you’ve played. All the nasty games.

Was that the plant whispering to her? But wasn’t that . . . ?

As she watched, buds the size of her fist opened. Each flower had her face. Each flower whispered in her voice.

If you loved me, you would tell them about everyone you hurt.

If you loved me . . .

Dreaming. Yes. But such a delicious dream with her face blooming all around her.

“What?” she whispered. “If you loved me . . . what?”

Everything has a price, the blooms whispered in reply.

As she watched, the lips turned black and curled away from mouths filled with serrated teeth.

Tell them everything, the blooms whispered. We feast every night until you tell them everything and the debt is paid.

For a moment, all the flowers hung over her as if waiting for her to speak. Then the mouths opened, the teeth bit . . . and she screamed and screamed while the flowers with her face tore out chunks of her flesh.

THIRTY-EIGHT

Chaosti lifted the lid off a ravenglass goblet before he handed it to Karla and said, “It’s fresh and still warm.”

She swallowed a mouthful of undiluted blood. “It’s also a little bitter.”

“Fear leaves that taste,” he replied. “The blood was part of the payment for a debt owed. Drink. My men and I have had our fill. And I brought some back for Draca and Geoffrey.”

She wasn’t going to ask how many bodies had made up that payment. She just drank the blood and watched Chaosti watching her. “Yes?”

“Curious thing. A witch was detained in the town where we were hunting. Apparently she tried to use a spell to compel a Warlord to kill the woman he loved.”

“That was naughty of her.”

“In the middle of the night, she began screaming that the flowers with her face were biting her and she had to tell the Queen every bad thing she had done using the ‘if you loved me’ spell, because each bad thing was a bloom, and until she said it all, the flowers would come back every night and feast.”

Karla shuddered. Couldn’t help it. “Was there any physical confirmation of her nightmare?”

“Nothing.” Chaosti considered. “Although that may change if the blooms return on another night.” He continued to watch her. “I heard the teeth were quite impressive. It occurred to me creating something like that would take a great deal of skill.”

“I didn’t weave that tangled web, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“You didn’t help with any details?”

Then she realized what he’d been looking to confirm. Oh, she still had the skill to create a tangled web as a form of punishment, but she wouldn’t have thought to be that exquisitely cruel, and Chaosti knew that. That was when she understood what he was really asking. Who else would help the Sadist refine the details of a punishment that would not only pay a debt but be a warning to everyone who thought to play with another person’s heart?

And that made her curious. “Just how impressive were those teeth?”

While Manny, Tersa, Jaenelle Saetien, and Tagg made their way to the landing web located below the eyrie and took their seats in the Coach for the journey home, Surreal and Marian searched for Morghann, who had disappeared sometime before dawn.

٭Morghann,٭ Surreal called. ٭Come on, Morghann. It’s time to go home.٭

No answer.

“Maybe she went to Nurian’s eyrie to stay with Khary,” Marian said.

“Khary says she isn’t there.”

“Then she’s here. Somewhere.” Marian put her hands on her hips. “Daemonar and Titian swore they haven’t seen her this morning. Well, you go on. She’ll turn up when she gets hungry.”

Surreal raked her fingers through her hair. “I brought three Scelties. I’m going back with one. Lucivar is going to bounce off the ceiling.”

Marian didn’t disagree but said, “You requested the Scelties as chaperons, but Daemon actually brought them to Ebon Rih.”

“So this is his fault.” Much better.

“I wouldn’t have put it that way, but you’re not wrong.”

They were alone in this part of the eyrie. When would she get another chance to ask the question? “I was told Daemon’s sexual heat is going to stay this potent for the centuries while he’s in his prime. The same thing must be happening with Lucivar. How do you endure it?”

Marian looked uncomfortable. “If this final stage has already happened, it must have been more gradual than what Daemon experienced. And Lucivar’s work takes him out of the eyrie for a good part of each day, while Daemon works at the Hall, so his sexual heat might . . . accumulate . . . despite the size of the place. A couple times each month, Lucivar stays away for a day or two, camping out on the mountain. There’s a hunting eyrie not far from here. Might have been a guard post long ago. It’s small, just big enough for a couple of men. His ‘weather bones’ don’t respond well to sleeping outside in the winter, so he’s fixed it up and keeps a good supply of wood for the fire. It’s close enough that he can be home in a few minutes if I need him, but it’s far enough away that . . .” She hesitated.

“That you don’t feel the heat,” Surreal finished.

“He’s my husband. I’ve gotten used to living with his heat, but the days when he’s away from home, it’s like breathing in crisp air after being inside a house that’s too warm. We’ve never talked about it, but I enjoy him more as a lover because of those absences.” Marian huffed out a breath. “And if we’re being honest, if Daemon is going to be spending a few days each month at the Keep in order to give you the same kind of breathing room, I hope Lucivar joins him at least part of the time.”

“Why?”

“Because things are about to change for him. He’s going to shoulder all the weight that Andulvar carried. I hope that won’t change things for him here in the valley. I hope it won’t change things for either of us here, because Ebon Rih is our home. But it’s going to change who he is to the rest of the people in Askavi—to the rest of Kaeleer.”

Surreal felt a shiver of alarm. “Marian? What are you talking about? What’s going to change? Is this more than Lucivar becoming the Warlord Prince of Askavi?”

“He told you?”

“He said enough that I heard what wasn’t said.”

“I had more time to get to know Andulvar and Saetan than you did,” Marian said. “I had more time to see why they needed each other. You wear the Gray, and there aren’t many who do, but there are some. There are some who know what it feels like to stand where you do in the abyss. But wearing the Ebon-gray and Black, Andulvar and Saetan were alone, vessels of power so dark and deep they had no one but each other. Just like Lucivar and Daemon.” She looked around. “Well. You have people waiting for you. We’ll get Morghann to the Hall when we find her.”

Nothing more to say right now and only one thing to do. Surreal hurried out of the eyrie and down to the landing web, where the Coach waited to take them home.

Daemon met Lucivar in one of the Keep’s parlors.

“Is that your first or second breakfast?” Daemon asked as he watched Lucivar shovel in a mouthful of oatmeal.

“I wasn’t expected, so I think this is part of yours.” Lucivar filled the spoon with another mound of oatmeal and held it out. “Open up.”

Taking the spoon, Daemon ate the oatmeal, then handed back the spoon. “Now I can say I ate my oatmeal and won’t get scolded. You can have the rest and I’ll have . . .” He lifted the covers off the serving dishes. “Steak, eggs, and mushrooms.”

“If Daemonar picks up that ‘one spoonful is sufficient’ piss-ass excuse from you, you and I will have words.”

“Don’t be silly, Prick. A growing boy needs his oatmeal.” Daemon filled his plate. “Besides, the last time Daemonar visited the Hall, I caught him sharing his bowl of oatmeal with Khary.” He waited a beat. “Sharing the bowl and sharing the spoon.”

Lucivar sighed. “His mother doesn’t need to know that.”

“Well, I’m not going to tell her. I wouldn’t take any bets on your boy, though.”

With a grunt that might have been suppressed laughter, Lucivar finished the oatmeal, then poured mugs of coffee for both of them.

“You sure about this?” Daemon asked. There were shadows in Lucivar’s gold eyes that hadn’t been there a few days ago.

“I’m sure it needs to be done.”

“Tonight?”

Lucivar nodded. “I brought the papers. They just need to be witnessed.”

“Then I guess we should take care of the other business today.”

“Yeah, I guess we should.”

Confined to the room in the communal eyrie, Dillon had plenty of time to think about the girls who had used him and the girls he, in turn, had used. He had plenty of time to consider the choices he’d made—and he wasn’t proud of most of them.

He should have stopped pursuing Jillian after Yaslana choked him for nothing more than a kiss and a feel—which he shouldn’t have done in the first place. At least, not in a public place, where the actions showed a lack of respect for the girl. He should have backed away from her once he realized she was too young despite being centuries old.

He should have stayed away from Blyte when she said, “If you loved me,” and then broke his heart and ruined his reputation.

He should have done—and not done—a lot of things.

They clearly disliked him for using the spell on Jillian, but the Eyriens had not been unkind. Whichever one was on guard escorted him to the showers in the morning and to the toilet a few times each day. They fed him, not that he had much of an appetite, and provided him with books to read as a way to pass the time. But no one would talk to him or tell him what was going to happen to him. He was confined and awaiting judgment.

As the days dragged on, he wondered if the waiting was part of the punishment.

The door opened. Dillon turned away from the window, expecting to finally face Yaslana. But it wasn’t Yaslana who walked into the room and closed the door; it was Daemon Sadi.

“Lord Dillon.”

Sadi’s deep voice curled around him. Tightened around him as the man glided across the room. Dillon took a step back, then another until his back was pressed against the wall and there was nowhere to go.

Sadi merely raised one eyebrow and waited a beat. “A decision has been made, Warlord,” the Prince said.

Dillon pushed away from the wall and approached the small table, which was nothing more than a token barrier between them.

“There is something I’d like to say first.”

“Go ahead.”

Dillon let out a shaky breath. “I’ve made bad choices. Other people’s actions may have spurred those choices, but I’m the one who made them. I’ve used some girls in order to get money from their families, and I let myself become just like the girls who had used me, and that’s my fault and my shame. This isn’t who I wanted to be.”

“You wanted to be an escort and serve in a Queen’s court. You wanted to be a husband someday and live an honorable life,” Sadi said quietly.

“Yes. That’s what I wanted.” Dillon huffed out a bitter laugh. “No chance of having any of that now, is there?”

“There is a chance.” Sadi called in sheets of paper and laid them on the table. “Here are the names of six District Queens—two in Dharo, two in Nharkhava, and two in Scelt. As a favor to Yaslana, and to me, these Queens are willing to give you a place in their courts—most likely as a Third Circle escort, since you haven’t completed your formal training. You’ll receive that training in any court listed there. You’ll find information about the courts and the Territories where they’re located. Think carefully about what you want before you choose.”

“I can serve in a court?” District Queens meant small territories, a handful of villages at the most, in Territories far away from Askavi—places Rihlander aristo families wouldn’t know. Places that, and people who, wouldn’t know his past except for the Queen, her Steward, and her Master of the Guard. A fresh start. A real second chance.

“The Queen you choose will send me a report every quarter. If I’m satisfied that you are behaving honorably and being diligent in your training, I will supply you with a stipend to help with your expenses. I also want something in return—that you repay whatever unkindness you visited on the girls here in Askavi by being kind to girls who might be overlooked, whether it’s as small as giving someone a compliment that brightens her day or asking a girl for a dance because you noticed no one else has asked her.”

“Why are you doing this? Why isn’t Prince Yaslana here to grind my bones into the floor?”

“You helped a woman and her daughter. I think that choice was a reflection of who you had been before you met Lady Blyte—and, maybe, who you still are.” Then Sadi smiled. “Besides, Jillian settled things between you to everyone’s satisfaction—except, perhaps, yours. As much as Yaslana dislikes you right now, your arrival in Ebon Rih made him aware of a problem that can’t be allowed to continue, so he left your fate with me. As to why I’m doing this?” The smile faded. “I know how much a life can change when a man is given a second chance.”

Sadi walked to the door and stopped. “You’ll be escorted back to your cousin’s house in Riada. When you decide which Queen you would like to serve, inform Lord Rothvar. He’ll arrange for a Coach and driver to take you there.”

“Thank you, Prince.”

He couldn’t interpret the look in Sadi’s eyes when the Prince said, “Don’t give us a reason to regret this decision.”

Then Sadi was gone.

While he waited for the Eyrien who would escort him to his cousin’s house, Dillon read over the information about the six courts. For the first time in a long time, he felt hopeful about his future.

Jillian wasn’t sure what Prince Yaslana wanted her to say. She wasn’t sure if he knew what he wanted her to say.

“You want to send me away?”

The muscles in his jaw worked, and he didn’t quite meet her eyes. “Want to? No. But it has been suggested that you would benefit from experience outside of Ebon Rih.”

What did that mean? “Like a visit to Dhemlan?”

Yaslana winced. “That’s a bit far.”

Far? She accompanied Marian and the children whenever the hearth witch wanted to visit Amdarh to shop or see a play. The SaDiablo family had a town house there, and they all usually stayed in the side of the town house kept for guests.

“This would be more than a visit,” Yaslana said. “This would be a kind of apprenticeship in a court. Sadi made the inquiries and received consent. He can tell you more about it. If you’re interested. Not that you have to be interested. You’re young. But . . . something different for a while.”

Something different. Yes. Would Dillon have seemed so attractive if she hadn’t been looking for something different? But going away to somewhere that wasn’t home? Living among people she didn’t know? Exciting but . . .

“Could I bring a friend?” she asked.

Yaslana finally looked at her, and she had the feeling he was bracing himself because he knew what she was about to say.

“Who did you have in mind?”

When she told him, he swore softly, vigorously. Finally, he said, “It could take a few days, but I’ll see if it can be arranged.”

She watched him fly away and still wasn’t sure what he’d wanted her to say. She’d have to talk to Marian about finding someone to help with the children, and talk to Nurian, of course. But Yaslana wouldn’t have mentioned it at all if he didn’t believe she was ready to fly on her own. She was sure of that much.

THIRTY-NINE

Lucivar called in the double-buckle fighting belt that Eyriens wore in battle, then sheathed a fighting knife that was bigger, heavier, and a lot meaner than the hunting knife worn as standard dress. A palm-sized knife went into the sheath between the belt buckles. Two more knives were sheathed in the boots.

Chain mail settled over the light leather vest. Metal-studded leather gauntlets closed over wrists and forearms.

Last, he created two Ebon-gray shields—one skintight, the other barely a breath above his skin.

He looked at the other man in the room and nodded. “I’m ready.”

He wasn’t getting ready to attend some fancy aristo dance.

Lucivar Yaslana was getting ready for war.

Lucivar scanned the crowded room filled with bright dresses and too-bright voices. Finding the enemy, he called in his war blade and moved forward a couple of steps, then braced as the unleashed sexual heat that flowed in behind him washed over the crowd of aristo Blood, making them gasp, making them want, making them think that the heat promised hot pleasure when what it really promised was frigid pain.

He had come for war. The Sadist had come to play.

It amounted to the same thing.

He took a few more steps toward his quarry. The Blood moved aside, giving him a clear path.

“Before she left the living Realms, the Queen of Ebon Askavi signed a document that put all of Askavi under my hand,” Lucivar said, using Craft to make his voice thunder through the building. “She told me I wasn’t required to become the Warlord Prince of Askavi, that I could allow the District Queens and the Province Queens above them independent rule, unless the time came when they permitted Terreillean practices to encroach on the Blood here. Looking the other way when reputations are ruined and honor soiled because some bitch thinks it’s fun to damage other people’s lives as long as she suffers no consequences? That’s how the destruction of the Blood begins. Some of your ancestors fled from Terreille in order to escape those kinds of games, and those games are what I pledged to fight against when I came to Kaeleer. They are what I will always fight against, even if that means turning every Rihland city into a killing field and slaughtering every Rihland aristo in Askavi.”

The stink of fear filled the room as the aristos looked at him, then looked at the Sadist, and recognized living weapons that were harnessed to a single purpose.

“As of today, I don’t care if the person is male or female. I don’t care how aristo their family bloodline is or who they can claim in their family line—or if they are the least powerful person in a village. I do not care. Any transaction between individuals or families that ends with a reputation at risk or honor being questioned or someone being harmed in any way will be investigated by the court of the Queen who rules that village, and monthly reports will be sent to the Province Queens for review. If I hear of any attempt to hide an impropriety, the Province Queens will answer to me, and from now on, the price for looking the other way will be steep. But tonight, as warning and lesson, I’ll start with you.”

Lucivar raised his war blade and pointed it at Lady Blyte, the bitch whose behavior had started Lord Dillon—and him—down this path. “All the Queens in Askavi will be given the names of the men you played by promising a handfast in exchange for them becoming your lover. You owe those men a debt because you then claimed ignorance of the promises you made and allowed your father to damage the reputation of those men to the point of them being considered prey for other women who had no honorable intentions. The Rihlander Queens will make reparation by seeing that those men are given a position in a court and sufficient income to support themselves, or they will make arrangements for those men to work at an honest trade—and they will guarantee on their Jewels that they will stop any further attempts to use the past as a hammer against those men’s efforts to restore their reputations and honor. The Rihlander Queens will do this for the men who are still among the living. There was one who was so filled with despair after dealing with this Lady that he found death preferable to remaining among the living.

“And you, you smug bitch. Do you think I’ll let you walk away from this without paying what you owe?”

That was exactly what she believed. He saw it in her eyes. He also saw a keen hatred for him because he had exposed her and made her behavior a public humiliation.

“Everything has a price,” he said, letting his voice go quiet so that everyone strained to hear. “And you are the lesson of what it will cost anyone who plays Terreillean games in my Territory.”

Rising out of the depths of the abyss like an Ebon-gray arrow of fury, Lucivar struck Blyte with power to shatter her Jewels, breaking her back to basic Craft. She screamed as the Jewels in her pendant and ring shattered and fell to the floor.

“You have been stripped of your power,” Lucivar said. “You will always be a Blood female, but you are no longer a witch and will no longer be addressed by the title of Lady. Your debt to the men you harmed has been paid.”

He turned and walked toward the doorway where his brother waited. He didn’t need to see Daemon focus on something behind him. He felt the anger rushing toward him.

“You bastard!” Blyte’s father cried, brandishing a decorative knife.

If it had been nothing more than the knife, which couldn’t get past his shields, he might have let the man go with nothing more than a slap. But the Warlord unleashed a blast of power in a way that made Lucivar wonder if the young man who had died really had taken his own life.

Everything that made him a Warlord Prince responded to that lash of power. Lucivar pivoted, using Craft to extend the length of the war blade as he met the Warlord’s eyes.

The war blade sang through muscle, humbled bone.

For a moment, nothing seemed to happen. For a moment, it looked like the blade hadn’t sliced anything but the man’s jacket as some of the fabric fluttered to the floor. Then blood spilled from the man’s waist, his legs buckled, and the top half of the man slid off and struck the floor. Using Craft to stand on air just above the red lake rapidly forming on the ballroom floor, Lucivar looked at the stunned crowd. “Does anyone else need a lesson?”

No answer except more screams from Blyte, but he doubted her distress had anything to do with the loss of her father and more to do with finally being punished for her own actions.

Turning toward the doorway once again, Lucivar saw Chaosti walk in with two young Rihlander men.

Daemon smiled a cold, cruel smile. Not the Sadist now. This was the High Lord of Hell.

٭You can’t leave him here to make the transition to demon-dead,٭ the High Lord said. ٭He won’t go to Hell on his own, as he should, not after you made his family’s deceits so public. Besides, one of those men deserved a chance to see the debt paid.٭ He looked at the two Warlords who carried out the upper half of the girl’s father.

Lucivar waited for Chaosti and Daemon to follow the demon-dead Warlords out of the room. Then he turned back one last time and looked at the Rihland aristos. “Every attempt to bring Terreille’s ways into Kaeleer will be met with slaughter. Spread the word that I’ll be calling on the Province Queens soon to have a little chat.”

He walked away, knowing there would be more slaughter before they believed he had drawn the line—knowing some courts would be torn apart for tacitly supporting the cruelty that had destroyed the Blood in Terreille. Knowing that, after tonight, most of the Blood in Askavi would call him the Demon Prince.

Everything had a price.

FORTY

Lucivar hadn’t appreciated how much fury had been festering under the surface of some Rihland towns and cities until several places exploded in savage fighting, as if his breaking that one bitch had been a flame dropped on tinder, freeing that fury to blaze through Askavi. The Blood in those places didn’t want his help. The Warlord Princes in those places didn’t want his Eyrien warriors coming in to settle anything. They would talk to him when the fighting was done.

For two days, he stayed at the Keep with Daemon, listening to reports as Rothvar and his other men rode the Winds throughout Askavi to get a feel for what was happening in the Rihland cities. Some Provinces were untouched by fighting. Lucivar found it grimly amusing that Daemon’s prediction had been right about the Queens who ruled those Provinces. They were the first to show up at the Keep to talk to him, bringing documents to prove they had been drawing the same line all along and that any smear on someone’s honor or reputation was something that person had deserved.

“You’re going to need help, Lucivar,” Daemon said when the sun set on that second day and they were finally alone for a few minutes. “Someone besides Marian. Someone you can trust who won’t be intimidated when dealing with Queens who wear darker Jewels.”

“Who?” Frustrated, Lucivar raked a hand through his hair. “Every Eyrien who works for me will stand with me on a killing field, but every one of them has had his fill of dealing with Queens.”

“Not to mention that most of them would rather chew off his own fingers than deal with paperwork,” Daemon said dryly.

“Andulvar didn’t have to deal with paperwork. If there was a problem, he went to that village and killed what couldn’t be fixed.”

“That might not have been how he handled things when he walked among the living,” Daemon pointed out.

They both knew he wanted to ask Daemon to deal with the paperwork—and they both knew why he couldn’t. Daemon already had enough under his hand.

“Rothvar is your second-in-command when it comes to defending Ebon Rih—and now all of Askavi. You need someone who can act as your second-in-command for the business side of ruling the Territory.”

“Someone who isn’t Eyrien or Rihland, someone who is willing to deal with paperwork and knows what is important and what is crap, someone who can’t be intimidated by darker-Jeweled Queens. Who can do that, Bastard? Tell me who I can trust who can do that.”

Lucivar looked over as the door opened, and said, “Hell’s fire.”

Karla gave him a bright smile and said, “Kiss kiss.”

FORTY-ONE

Dillon listened to the raised voices in the parlor and winced as he looked at his cousin’s pale face. “I’m sorry, Terrence. I never meant to cause trouble for your family. Is your father going to lose his position in the Riada Queen’s court?”

“Dunno.”

Seeing the misery in Terrence’s eyes, Dillon suspected that the family’s social standing in the village was going to be nonexistent because they had allowed him to stay after his aborted romance with Jillian.

With the women’s voices a shrill counterpoint to the men’s shouts, Dillon wasn’t sure he’d heard someone knock on the front door until the sound came a second time. When none of the servants appeared to answer it, Dillon opened the door.

Lucivar Yaslana stepped inside. “Lord Dillon.”

“Prince.”

Yaslana nodded to Terrence, then looked toward the parlor. He didn’t ask who was shouting or why. He just opened the parlor door and walked in—and everyone stopped talking.

The Warlord Prince of Askavi wagged a finger at Dillon and Terrence. “You two, in here.” He waited for them, then looked at the adults in the room before focusing on Dillon. “The matter has been settled. The witch who destroyed your reputation and smeared your honor has been broken back to basic Craft. Reparation will be made to every man she deceived. While your actions weren’t prudent where she was concerned, lots of young men go through a stage where they think with the head behind their zippers instead of the head above their shoulders.”

Dillon choked. Terrence wheezed.

“And if there is a man here who didn’t have sex with the woman he married before the contract was signed, let him step forward,” Yaslana continued.

No one stepped forward. Women blushed. Men studied the carpet just beyond their shoes.

Now Yaslana looked at Terrence’s father. “It will take a couple more days before arrangements can be made to send Lord Dillon to the court he’s chosen. If you’re not comfortable having him stay with you, I’ll arrange to have him stay at The Tavern.”

“No, no. Better for the boy to be with his family.”

“I agree, but you might be criticized for that compassion, and I wouldn’t want obliging me to cause problems for you.” He looked around the room. “But if you do have problems, I want to know, because what happened to Lord Dillon could have happened to anyone’s son, and that is something your neighbors shouldn’t forget.”

Dillon and Terrence walked out with him. At the front door, Yaslana paused. “You make a decision yet?”

“Almost,” Dillon replied. “I decided against the two courts in Scelt. Not that I wouldn’t like to visit there someday, but I can’t imagine living in a place overrun by dogs who poke their noses into everyone’s business.”

Yaslana huffed out a laugh and muttered something that sounded like “May the Darkness have mercy on me.”

As he opened the front door, Dillon gathered his courage and said, “Prince? Could I see Jillian before I leave?”

Yaslana stared at him. “That will depend on whether or not Jillian wants to see you.”

Dillon and Terrence stood in the doorway and watched Lucivar Yaslana walk down the street.

“I’ve never been to another Territory,” Terrence said. “Never considered going someplace else for part of my training. Maybe you could let me know what it’s like?”

Dillon felt surprise as well as pleasure. “You want to stay in touch?”

“I do.”

His parents didn’t want any contact with him. Neither did his brothers. But here, where he hadn’t expected anything but reluctant tolerance, he had found a friend—and family.

Terrence smiled shyly. “Maybe I could even visit after you’ve earned some time off.”

Dillon returned the smile. “I’d like that.”

FORTY-TWO

Jillian led Daemon Sadi to the sitting room in her sister’s eyrie. “I’ve made coffee, if you’d like some.”

“I would. Thank you.” Sadi called in a box and held it out. “I brought these.”

“From the Sweet Tooth?”

“No.”

She waited until she was in the kitchen to open the plain white box. Fresh-baked pastries that she was pretty sure came from the bakery on Riada’s main street. Nothing fancy, but the taste made up for the lack of fanciness. She filled a dish with the treats, then added it to the tray that already held two mugs of coffee and napkins. Returning to the sitting room, she set everything out on a table.

“Did Lucivar tell you about the apprenticeship in a court?” Sadi asked.

“He said you had talked to a Queen and would tell me about it. He also said you would have to decide about me bringing a friend.” She handed him a mug of coffee and felt bold and a little reckless when she said, “Have you decided?”

“I had the impression that that decision was already made and my consent is superfluous, but you have it. As for the apprenticeship, you’ve been offered a six-month contract to serve in the Queen of Little Weeble’s court.”

Jillian blinked. “The Queen of what?”

“Little Weeble. It’s a small village on the coast of Askavi. Far enough but not too far from home. No mountains there, but you’d have a chance to live in a village that focuses on fishing and spend time with Rihlanders who have a different way of looking at just about everything.”

The name tickled her. But . . . “Do you think Prince Yaslana would consent to me going there?”

“He’ll give his consent. He’s struggling with the idea of letting you fly on your own, but if you send him a letter every few days to let him know how you’re getting on, Lucivar might resist checking up on you in person every day.”

“But he doesn’t like to read.”

Sadi smiled. “Darling, if you wrote him a letter, he would read it. And after he read it, he would tuck it in a drawer in his desk so that he could look at it every day and reassure himself that letting you go was the right thing to do.”

“Then I’d like to go. I’d like to experience something beyond the villages in Ebon Rih.”

“Dillon will be leaving Askavi in a few days. He asked to see you before you go.”

“I—” Did she want to see him? Was there any point? “All right.”

“Are you sure?”

Jillian nodded.

“Then I’ll deliver the message.” Sadi selected a pastry and took a bite. “I’m curious about something.”

“What?” Please don’t ask me why I was attracted to Dillon in the first place. I don’t want to admit that having a crush on you is the reason I liked him.

“What did Dillon finally say that made you angry enough to hit him?”

Finally say? That meant there had been other things that should have sparked her anger. Something to think about at another time. “He said Prince Yaslana wasn’t my father.”

“Is he?” Sadi asked gently. “Is Lucivar your father?”

Jillian looked the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan in the eyes. “In every way that counts.”

FORTY-THREE

Daemon stepped out of Nurian’s eyrie. He’d spent a couple of days in the Consort’s suite at the Keep, giving himself—and the Sadist—time to settle so that his family would be safe around him when he went home.

He was ready to go home. But he’d been given a message to see Lucivar before leaving Ebon Rih. He caught one of the Winds and rode to the landing web below the Yaslana eyrie. As he climbed the stairs to the flagstone courtyard, he wondered why Khary hadn’t been with Jillian while they had talked about the girl going to Perzha’s court. He’d have thought the Sceltie would have had any number of opinions about going to an unknown village and court.

Maybe it was as simple as Jillian not wanting the Sceltie to be disappointed if he wasn’t included in this apprenticeship.

Khary’s absence troubled him, but not as much as the control Daemon saw on Lucivar’s face when his brother opened the door and stepped aside to let him in.

٭Daemonar found her this morning,٭ Lucivar said on a Red spear thread.

٭Found . . . ?٭ He looked toward the corner of the room where Daemonar knelt beside a whining ball of dirty fur.

“See?” Daemonar’s hand rested on the fur. “I told you he would be back.”

Shock sizzled through him, struck a blow to his heart. “Morghann?” He looked at Lucivar. “What happened? Is she hurt?”

“We’ll talk later,” Lucivar said quietly.

The Sceltie raised her head at the sound of his voice. Dull eyes brightened with joy. She uncurled, staggered a couple of steps, then ran to him. ٭Daemon! My Daemon!٭

Afraid she would try to leap into his arms and fall, Daemon crouched to meet her and gather her up. “Morghann. Why are you still here, little Sister? Why didn’t you go home with Lady Surreal and the others?”

٭I couldn’t find you.٭ She licked his chin before tucking her nose under his jacket, where she could breathe in his scent. ٭They left us.٭

Us. He had plenty of questions, but feeling the trembling dog in his arms, he focused on other priorities.

“I think we should all have a snack,” Lucivar said. “Then I’ll drive you and Morghann home in a Coach.”

“Maybe Morghann should have a bath before you go.” Daemonar wrinkled his nose. “She’s stinky.”

Since holding her so close to his face made his eyes sting and water, Daemon didn’t disagree. But as he followed Lucivar into the kitchen, he wondered where Morghann had been and what she’d been doing to smell that bad.

Watching the boy break up a small piece of cooked venison while Lucivar prepared a snack for the three humans, he also wondered how long she’d gone without food.

“Did you finish the private work you needed to do with the Queen?” Lucivar asked.

Daemonar’s head snapped up, a question in his eyes. Daemon returned the look and knew for certain the boy had known about Witch’s continued existence long before he and Lucivar had made the discovery.

“For now,” Daemon replied.

٭Private?٭ Morghann asked.

“Yes.” Looking at her, he could barely force the food down his throat, but he kept his voice calm, conversational. “The Lady has granted me permission to stay in her part of the Keep a few days each month in order to work on some private concerns.” No need to tell the Sceltie, or the boy, that the work was about maintaining his sanity.

“I told you he was doing something important for the Lady,” Daemonar said, feeding Morghann another piece of venison. Whatever else he might have said was silenced by a small shake of Lucivar’s head.

Taking the Sceltie to the sinks in Marian’s laundry room, Daemon gave Morghann a bath, while Daemonar crowded next to him, offering unnecessary advice.

“There’s still some soap there, Uncle Daemon.” Daemonar pointed to a spot on Morghann’s flank. “You probably didn’t see it because the shield on my arm is so bright—and blue.”

“And what did the Lady say when you complained about it?”

The boy gave him a sour look. “She laughed.”

She was a secret Daemonar hadn’t told anyone, not even his father. Still a secret kept from most of the Realm. But now it was shared by the men who still served Witch—and always would.

Daemon took the second driver’s seat in the Coach and settled Morghann on his lap. He couldn’t order her to stay in the passenger area of the Coach while he sat up here with Lucivar. He feared giving that order would break something inside her. Until he knew why she’d been left behind, he accepted that she needed to feel his hand on her, needed to take in his scent with every breath.

Lucivar closed the Coach and settled in the other driver’s seat. After guiding the Coach to the Webs of power that flowed in the Darkness, he caught the Ebon-gray Wind and headed for the Hall in Dhemlan.

٭What happened?٭ Daemon asked on a Red spear thread.

٭From what I pieced together from the things Marian and Daemonar told me yesterday, Morghann hid instead of going with Surreal and the others,٭ Lucivar replied. ٭At first, Marian thought she wanted to stay near Khary or had some other reason for staying at the eyrie and would show up when she got hungry. No one was concerned for the first couple of days, and no one mentioned it because you and I were dealing with larger problems.٭

That was one way of describing a decision that had shaken all the Blood in Askavi.

٭Daemonar searched for her every day,٭ Lucivar continued. ٭He even enlisted Tamnar to fly over the mountain with him in case she had left the eyrie and gotten lost. He and Marian told me about Morghann when I got home yesterday. I searched the whole damn eyrie and didn’t find her. Daemonar finally located her early this morning when hunger must have made her weak enough that she couldn’t maintain whatever Craft she’d used to hide from us.٭

٭Why did she hide in the first place? Did something happen with the children?٭

Lucivar looked at him. ٭No, not the children.٭

٭They left us,٭ Morghann had said. “Us” meaning her . . . and him.

Daemon petted the Sceltie, who dozed in his lap, not sure how to feel about such single-minded loyalty.

٭Best I can figure, she wasn’t leaving without you,٭ Lucivar said. ٭And because she couldn’t find you, she kept searching the place she knew without realizing you were at the Keep.٭

٭The three Scelties living with us hadn’t been to the Keep. There was no reason to take them there.٭

٭From what Daemonar could get out of her after he found her, she had decided that she must have done a wrong thing and that was why you had abandoned her.٭

٭I didn’t—٭

٭No, you didn’t.٭

Daemon closed his eyes. ٭She’s an insecure baby. I should have asked Khary to stay with her and Tagg, but he thought Jillian needed him more.٭

٭Wouldn’t have made any difference if Khary had been staying in my home instead of with Jillian. This was about you, old son. You’re Morghann’s special friend in the same way that Jaenelle Angelline was Ladvarian’s special friend.٭

Daemon opened his eyes and studied Lucivar. ٭What bothers you about this? Besides the obvious.٭

٭Your insecure baby, who wears a Purple Dusk Jewel, managed to hide from me in my own home. From me, Daemon. That shouldn’t have been possible.٭

Now Daemon studied the Sceltie. ٭How did she do it?٭

٭You had an Arcerian cat staying with you for a while.٭

٭And a unicorn. They went back to their home Territories soon after Jaenelle Saetien’s Birthright Ceremony. She liked them, and they seemed to like her, but . . . ٭

٭She wasn’t their dream,٭ Lucivar finished. ٭The Arcerians haven’t maintained ties to any of the human Blood, but they’re still connected to the Scelties.٭

Daemon nodded. ٭Yes, they are.٭

٭Well, I think your Arcerian visitor taught your furry baby how to sight shield the way the cats do. Unless you know what that particular bit of Craft feels like when they use it, you don’t know one of those cats is there until he kills you. I played enough games of stalk and pounce with Kaelas to identify the feel of that specific shield. If I’d known she’d learned from an Arcerian, I might have found her sooner—or not, since it wouldn’t feel quite the same with a Sceltie shaping that bit of Craft.٭

٭You’re worried about this?٭

٭An Arcerian uses the sight shield to hunt undetected, but they’re in their own Territory and have little contact with humans. Scelties live in the same villages as humans and are aware of a lot more than we want to believe.٭ Lucivar paused. ٭Let’s just say I’m relieved that Morghann chose you to be her teacher and special friend, because a Sceltie who is that skillful at hiding is not a witch I would want learning to do wrong things.٭

٭Point taken.٭ More than one point when added to Tersa’s warning to accept help offered with love. Unconditional love. Love without fear. Love that would do anything that was needed—including doing what everyone else had thought impossible. Ladvarian had felt that kind of love for Witch. Was Morghann offering the same kind of love to him?

They stopped at one of the family’s estates to give Morghann a little more food and water. While Lucivar kept an eye on the dog, Daemon talked to the estate’s manager and confirmed what he’d suspected: news that the Demon Prince once more walked the living Realms had already spread beyond Askavi.

Lucivar didn’t say anything for a while after they resumed their journey. Finally, he said, ٭They know?٭

٭They know,٭ Daemon replied, still keeping their conversation private. ٭Although the surprise seems to be that you’re just now laying claim to the whole of Askavi. The estate manager and housekeeper thought you’d done it years ago but hadn’t made a fuss about it.٭

Lucivar snorted a laugh. Then his amusement faded. ٭Things will change because of the choice I made, and not just for me.٭

٭Not everything will change, Prick,٭ Daemon replied softly. ٭And we won’t make the mistakes our father made or Andulvar made.٭

٭You sure about that?٭

He nodded. ٭They served the idea of Witch, held a line they believed the living myth would want them to hold. But I imagine, in the loneliest hours of the night, they must have wondered if they were holding on to hollow beliefs.٭

٭Hollow or not, they passed those beliefs on to us, taught us both where to draw the line.٭

٭And having lived under the corruption spawned by Dorothea, Hekatah, and Prythian, we’ll recognize that foulness before it sinks its roots too deep in Kaeleer. The biggest difference between us and our father and uncle is that we have someone holding the leash. She may not be flesh anymore, but Witch is still present, and our lives are still shaped by her will.٭

٭The Queen’s weapons.٭

٭Always.٭

A few minutes passed in companionable silence before Lucivar said, ٭If Perzha’s court complains about that damn Sceltie trying to rearrange the village to suit himself, you and I are going to have words.٭

٭Well, if the Rihland courts start whining about being under your hand, offer them a choice: you or a Sceltie Warlord Prince. There are a couple at the school in Scelt who are looking for a challenge. After a week or so of being nipped and herded by one of them, the Rihlanders will be pathetically grateful to have you take over.٭

“May the Darkness be merciful,” Lucivar muttered. Then he laughed, long and loud.

After escorting Dillon to Nurian’s eyrie, Rothvar remained in the kitchen while Jillian led Dillon to the sitting room. Khary abandoned the bone he’d been gnawing, faced the other Opal-Jeweled Warlord, and growled.

٭He’s a guest, Khary,٭ she said on a psychic thread. ٭No biting.٭

٭No touching,٭ Khary replied.

She couldn’t argue with that, but she thought it was better for everyone if she didn’t agree with the Sceltie, since Khary had a strict interpretation of “touching.”

“Would you like to sit down?” Jillian said, waving a hand at the furniture.

“No. Thank you.” Dillon tucked his hands in his pockets. “I’m sorry I used that spell on you. I’m not sorry I used it on the other girls. They would have done the same to me without a second thought. But I’m sorry I used it on you.”

“Why?”

“Because I liked you. I wanted you to be impressed so that you would love me, at least for a little while, so I used that stupid spell instead of courting you properly.”

“Prince Yaslana wouldn’t have allowed a courtship,” Jillian said.

“Maybe not, but he might have allowed us to be friends.” Dillon sighed. “I wanted to stay in a place without feeling hunted. I wanted to repair my honor. I think I said things that hurt you, things that might have made you feel small so that I could feel important. I wasn’t like that before I met Blyte. You have no reason to believe me, but I wasn’t like that.”

She did believe him. Dillon looked . . . younger, less sophisticated. Maybe she was seeing him without any posturing for the first time. She wasn’t sure she would have seen him as a romantic figure, but she thought she could have been friends with this boy.

Jillian looked at the fading bruise on Dillon’s face. “I’m sorry I hit you.” She wasn’t in the least bit sorry, but it seemed like the polite thing to say.

He smiled. “Don’t be. I deserved it.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “That’s all I came to say.” He turned toward the door, then hesitated. “Jillian? One more thing.”

“What?” she asked when he didn’t say anything.

“Just that Prince Yaslana is more of a father to you than my own father ever was to me. I think, in a way, I was a little bit jealous.”

Jillian remained in the sitting room for a while after Dillon left. Khary returned to the rug by her chair and gave his attention to the bone.

Mixed feelings and a bruised heart. Maybe that was what a first love was in the end. Maybe her memory of Dillon and that first love would fade over the years, but that other love—that fierce father’s love—would stay with her forever.

Karla walked into the Queen’s sitting room and waited.

“There’s no point in you pretending you don’t know I’m here. There’s no point in me pretending that I don’t know some part of you still exists here at the Keep. And there’s no point in either of us pretending that you can maintain the solitude that has kept loneliness at bay when it’s constantly being shattered by what the boyos need from you. Especially Sadi.”

٭So what is the point?٭

Words rising from deep in the abyss. Rising.

“The point is you asked me to stay if I could. I did, and here I am, helping Lucivar now that everyone in Askavi knows that he’s scary.”

٭He was always scary.٭

Rising. “Yes, but now they all know it, and it’s going to scare a few Queens pissless to realize his administrative second-in-command is a demon-dead Black Widow Queen who wears Gray Jewels.”

٭Which you’ll find entertaining.٭

That was beside the point. “I should receive compensation for this.”

Silence. Then a whisper of midnight in the voice rising out of the abyss. ٭Such as?٭

“Having someone sensible to talk to. Meaning someone who doesn’t have a wiggle-waggle.”

A different kind of silence. ٭Please tell me you didn’t use that term around Lucivar.٭

“Of course not,” Karla replied primly. “I said it to Sadi.”

Jaenelle’s silvery, velvet-coated laugh filled the sitting room. And then she was there. Witch. Myth and dreams and the extraordinary friendship that had changed the lives of a generation of Queens.

Witch gave Karla a wickedly gleeful smile and said, “Kiss kiss.”

FORTY-FOUR

Surreal felt Black power roll softly through the Hall and knew Daemon had returned.

She’d had a few days without his presence clouding her mind and swamping her with lust for his body. She’d had a few days to think about everything that had happened between them.

She still loved him. She still wanted to be married to him, still wanted him to be her husband in every way. She figured the best way to show him that she was willing to do that was to treat him as if the past few months hadn’t happened.

She paced and waited and waited and paced, listening for any movement in his bedroom. Then she walked over to the section of the Hall that held the suite Saetan had occupied until he withdrew from the living Realms to make room for Daemon to take his place as the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan. But the only person she found in the suite was Helene. The housekeeper gave the sitting room one more critical look before nodding to Surreal.

“Is he staying here?” Surreal asked. No point pretending with the senior staff, since they’d probably know where Daemon was sleeping on any given night before she did.

“I don’t know,” Helene replied. “He handed off his trunk to Jazen so that the clothes could be sorted and cleaned, but I don’t think he’s gotten farther than his study since he returned.” She waited a moment before adding, “The bedroom adjoining yours is also clean and ready for his return. Is there anything special you would like me to add to that room?”

Was that Helene’s way of offering assistance in coaxing the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan to stay close to his wife?

“If I think of anything, I’ll let you know,” Surreal said. “Thank you, Helene.”

“It’s my pleasure, Lady Surreal.”

Wanting to send the right message to the rest of the staff, Surreal moved briskly through the corridors of the Hall, heading for the rooms where visitors were met, which included Daemon’s study.

“Holt?” she called when she spotted Sadi’s secretary walking toward the door that led to the senior staff’s work area and his office.

Holt reversed direction, passing the open study door as he approached her. He offered Surreal an amused smile and tipped his head toward the door. “Important affairs to discuss.”

“Oh? Whose?” She nodded when Holt’s smile widened. “Of course. I should have known she’d pounce on him the moment he walked through the door.”

“Actually, I got to pounce first and point out the stacks of paperwork that Lord Marcus and I agreed most urgently required the Prince’s attention. The young Lady had to run down from the playroom in order to see him.”

“Since you’ve both had a chance at him, now it’s my turn.”

Holt bowed and, once again, headed for his office.

Surreal approached the study door. Since no one else was in the front hall at that moment, she wrapped herself in a sight shield. It wouldn’t prevent Daemon from knowing she was there, but she wanted a moment to see him with Jaenelle Saetien without the girl spotting her.

“I did them the way you asked,” Jaenelle Saetien said.

Surreal stepped into the doorway far enough to see them—Daemon sitting in his chair behind the desk, one arm around the girl, who leaned against him.

“You did an excellent job preparing these requests. You’ve included all the information I need to make an informed decision, which is the kind of decision a father wants to make.” Releasing his daughter, Daemon reached for a pen.

“You should sign them properly, like you do the papers for Holt,” Jaenelle Saetien said.

“Quite right.” He signed three papers on his desk. “Should I add my personal seal as well?”

Jaenelle Saetien grinned. “Yes!”

Surreal watched man and girl as they worked together to melt a stick of red wax and apply the seal Sadi used for his personal correspondence. She was about to drop the sight shield and step into the study when Jaenelle Saetien said, “Papa? Are you angry with Mama and me?”

Daemon set aside the seal and the remainder of the wax stick and put his arms around his daughter. “No, I’m not angry with either of you.”

“You didn’t come home with us.”

“Your uncle Lucivar needed my help.” Daemon gently brushed the hair away from Jaenelle Saetien’s face. “And there was another reason I didn’t come home with you. I thought it was a small thing, but it wasn’t. It isn’t.” He hesitated. “I haven’t been well, witch-child.”

“You’re sick?”

Surreal felt her daughter’s alarm like a knife between the ribs.

“Not sick the way you mean, but I haven’t been well. It’s going to take a while before I’m well again. That means a couple of times a month I’ll have to spend some time at the Keep. That’s where a special kind of healing can be done.”

“Can I come with you?”

Daemon shook his head. “This kind of healing needs to be private.”

“Are you better?”

“I am.”

“Does Mama know?”

Surreal dropped the sight shield and stepped into the study. “I know enough, but your father and I have some things to discuss.”

Daemon met her eyes, then turned his attention back to the child. “Witch-child, could you and Morghann take a short walk?”

“Yes, Papa.” Jaenelle Saetien looked around. “Where is she?”

“Morghann,” Daemon said quietly. “Kindly oblige me.”

The Sceltie walked around the desk, gave Jaenelle Saetien a small tail wag, and followed the girl out of the room.

Surreal closed the door and approached the desk, noting that Daemon remained seated—and watchful.

“You are better,” she said. “I can feel the difference—just like I felt the difference when you began the decline into . . . this. I wish I’d said something.”

“I understand why you didn’t.”

“Do you?” What do you think you understand? “We have things to discuss, but your attention is required elsewhere for the next few hours.”

Daemon looked at the stacks of papers on his desk and smiled wryly. “I noticed.”

She felt like she was walking across a frozen lake, with the ice cracking beneath her feet with every step and the shore a long ways away. One wrong move and she would break through and go under—and never find her way back to safe ground.

“Jaenelle Saetien has been joining me for dinner these past few days, but if you prefer not to listen to chatter, I could have her eat in her room tonight.”

“I’d like her to join us. Besides, after listening to the yappy horde, listening to one child should be easy enough.”

“Don’t count on it. She’s been waiting to tell you everything she did during her stay with her cousins.”

His laugh sounded genuine, so she asked the question she really wanted to ask. “Will you stay with me tonight?”

A heartbeat of hesitation before he said, “It will be my pleasure.”

“Then I’ll let you deal with some of this, and we’ll see you at dinner.”

Leaving the study, Surreal met up with Jaenelle Saetien and Morghann as the two returned from their walk. Morghann headed straight for the study door. When it didn’t open, she lay down in front of it and sighed.

“Come on.” Surreal put an arm around her daughter’s shoulders. “We’ll see your papa at dinner.”

As they went up to the family room, Surreal felt Sadi’s words gather weight and settle around her heart. “It will be my pleasure.” A Consort said that to a Queen. Sometimes he meant it. Other times it was an acknowledgment of duty.

Genuine pleasure or simply duty? She wasn’t sure which way Sadi had meant the words.

Daemon stood under the shower, letting the hot water pound some of the tension out of his neck and shoulders. He’d been glad to have Jaenelle Saetien as a chatty buffer at dinner. While he’d been dealing with avalanches of emotion—his own and others’—his girl had had a good time with her cousins. Unfortunately, in the middle of describing one of her adventures, she lobbed a question at him he would have preferred to ignore.

“Papa, why did you ask Tarl to pile up all those rocks at the end of the garden?”

“Those are for your mother.”

“Why does Mama need rocks?”

For reasons he wasn’t about to explain to a child.

After drying off and styling his hair, he slipped into a pair of black silk pants and the matching robe. He wasn’t sure what Surreal expected from him—or wanted from him tonight. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to offer—and he couldn’t say with any honesty that he was looking forward to spending the night in his wife’s bed.

When he walked out of the bathroom, he found Jazen waiting for him. His valet looked pointedly at the room’s other occupant.

He’d asked Beale to bring Morghann’s cushioned bed up to his room. With Tagg now living with Mikal and Tersa, and Khary still in Ebon Rih, he felt concerned that Morghann would feel abandoned, especially after making the choice to hide and starve when she couldn’t find him.

It wasn’t the bed or the Sceltie herself that was the reason for Jazen’s annoyance. It was . . .

٭That’s my shirt?٭ he asked, seeing a white cuff between the Sceltie’s front paws. The rest of the material was under her, making him think of a broody hen sitting on a silk egg—a thought he kept to himself, since he didn’t think dog or valet would appreciate the comparison.

٭Yes, that’s the shirt you removed a few minutes ago—the one I was going to take down to the laundry room,٭ Jazen replied. ٭She growled at me when I tried to take it back.٭

Daemon looked at Morghann, who gave him a tail-tip wag.

Sighing, he looked at Jazen. ٭Let her have the shirt.٭

٭You will explain that she can only have one shirt at a time. She can’t hoard them.٭

He stared at Jazen, but his valet didn’t back down, leaving him in the middle of a farce where Sceltie and valet would play a continual game of hoard and retrieve with his clothes.

٭I’ll talk to her,٭ he said, fighting the urge to laugh.

٭Very well.٭

٭There’s no need to get huffy.٭

٭I’ll remind you of that when you complain about not having any clean shirts in the closet.٭

٭Hell’s fire, man, just order more shirts and go away tonight.٭

Judging by the look on Jazen’s face before the man made a quick exit, Daemon realized he’d been herded into agreeing to exactly what his valet wanted.

“Damned impertinent,” he muttered. But there was something to be said for impertinence. A man couldn’t be completely terrifying if his valet was willing to argue with him about shirts.

Going over to the cushioned bed, he crouched in front of Morghann. It would crush her if he said she had done a wrong thing. Instead, he tugged the other sleeve out from under her and laid it over her like an arm casually draped around her.

“I’m going to be in the other room with Lady Surreal tonight,” he said quietly. “You need to stay in this room. Do you understand?”

٭I will wait here for you.٭

“Yes. You sleep here, and I will see you in the morning.”

He gave her one caress before he rose, walked over to the door that separated the bedrooms, and knocked.

Their lovemaking often began in what Surreal thought of as the social area of her room—the mix of tables, chairs, and love seat where she could read in solitude or talk privately with a close friend or her daughter. Or cuddle with her husband while they talked about their respective days or shared observations made during that evening’s dinner or social gathering.

She had a feeling that Sadi wouldn’t join her on the love seat tonight and might deliberately misinterpret her invitation to discuss things as strictly verbal communication. So she waited for him in bed, propped up with pillows, a book open in her lap.

“Come in,” she said in response to a knock on the adjoining room’s door. Her smile froze when he saw her and hesitated, which meant his saying, “It will be my pleasure,” when they had talked earlier had been an acknowledgment of his duty as a husband.

Hell’s fire! She’d been a whore for decades. She’d been the most expensive whore for decades. Tonight she would need all of that skill to show him he was still wanted, still loved.

She flipped the covers back on his side of the bed. She closed her book but didn’t put it on the bedside table, a subtle way of telling him she didn’t expect him to perform immediately.

He stretched out beside her, propped up on one elbow. Not touching her.

“It’s confirmed now?” she asked. “Lucivar has taken over rule of all of Askavi?”

“He signed the document that gives him the whole Territory,” Daemon replied. “Draca and I witnessed it, so it’s official.”

“How does Marian feel about that?”

“She seemed to take it in stride after being assured that she wouldn’t have to be the buffer between Lucivar and all the Queens in Askavi beyond the ones whose territories are in Ebon Rih.”

“Someone has to arrange for audiences and prioritize meetings.”

Daemon looked amused. “It’s been sorted out. Marian will help Lucivar in his capacity as the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih, same as she’s done since she married him. Rothvar will be his second-in-command for the whole Territory when it comes to defending the Territory or any of its people from an outside invader or from each other. The Blood in Askavi will have a choice of living by the Old Ways or leaving. If they want to follow Terreillean ways, they can go back to Terreille—or face the Demon Prince on a killing field.”

“Mother Night.”

“There have been some savage fights in some of the Provinces, and several courts have broken. I imagine there will be quite a few people who want to talk to him in the next few days.”

“Who’s going to represent him when he’s not available to talk to the Queens and meet with the First Circles of newly formed courts?”

“Karla.”

Surreal blinked. “Karla?”

“Yeah.” Daemon laughed. “Lady Karla, the former Queen of Glacia, in all her Gray-Jeweled terrifying glory. She is Lucivar’s second-in-command when it comes to the Warlord Prince of Askavi’s administrative duties. With Draca’s permission, she set up an office in the Keep and will command from there.”

“Will she have helpers?”

“I expect so.”

“Will any of them be among the living?”

“I didn’t ask. I played least in sight and let Lucivar deal with her.”

“Well, he did choose her.”

“Not exactly.”

She laughed and set her book aside. Before she could turn to him, he placed a hand over hers, and his mood sobered.

“The rocks at the back of the garden,” he said.

“If you want a rock garden, Sadi, you and Tarl can build it.” The sass in her voice should have made him smile. It didn’t.

“They aren’t there to grow anything. They’re there . . .” He sighed. “It’s dangerous to thin the shields around that chamber beneath the Hall. I must insist that you stop doing that.”

“What’s in the chamber?”

“Nothing that concerns you—and not something we’ll discuss.”

She studied his face, tried to read the warning. “Something Saetan left in your care?”

“Yes.”

She nodded her acceptance, since there was nothing else she could do.

“The rock pile is a place where you can drain your Gray Jewel whenever you need to,” Daemon said. “I’ve laced Black shields around them and filled pockets between the rocks with Black power. You can strike the shields without worrying about damage or danger.”

Meaning she wouldn’t have to engage with him directly for help draining the Gray or the Green. Since she’d avoided asking for his help for months, why did his creating this solution make her sad?

“Well,” he said.

She touched his face, kissed his mouth. “Stay. I need you, Daemon. Stay.”

She could barely feel the sexual heat that had been such a torment and wondered what he had done to quiet it so much that it was barely a sensual warmth tonight.

He didn’t reject her kisses or withdraw from her touch, but it took a while before he began to respond with some excitement, before he began kissing her back with some enthusiasm. Then she pulled the robe off his shoulders and ran her hand down his right arm—and found the scars.

She jerked back and stared at the white, thin ridges. “Hell’s fire, Sadi. What happened?”

He said nothing.

“Why didn’t Nurian heal these wounds so they wouldn’t leave scars?”

“They were meant to scar,” he said quietly. “Just as the one on my left wrist was meant to scar.”

“Why?”

“A reminder.”

Of what? she almost asked him. Then she remembered what he’d told Jaenelle Saetien about a private kind of healing at the Keep and knew who had given him those scars.

He kissed her, a lover intent on pleasuring his woman—or at least pleasuring the one he could touch. He took his time and loved her in all the ways she liked best. And when he finally sheathed his cock inside her, she knew he enjoyed it, knew he wanted her.

And yet . . .

Surreal invited Daemon to her bed each night, and they made love until they were both spent. The sexual heat became more noticeable with each passing day, and she knew Daemon watched her, always assessing whether the pleasure he gave her, and his presence, was still enjoyable or had slipped into torment. On the fourth night, instead of joining her in her bed, he kissed her good night and retreated to the suite that now served as his sanctuary.

He never stayed with her more than three nights in a row. Sometimes he retreated to the suite that had been his father’s. Sometimes he went to the Keep after Jaenelle Saetien fell asleep, and stayed for a day or two. When he returned, the sexual heat was drained to the point that it was just enough to add a fillip of arousal to everyday desire.

The edgy play that had been the merest whisper of the Sadist and had been an exciting part of being in bed with him was missing altogether, even when the heat became uncomfortably intense, and she regretted the loss.

She couldn’t breach the barrier between them—and admitted to herself that maybe she didn’t want to. She felt comfortable being around him again, felt they had reestablished the partnership they’d had for decades. This arrangement gave her breathing room so that she didn’t have to look at the full truth about the man she had married.

The truth had terrified her, but, Hell’s fire, it had been exciting too. The problem was, if she managed to break that barrier, could she survive the man now contained behind it?

Her feelings were conflicted. Daemon’s feelings were not. In bed and out, he maintained that careful distance between them in order to keep her safe, and he did it out of courtesy, out of respect, out of kindness.

Out of love.

FORTY-FIVE

They stood in front of the gate of a sprawling patchwork house.

Jillian had never seen the ocean, was already fascinated by the fishing boats that were heading out. Would any of those fish find their way to Riada? Would she have the opportunity to learn how to catch one?

Her first apprenticeship in a real court. What would her duties be? What . . . ?

Lucivar sighed.

She looked up at him. “You’re going to have to do this three more times.”

“Don’t remind me.”

He sounded unhappy. He sounded like a father who wanted to keep his girl close to his own wings but knew he had to let her soar on her own. Had the other steps he’d let her take been as hard for him, or was this a bigger leap?

Nurian and Marian had both given her spending money as a farewell gift, after learning that she’d given all her savings to Dillon. The first thing she would look for once she got settled in was some nice stationery that might reflect the sea or this village so that Lucivar would know she had bought it in order to write to him.

She saw the homely woman walking toward them, talking to two men who were escorting her away from the Queen’s home. She wore skirts and shawls and so many jangly bracelets, she could be heard down the street.

“It’s kind of the Queen to grant an audience to the village rag lady,” she said, trying to sound grown-up.

Lucivar choked on a laugh. “That’s not a rag lady, witchling. That’s Perzha, the Queen of Little Weeble.”

Her jaw dropped as the woman smiled at them and waved.

“Another thing,” Lucivar said. “Perzha has an allergy to sunlight and rests during the day. Some members of my family had a similar allergy.”

Jillian blinked. “You mean she—”

“Has an allergy to sunlight and has to drink a special tonic.” His gold eyes held two parts warning and one part amusement.

“Right. Allergy to sunlight. Special tonic.”

“Come in, come in.” Perzha waved her hand. “Don’t just stand at the gate.”

The other member of their little party didn’t require a further invitation. He trotted over to the gate and wagged his tail.

٭I am Khary. I am a Sceltie. I am Jillian’s special friend.٭

“Oh, my.” Perzha patted her chest. “How delightful. Welcome, Lord Khary.”

“Should have warned her,” Lucivar muttered.

“It’s been a long time since one of your people came to our village, but I remember when Lord Ladvarian used to accompany the Queen when she came for a visit. You know he was the Lady’s special friend.”

Khary seemed stunned into momentary silence.

“Last thing, witchling,” Lucivar said quietly. “Perzha wears a Red Jewel and comes from one of the oldest aristo Rihlander families in Askavi. And she and the Queen of Ebon Askavi were good friends.”

The rag lady Queen wore a Red Jewel? Was aristo? Had been a friend of Witch?

Baffled and dazzled, Jillian followed the adults to a table on a terrace overlooking a garden.

“Do you know anything about plants?” Perzha asked. “I so enjoy spending a little time in my garden, but I’m afraid I never get to all the weeding.” She held out a hand and smiled. “I’m Perzha, in case Prince Yaslana forgot to tell you. And you must be Jillian. Such a pretty girl. Do you like fish? We have a lot of fish here.”

٭Do I like fish?٭ Khary asked Jillian. ٭Do fish like Scelties?٭

“I’ve heard that you should stick a fork in the pancakes and not eat any that sprout tentacles and run away,” Lucivar said dryly.

Perzha laughed. “Did Prince Sadi tell you the rest?”

“There’s more?”

Instead of replying, Perzha looked at Jillian. “Little Weeble is a small village and everyone looks out for one another, but I’d still like you to have an escort at least for the first few days.” She looked at Khary. “An additional escort.”

“Yes, Lady.”

“Did anyone mention that I have an allergy to sunlight?”

Jillian didn’t dare look at Lucivar. “Yes, Lady.”

“And you know what that means?”

“I think so, Lady.”

“Good.” Perzha studied Lucivar. “Are you staying for breakfast?”

“No.”

She shook her head. “I wouldn’t have thought you and your brother would be so squeamish.”

“We’re not squeamish. We just don’t like having our food run away after it’s on the plate.”

“Well, Prince Sadi certainly wasn’t going to eat the little creature, so what difference did it make as long as it got out of the way?” Perzha patted her chest. “Besides, Carleton brought him a fresh plate of food after the incident.”

None of the Rihlanders Jillian knew would have spoken to Yaslana or Sadi that way.

٭You sure about this, witchling?٭ Lucivar asked on a psychic thread.

٭Oh, yes.٭

He grunted. “If either of you has a problem, let me know. Otherwise . . .”

“Go,” Perzha said. It was gently said, but there was no doubt that it was a dismissal. “They’ll both be fine.”

Lucivar slanted a glance at Khary, then at Perzha. “Will you?”

Perzha smiled at him—and Lucivar Yaslana walked away.

“This is one of the hardest things he’s ever done,” Perzha said. “You know that, don’t you?”

Jillian blinked away sentimental tears. “I know.”

“Good. Then let’s get you both settled in your room so that you can begin.”

Far enough away from home, but not too far. She and Khary would learn new things and have adventures—and she would remember every day that Lucivar had given her the chance to have those things, just as he’d been giving her chances to learn and grow since the day he brought her and Nurian to Ebon Rih.

“Yes,” Jillian said, smiling. “We’re ready to begin.” She looked at her special friend. ٭Are you ready?٭

٭Yes,٭ Khary replied. ٭There are many interesting smells here, and many humans we can help.٭

Swallowing a laugh, Jillian followed Perzha into the house.