The Queen's Price

THREE

Restless and unable to sleep, Daemonar wandered some of the corridors in the uninhabited areas of the Hall. He would have gone outside to do sparring warm-ups or fly to the estate’s lake and back, but another storm had kicked up early in the evening—driving rain and winds strong enough to rattle the windows in their frames. Even if he was well-shielded, it wasn’t the kind of weather for flying unless there wasn’t a choice. So he walked while he wrestled with his conscience.

Posing the incident as a hypothetical question when he’d told Uncle Daemon about the spell going awry and breaking a wall scratched at him, even though he’d done it to protect the girls. If he’d made the mistake, he would have told Sadi straight out and offered to pay for the repairs. Daemon might vigorously voice his opinion about the careless use of Craft, but he wouldn’t boot his nephew out the door.

Everyone had known he wasn’t reporting anything hypothetical—you didn’t hire carpenters and stone masons to repair a hypothetical hole—so he hadn’t told a lie.

It still felt like a lie. It still felt like the kind of pissing around with words that would have had his father backing him up against a wall and insisting on straight truth.

But Zoey, Titian, Jhett, Arlene, and the other girls who had been trying . . . whatever . . . were still adjusting to life at SaDiablo Hall—and living under the hand of a man who was the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan, as well as the High Lord of Hell. The lines for what Daemon would and wouldn’t tolerate were still being drawn—daily, it seemed. It wasn’t like those lines were hard to figure out most of the time, since each of the students had been given a printed list of the Hall’s basic rules—and what behaviors would earn immediate expulsion from the Hall. But the hurt of Saetien’s involvement in the coven of malice was still too fresh. That Witch, the living myth, had intervened to spare Daemon from having to execute his own daughter wasn’t forgotten either. That was one reason why there was sometimes a sharp chill in Daemon Sadi’s gold eyes when anyone’s behavior leaned a little toward being the bitch.

It wasn’t Daemonar’s job to ride herd on the other thirty-five youngsters. He was here to study too. And yet he stood apart from the rest of the boys. He was older, for one thing. He was an Eyrien Warlord Prince who wore Birthright Green, for another. He’d stood on his first killing field when Zoey and Titian had been under attack. Because of that, he wasn’t like the other boys anymore—even the other boys who were Warlord Princes.

He had friends here. There was Mikal, who was Daemon’s legal ward and was doing a revolving apprenticeship with Beale, Holt, and Lord Marcus, who was Daemon’s man of business. There was Prince Raine, who had been an instructor at the school in Amdarh and now was an instructor here at the Hall.

There was Beron, who was Mikal’s older brother. Beron had reached his majority and was no longer Daemon’s legal ward but was still under Sadi’s protection. Daemonar didn’t see the Opal-Jeweled Warlord often, because Beron was an actor living in Amdarh, Dhemlan’s capital city, but the man understood and fit in with the power and temper that were part of the SaDiablo and Yaslana families.

There were men like Holt and Lord Weston, who was Zoey’s sword and shield—adults who didn’t forget they were adults but weren’t that much older and took working at the Hall in their stride.

And there was Uncle Daemon. Patriarch of the family, yes. Merciless and lethal when his temper turned cold and he slipped into an aspect of himself that the rest of the Blood called the Sadist. Oh, yes. Only a fool didn’t fear the Sadist. But Daemon was also a loving uncle and a friend who would listen. Someone who would teach, who could be counted on to have your back when you needed help. Someone who would defend and protect.

A fierce gust of wind hit the Hall. Rain lashed the windows. No curtains or shutters over the windows here. Maybe all the students could help Uncle Daemon put shields over the windows in this part of the Hall to keep out the damp and chill? They were coming into warmer weather, sure, but they were still looking at plenty of cold nights and rainy days.

Daemonar reached a corner and was about to turn back when he heard . . . something. A muttering? He stood quietly, listening. Then he released some of his Green power in a careful probe of the corridor. Nothing. No one. But . . . there was that muttering again.

Putting a tight Green shield around himself and calling in his Eyrien club, Daemonar stepped around the corner.

No one there. If someone was hiding in shadows or trying to sight shield, he would feel them, pick up the psychic scent. Unless the person wore a darker Jewel, but neither Beale nor Uncle Daemon would be standing in a corridor in this part of the Hall at this time of night on the off chance that someone would come along.

Daemonar blew out a breath and vanished the club. Time to go back to his own room and . . .

Another gust of wind—and the nearest window began a snarling roar of sound, savage and . . . Eyrien. The window was swearing in Eyrien. One voice? Two?

What in the name of Hell?

An Eyrien war cry sounded as the wind rattled the window.

It made no sense. There was no reason to be afraid of a window. And yet the sound made his skin crawl. It was too strange and unnerving for him to face alone at this time of night. So Daemonar Yaslana did the only sensible thing to do—he ran to the suite of rooms where Uncle Daemon now resided and pounded on the bedroom door.

The door swung open. Daemonar wasn’t sure if he was looking at the High Lord of Hell or the Sadist—or if this was Uncle Daemon, just sleepy and pissed off at being jolted awake. No matter which aspect of Sadi had opened the door, at least the man was wearing silk pajama bottoms and wouldn’t go charging through the Hall showing off his male pride the way Lucivar would have done.

“Something weird is happening in one of the corridors,” Daemonar said. “Seriously weird.”

Those glazed gold eyes studied him before Sadi said, “Show me.”

Daemonar didn’t worry about going too fast. Daemon might not look like he moved quickly most of the time, but he had a gliding stride that covered a lot of ground when he wanted to get somewhere.

When they reached the corner and would turn into the corridor with that window, Daemonar held up a hand—and didn’t appreciate until Sadi stopped that he’d just given a command to a Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince.

“It’s a window in this corridor,” Daemonar whispered. Lowering his hand, he called in his Eyrien club for the second time. Then he took a breath, wrapped a Green shield around himself, and turned into that corridor, aware of Daemon, wrapped in a Red shield, moving a step behind him and a long step to the side. Fighting room.

He nodded at the window. “This one. I heard muttering at first; then when a gust of wind rattled the frame . . .”

Daemon called in one of his gold and ruby cuff links and held it out.

“Uncle Daemon, I don’t think—”

A gust of wind shook the windows and that savage voice—voices?—rumbled and roared out language that might have made Daemonar blush if he hadn’t felt so threatened.

The wind faded. The voices muttered for a few moments longer before they, too, faded.

Daemonar glanced at Uncle Daemon, who stared at the window and looked like someone had dropped him into a mountain lake in the middle of winter.

“Sir?”

No response.

“Uncle Daemon?”

He felt a flutter of Red power before Daemon vanished the cuff link.

“There’s a chip of my Birthright Red Jewel under the ruby,” Daemon said. “It holds an auditory spell that retains conversations. I’ve found it very useful over the years when I didn’t want to rely on my memory for what was said at an official meeting.”

“So you can replay . . . that?” Daemonar tipped his head toward the window.

Daemon nodded. “I want Lucivar to hear this, and there’s no guarantee we’ll have gusts of wind when we need them.”

“You’d just need to rattle the window frame. Wouldn’t you?”

“Maybe. Depends on if specific conditions have to be present for this bit of Craft to manifest.”

Daemonar stared at the window. “Is it just Craft?”

Instead of answering, Daemon raised his right hand and created a Black shield at one end of the corridor. “Let’s go.” When they reached the corner, he created a second Black shield. Then he nodded. “That will keep anyone else from stumbling across whatever this is.”

They headed back to their suites.

“Just out of curiosity, what were you doing in that part of the Hall at this time of night?” Daemon asked.

“Walking. Couldn’t sleep.”

Daemon said nothing for a minute. “Troubled by hypothetical questions?”

Daemonar winced. “I didn’t want the girls to get into trouble, but I wasn’t going to let them hide it from you.”

“Would they have tried to hide it?”

Spoken mildly, but not an idle question.

“I think some of the girls were afraid of being expelled. They would have stood up eventually, but it would have taken a while for them to work up the courage. Zoey and Titian would have dithered a bit, but they would have strapped steel to their spines and told you what they had done before the evening meal.” He knew from experience that sitting at a table for a meal with his uncle or father—or worse, both of them—when you’d done something wrong or stupid and hadn’t told anyone was a lesson in how excruciating silence could be when you were certain they knew what you’d done and were waiting with a predator’s patience for you to tell them.

Zoey and Titian would never have gotten through a meal with Uncle Daemon if they’d tried to hide that a spell had gone wrong. And Uncle Daemon would not have been happy about sitting at a table with weeping girls once they felt the weight of his cold displeasure. Oh, he would have sat there, but he wouldn’t have been happy about it.

“But you were the one who entered my study to tell me that something happened,” Daemon said.

“I’m the oldest, and I have the most experience with getting into trouble.” He stared at the wall. “But saying it was hypothetical felt like a lie.”

Daemon laughed softly. “Having grown up with Lucivar, I can see how it could feel that way, but I’d bet even your father posed a few hypothetical questions when Jaenelle and the coven lived here. That’s not a lie, boyo. That’s love.” He paused, then added, “Cherish and protect, but don’t be too much of a shield. Learn from my mistake. Have their backs, yes, but also insist that the girls strap on that steel and be the ones to face me—and accept the consequences of their own actions.”

“Yes, sir.”

Daemon wrapped a hand around the back of Daemonar’s neck, then kissed his forehead. “Get some sleep, boyo.”

“Good night, Uncle Daemon.”

Daemon walked into his bedroom—and locked the door.

The High Lord’s square of rooms. Saetan had occupied that suite for centuries. Andulvar and Prothvar Yaslana had occupied suites that looked out over that courtyard. So had Saetan’s eldest son, Mephis SaDiablo. Now it was off-limits to everyone because Daemon used that courtyard as a place to drain some of his Black power, as well as the overwhelming sexual heat that was part of the price he paid for being a Warlord Prince who wore the Black.

Across from the High Lord’s square was the Queen’s square. The rooms Jaenelle Angelline and Daemon Sadi had occupied when Jaenelle had been alive were also off-limits, as was the suite that Lady Karla had occupied since the summer that Witch’s coven had first come to the Hall. Other suites in that courtyard were now assigned to some of the girls who had been at the Hall when the coven of malice had attacked, including Zoey, Titian, Jhett, and Arlene. They were still skittish, and being so close to the Black was the only reason any of them could sleep.

The next square of suites was reserved for the most trusted of those who served, a group that included Lord Holt, Lord Weston, Prince Raine, Prince Chaosti when he visited the Hall—and Daemonar. Another difference between him and the other boys.

The rest of the youngsters were in squares that were within easy reach of the protectors but not as close to Uncle Daemon.

Feeling easier about the hypothetical hole in the wall—which was going to take more work to fix than he’d realized—and a little easier generally now that he wasn’t the only one who had heard that damn swearing window, Daemonar went to his suite, stretched out on his bed, and was asleep in minutes.

“Shit!”

Daemon prowled his sitting room, trying to sort out the implications of what he’d just heard—and felt.

He’d spent three nights hunting through the Hall, looking for the spelled window Saetan had created as a lesson and a bit of payback for the shouting windows Jaenelle and the coven had made. Tonight he’d retired to his suite to sleep because he was giving Craft lessons tomorrow, and with thirty-six youngsters with varying ability in basic Craft, let alone things that required more skill, he did not need his mind clouded by fatigue.

The first night he’d chosen to sleep, and this was the night that the boy, trying to walk off a guilty conscience, stumbled upon the damn window!

Daemon called in the cuff link, stared at it a moment, then vanished it. He didn’t need to hear those voices again to know that something was very wrong. The spell Saetan had created as a lesson for the coven would not have had the feel of threat and violence, would not have felt . . . bloated . . . with intent. Saetan would not have aimed a spell filled with violence toward his daughter or the young Queens who considered him an honorary uncle.

Which meant something had gone wrong or the spell had been tampered with. Or . . .

Traps. Snares. Could there be demon-dead trapped in that window, looking for a way out in order to attack the living? He hadn’t sensed that kind of danger, but something about the feel of the spell reminded him of that damn spooky house a writer named Jarvis Jenkell had created to trap—and kill—members of the SaDiablo family. Except Jenkell hadn’t taken into account the one member of the family who wouldn’t play by the rules even before entering the house.

The one member of the family who might recognize whatever was in that window. If Lucivar’s solution was to blow out the whole damn wall, then so be it. They would deal with the structural challenges afterward.

Daemon looked at the tall freestanding clock. Considering the time, it would be courteous to wait a couple more hours.

Since Daemonar and Titian were in residence and that window posed a potential threat, Lucivar would thump him against a wall if he waited—and he would deserve the thumping.

Standing in the middle of his sitting room, Daemon closed his eyes and sent out a call on an Ebon-gray spear thread. *Prick?* He waited a moment. *Prick?*

*Bastard? What . . . ?*

He could picture Lucivar Yaslana slipping out of bed and out of the bedroom as the Eyrien’s temper rose hot toward the killing edge. *I need your help with a bit of Craft I found at the Hall.*

*Craft? Oh, Hell’s fire, what did they do?*

*The children? They blew a hole in a wall, but that’s not important. It’s a bit of Craft that Father created. Sweet Darkness, Prick, I hope this wasn’t what he’d intended, but . . . Well, you walked into that spooky house; I didn’t. If this is something similar . . .*

*Are you going to get any more sleep?* Lucivar asked.

*No.*

*All right. I’ll tell Marian where I’m going and give Rothvar his orders for the next couple of days. Then I’ll head out. I’ll be at the Hall in time to meet you for an early breakfast.*

*Good.* Daemon ended the link between them. Shivering, he called in a robe and added a warming spell. Then he rubbed his hands over his face and through his thick black hair.

Hell’s fire, he needed some sleep. Maybe that’s why he wasn’t seeing something obvious.

Then again, Saetan had created that bit of Craft, so maybe obviousness hadn’t been the point.