The Queen's Price

SEVENTY-NINE

Daemon listened. Part of him was grateful, was relieved, that Butler had been able to do so much for Saetien. Another part of him wondered how this man had been able to cut through all the temperamental adolescent crap so that the emerging young woman reflected the wonderful child Saetien had been before her Birthright Ceremony.

“She’s young, Butler,” Daemon said.

“Jillian was around the same age when she went to Little Weeble,” Witch said.

“That isn’t helpful right now.” The words came out in a growl.

“Butler will be there to continue Saetien’s education in business, and he’ll be there when young men come to call.” Witch smiled at both of them when they stared at her. “Well, they will come to call.”

“Daylight,” Daemon and Butler said.

“Kindred,” she countered. “Hooves and teeth and opinions. There is a whole school of Scelties in that village more than willing to offer opinions, to say nothing about acting as self-appointed chaperons. She’ll also be under Kieran’s protection, which everyone in Maghre has already figured out.”

Witch stared at Butler. Stared through him. Then she asked softly, “For yourself as well as for her?”

“Yes,” Butler replied just as softly.

“You’re welcome at the Keep whenever the time comes, Prince Butler.”

“Thank you, Lady.” A pause. “Prince?”

So hard to say the words. “Help her grow into the life she wants for as long as it suits you both,” Daemon replied. “And thank you, Butler.”

“It is my pleasure, Prince.” Butler bowed and walked out of the sitting room in the Queen’s part of the Keep.

Daemon waited until Butler left the Keep. Then he poured a large brandy and stared into the liquid. “How did Lucivar stand it when he realized Jillian wasn’t going to come back? That the leaving he thought was temporary was actually her leaving for good?”

“Ask him,” Jaenelle said. She touched his right arm where four white scars reminded him that he wasn’t alone. “Come into my sitting room. I’d like to show you a couple of things.”

He downed the brandy and followed her across the corridor to her private sitting room. He froze when he spotted the tangled web positioned in the center of a table.

“Take a look,” Jaenelle invited.

He approached the table reluctantly. “This is about Saetien?”

“She’s part of it, but this tangled web is more about Butler.”

Daemon looked into the tangled web of dreams and visions. Then he looked at Jaenelle. “A daughter of the heart? Saetien is the daughter of his heart?”

She smiled. “He didn’t know it, but he’s waited a long time for her—and this is the right time in her life to find him. He can help her build an extraordinary ordinary life.”

The kind of life you would have chosen for yourself if you hadn’t been Witch, the Queen of Ebon Askavi. The kind of life we tried to have, at least some of the time, despite being who and what we are.

Knowing that made it a little easier to let his daughter go. No, not let her go; to share her and let her find a life beyond his shadow—and the shadow of Ebon Askavi.

“What’s the other thing you wanted to show me?”

She hesitated. He tensed.

“It has been pointed out to me that hooves are sharp, and the demon-dead can’t heal if they’re injured.” She wandered around the sitting room, as if putting some distance between herself and Daemon without his thinking she was putting distance between them.

“So . . . ?” He gave her a smile that made her tail twitch. Oh, she was nervous about something.

“So if my Self is going to be contained in a shadow that can touch and be touched, and we’re going to . . .” She blushed. “Well, not that but . . .”

“We’re going to cuddle in bed?”

“Yes.” She sounded relieved to hear his suggestion. “If we’re going to cuddle, it would be better if there wasn’t a chance of your legs being damaged if I . . .” More wandering. Agitated now.

“You still have nightmares about Briarwood?” he asked softly. “Even now?”

Her smile held quiet pain. “There is no cure for Briarwood. Not even for me.” A beat of silence before she added, “Especially for me.”

“What does that have to do with hooves?” He had a thought and wasn’t sure if he wanted to hear her say it.

She swept a hand in front of herself. “This is who I am, who I always was beneath the human flesh.”

“I know.”

“But a shadow that clothes the Self can take another shape.” Hesitation. “I thought . . .”

“Seventy.”

She frowned at him.

Daemon moved slowly toward her. “If you were about to suggest creating a shadow that looks like you did when you walked among the living, and if you were about to ask me the age that should be reflected by that shadow, then my answer is seventy.” He moved closer. Closer. “You were always beautiful, but you were exquisite when you were seventy. Your hair was a mix of silver and gold that shone in sunlight, and the lines on your face spoke of a good life. You were healthy.” His smile had enough heat to make her blush—something he hadn’t thought a shadow could do. “And you were still quite limber at that age.”

“Daemon!”

“Jaenelle?”

“Would you settle for sixty-five? Based on the paintings that were available, I didn’t see much difference.”

“Oh?” A drawn-out word. His heat slipped the leash a little. Not that she would notice. Or would she?

One moment he was looking at Witch, at the Self who had a gold mane that was more like fur than hair; who had a tiny spiral horn in the center of her forehead; who had sharp claws and sharp hooves. The next moment he was looking at Jaenelle as she’d been at sixty-five. A shadow that looked like the woman he had adored in every way through forty years of marriage when she had been that age.

He wanted almost beyond sanity to touch her. Then he considered what it would be like if people seeking an audience with Witch saw this lovely older woman instead of the dreams that had always existed beneath the human skin. Witch was feared now because her shape revealed the truth about her Self. In this form? Too many would come seeking an audience—and making demands—just as they had done when she had walked among the living.

Instead of reaching for her, Daemon stepped back and said, “No.”

She looked startled. “Daemon . . .”

“No.” He shook his head. “I’ve told you more than once over the years that I have never cared about the way you looked. I didn’t fall in love with you because of your physical body, and that has never changed. If my legs end up sliced to ribbons, so be it. Everything has a price. But you. This . . . manifestation of your true Self reflects the feral side of your nature—and the power you stored in the Misty Place. This shadow does not invite importuning people to come to the Keep expecting you to do them favors. Standing before Witch shouldn’t be a small thing. Hell’s fire, Jaenelle, you purged all the Realms of our enemies, and there are a few people—myself and Lucivar included—who understand that you could do it again. If you look human, if you look approachable, people will want what you shouldn’t have to give. Not anymore.”

She stared at him. Her lips twitched. “You’re spending too much time with Scelties. You’re sounding very bossy.”

“I’m a Warlord Prince. It’s my nature to be bossy.”

She looked amused. Had he missed something?

“I appreciate your feelings, Prince, and I agree with your reasons.”

Thank the Darkness for that.

“I was thinking that my Self could be in this human-shaped shadow here in our suites. Only here. Only with you.” Jaenelle looked toward the door that opened into the corridor. “Everyone else? Let them see Witch for who and what she is.”

When he saw her hesitate, he said, “Lucivar doesn’t care what form you take as long as he can talk to you, spend some time with you. Same with Daemonar—although I think he might miss seeing the tail if you started looking human again. It twitches faster when you’re irritated.” His heated smile had her taking a step back. “Or feeling wary.”

She disappeared. A moment later, she reappeared as Witch, spiral horn and hooves and all the rest.

“If you’ve spent time creating that other shadow, I must have miscalculated, and the horizon that marks my time among the living is much closer than I thought it would be.” All the more reason to be grateful that Butler would be there to help Saetien accept that day when it came. “How much time?”

Jaenelle looked sad. “A few years.”

He moved toward her, leaned toward her. Brushed her lips with his. “It’s enough time,” he whispered before kissing her again. “It’s enough.”