The Shadow Queen

CHAPTER 26

Someone tapped lightly on the first of Daemon’s inner barriers, waking him from a sound sleep.

*Prince Sadi?*

*Beale?* The butler wasn’t in the bedroom, but Daemon still pulled the covers up around Jaenelle’s delightfully naked body before he shifted far enough to turn over without disturbing her. *Beale?*

*You’re needed downstairs, Prince,* Beale said.

He took a moment to sift through the messages coming from the controlled tone of Beale’s voice on the psychic thread as well as the butler’s psychic scent. Whatever brought Beale up here to wake him required his immediate attention but didn’t require a Warlord Prince rising from sleep primed to fight.

Understanding the careful line the man needed to walk in order to get the desired response rather than the instinctive one, Daemon realized just how skilled Beale was at his job. *What time is it?*

*A little after three in the morning.*

Daemon slipped out of bed, pulled on his robe, and went into the Consort’s bedroom, where Beale waited. After putting an aural shield around the room so Jaenelle wouldn’t be disturbed, he said, “What’s wrong?”

“A Warlord arrived a few minutes ago,” Beale said, keeping his voice quiet despite the shield. “From the Province Queen’s court.”

Dhemlan had several Provinces, each ruled by a Queen. But there was an edge in Beale’s voice that told Daemon exactly which Province Queen was asking for help.

Something must have happened to make Rhea desperate enough to ask for his help.

“Apparently there has been some trouble,” Beale said. “Under other circumstances, I would have assigned the Warlord to a guest room and had him wait to speak with you at a more convenient hour.”

“But?”

“He’s very frightened, Prince. Whatever he heard, whatever he saw . . . He’s very frightened.”

“All right. I’ll see him.”

“Mrs. Beale is making coffee and will have a plate ready for you. Just a little something until she can make you a proper breakfast.”

“Thank you. I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

Beale hesitated, and Daemon noticed a curious kind of tension in the other man.

“Something else?” Daemon asked.

“You’ll be going to that Province to talk to the Queen?”

The thought of going back to that damn Province and being a guest of Rhea’s again made his chest muscles tighten so much it was hard to breathe. “Probably.”

“One of the SaDiablo estates is in the neighboring Province, almost at the border of the two,” Beale said, sounding as if he was feeling his way over very shaky ground. “It’s a short distance to travel when a person is riding one of the darker Winds. I could send a messenger and let the staff there know you’ll be staying for a day or two.”

He hadn’t thought that far ahead, but now that Beale mentioned the ease of staying somewhere else, he realized it would be some time before he viewed any Queen’s residence as anything but a potential battleground.

Which was exactly how he had viewed the Queens’ courts when he was a pleasure slave in Terreille.

“Thank you, Beale.”

Why had Beale mentioned it?

Look at his eyes, old son. When he did, Daemon felt the ground shift under him just a little.

“It is not always a pleasure to work in an aristo house,” Beale said. “Even among the Blood, sometimes the employer forgets that the servant is also a person.”

What are you driving at, Beale?

“The High Lord was an excellent employer. No man who worked on any of his estates or in any of his houses needed to fear that he would be cornered into doing something that would smear his reputation, perhaps irreparably. No woman needed to fear the males around her during the days when she was vulnerable. The High Lord took care of his own. Always.” Beale paused. “And so do you. The small courtesies have not gone unnoticed by those who work for you, and the feeling of safety is still here.”

“I appreciate you telling me.” But they hadn’t gotten to the point of this conversation.

“You take care of your own, Prince.” Beale tapped a finger against his own chest. “So do we. Which is why, when you need to visit the Provinces from now on, the nearest residence that belongs to the SaDiablo family will be ready to accommodate you.”

“The residences are always ready. . . .” No, Daemon realized. It wasn’t about the houses. It was about him. It was about staying in a place where he wouldn’t have to be on guard all the time. It was about having servants around him that he could trust.

It was about other people—one Lady in particular—being safe around him because he felt safe.

“I should give you a raise,” Daemon said, not sure if he felt grateful or embarrassed.

“You already pay me quite well,” Beale said with a little smile as he left the room.

A few minutes later, dressed in trousers and a dressing gown, Daemon was down in his study listening to the barely coherent report of a murder. When he left the study, he found Jaenelle waiting for him in the great hall, with Beale and the footman Holt in watchful attendance.

“Have one of the Coaches brought round to the landing web,” Daemon told Beale.

“I’ll do that,” Holt said, looking at Beale.

Beale nodded. “I’ll ask Mrs. Beale to prepare something you can eat on the way.”

When the two men headed for their assigned tasks, Daemon led Jaenelle into the informal receiving room.

“Problem?” Jaenelle asked.

“The bitch who tried to play with me has been murdered,” Daemon replied.

“That didn’t take long,” she muttered.

“Apparently it’s how she died that’s causing alarm. The host’s wife has also been injured, but I don’t have a clear idea of how or how badly. I have to go there.” He could keep his pride or he could ask for what he needed. “Come with me.”

Her smile was gentle and teasing. “You want me to come as your escort and protect you from all the nasty witchlings?”

“Yes, I do.”

Her smile faded.

Did she understand what it cost him to ask?

Of course she did. She was Witch. In some ways, she knew him better than he knew himself.

She placed a hand against his cheek, a touch full of comfort. “I’ll make a bargain with you, Prince. I’ll stand as your sword and shield when you need it if you’ll do the same for me.”

He pressed a kiss into her palm. “I’ll take that bargain. Gladly.”

She stepped back. “Find out as much as you can, then ask Beale to slip that Warlord the sedative I prepared. I don’t think either of us wants to ride in a Coach with a hysterical man, and I could feel him losing control even before I came downstairs. I’ll pack some clothes and ask Jazen to pack a bag for you.”

She was about to open the door when Daemon said, “Jaenelle, they think it was me.” She didn’t turn to look at him. She froze in place, listening. “Rhea sent her man here to ask for help because everyone in that aristo Warlord’s house is more than scared. The Warlord who brought the message is afraid to say as much as he knows, but I got the impression that there’s something about the way Vulchera died that . . . They think they’re asking for help from the same man who killed her.”

“It wasn’t you,” Jaenelle said, finally turning to look at him. “May the Darkness have mercy on her, because it wasn’t you.”

She looked pale, and that confirmed his own suspicion. And the worry that went hand in hand with that suspicion.

“I’ll get packed,” she said.

He went back to his study and reviewed the information with the Warlord again but didn’t learn more than he had gleaned the first time. Leaving the man in Beale’s care, he returned to his suite and took a quick shower before getting dressed.

The sun—that lazy bastard—was just beginning to think about dawdling its way to the eastern horizon when he tucked the lightly sedated Warlord into the back of the Coach with Holt and took a seat in the driver’s compartment.

Jaenelle hovered in the doorway between the two compartments, frowning at the large urn of coffee Beale had put in the Coach, along with a variety of foods to provide them with a cold but substantial breakfast.

Daemon lifted the Coach off the landing web, then caught the Black Wind and headed for the house of the aristo Warlord and his wife.

“An urn of coffee?” Jaenelle said. “Riding on the Black, it won’t take that long to reach Rhea’s Province and that Warlord’s house. Why would Beale give us that much coffee?”

He knew better. He really did. But he tucked his tongue firmly in one cheek and said as casually as possible, “I guess he wanted to make sure I would get a cup with my breakfast.”

He felt her sapphire eyes fix on a spot between his shoulder blades, and he really wanted to twitch.

Finally she growled, “Drive the damn Coach.”

He waited until he was sure she was occupied with fixing a plate of food before he allowed himself to grin.

And he did, eventually, get a cup of coffee with his breakfast.

Standing in the hallway beside Jaenelle, Daemon looked at the bedroom and the body—and swallowed hard.

It wasn’t the blood. There had been times when he had drowned rooms in blood, so the sight of a sodden carpet and smears on the walls and furniture didn’t bother him.

And it wasn’t the body, which, from the shoulders down, looked relaxed, as if she’d fallen asleep on the floor.

It was the rage—the cold, dark, glittering rage—that made him shiver. It filled the room and yet felt elusive, wispy. As if it could be brushed aside. And there was something more in that rage, some quality to it that he knew he should recognize.

“Mother Night,” Jaenelle said softly.

“And may the Darkness be merciful,” Daemon added.

“She came upstairs early, said she was tired,” Lord Collyn, the aristo who owned the house, said. There was a bitterness in his voice, in his eyes. “She often got tired at house parties and went to bed earlier than the other guests.”

“This wasn’t her room?” Jaenelle asked.

“No,” Collyn replied. “My wife and I were the last to retire, and when we were about to go upstairs, our butler mentioned that one of our guests left in a hurry and was very upset. Having heard about what had happened at Lady Rhea’s country house”—he shot a nervous look at Daemon—“my wife went up to confirm that my ‘friend’ was in the guest room that had been assigned to her. She wasn’t, of course, so my wife came to this room . . . and found her. I don’t know what she could have been thinking. It was clear Vulchera was dead, but Rosalene touched the body. That’s how she hurt her hands.”

“What’s wrong with her hands?” Daemon asked.

“The Healer isn’t sure.” Another nervous glance at Daemon.

“Or doesn’t want to say. But she’s tried everything and hasn’t been able to heal the wounds.”

“I’ll look at them in a few minutes,” Jaenelle said. “Examining the body won’t take long.”

*How do you know that?* Daemon asked on a private psychic thread.

She didn’t answer him. Instead, she removed her flowing, calf-length black jacket and vanished it. “You’ll want to air walk when you’re in this room.”

“I’ve walked on blood-soaked ground before.”

“That may be, Prince, but you don’t want the scent of blood on you. Not this blood.”

He watched her walk into the room, standing on air a finger’s length above the floor. He made sure he was standing the same distance above the floor before he walked into the room.

Jaenelle circled the body slowly. Once. Twice. Thrice.

He circled the body too, and was almost certain they weren’t picking up the same information. At least, not all the same information.

If he’d come across a body like this when he’d lived in Terreille, he would have recognized there was nothing gentle about this death, despite there being no sense of violence in the room. That would have made him sufficiently wary to back away. Because it took more than control and power to do what had been done in this room.

Jaenelle crouched on one side of the body and stared at it. He crouched on the other side, trying to make sense of the pieces of information he could glean.

He put a Black shield around his hand, then reached for the shirt, intending to pull back the collar enough to see if there was a tailor’s label.

Jaenelle grabbed his wrist. *Don’t touch the shirt. I’m fairly certain the spell wasn’t triggered until she put the shirt on, but now that the silk has been saturated with blood, I think it will hook into any flesh.*

*My hand is shielded.*

She looked at him, just looked at him. A chill went down his spine.

Releasing his wrist, she held one hand above the witch’s chest. The Twilight’s Dawn Jewel in her pendant changed to Red edged with Gray. The Jewel in her ring was the equivalent of Ebon-gray with veins of Black.

He couldn’t tell what spell she used. The power that flowed out of her felt like nothing more than a puff of warm air.

But when that power flowed through the fabric, silvery strands shone in the blood-darkened silk. Silvery strands that had nothing to do with clothing and everything to do with a different kind of weaving.

*Tangled web,* Jaenelle said.

The silvery strands faded.

*Can we remove it?* Daemon asked.

*No.*

*Can we destroy it?*

She looked grim. *Yes. It . . . offers the answer to destroying it. But the Darkness only knows what that will unleash.*

*Jaenelle . . . *

*We need to talk about this. About all of this. But not here. Not now. Right now, I want you to walk out of this room and close the door.*

*Why?*

*Wood and stone remember.*

He couldn’t be understanding her. *You’re going to use the Hourglass’s Craft to recall what happened here and watch the execution?*

*Yes.*

*Then I’ll stay with you.*

*No. I want you out of this room, Daemon. Now.*

And the Queen commands, he thought as he walked out of the room—and wondered if his heart could bruise his chest, the way it was pounding.

What was it she suspected that she didn’t want him to see?

It felt like he’d been standing in that hallway for days, but when Jaenelle walked out of the room, he was fairly certain she’d been inside less time than it had taken for Vulchera to bleed out.

“You’ll have to burn the body,” Jaenelle told Lord Collyn. “If you don’t, that shirt will continue to be a danger to your household.”

“Can’t we wait until the spell fades and then deal with the remains?” Collyn asked.

“The body will rot before those spells fade,” she replied sharply. “Use Craft. Don’t touch anything you don’t have to. Build a bonfire, Warlord, because this has to burn. Use witchfire as well as natural fire. Both will be needed to break the spells. I’ll leave a cleansing web Lady Yaslana and I developed to remove emotional residue from a room. That should make it possible for your people to be in the room long enough to take care of the physical cleaning.”

Of course, it would be a long time—if ever—before any guest would willingly stay in that room, cleansed or not, Daemon thought.

“Now,” Jaenelle said, “I’ll see your wife.”

Blood seeped from fine lines on Lady Rosalene’s hands, as if she’d pressed down on wires that had cut deep into her skin. Except the skin wasn’t cut. If you wiped away the blood, all that was visible were those silvery strands on the surface of her skin—until the blood welled up again from those strands.

Rosalene had pressed her hands on the shirt. She had walked into the bedroom, seen the body, seen the blood, and grabbed that bitch Vulchera’s arm in some shocked effort to help before she saw the reason there was no possible way to help.

Silver strands. Like the tangled web that had been woven into that silk shirt.

Ignoring Collyn, who hovered in the doorway, not quite daring to come into the room, Daemon stood near Jaenelle and watched her clean the blood off Rosalene’s hands again.

“I’ve tried everything I know.” The Healer was a middle-aged woman who sounded both frustrated and anxious. “I’ve tried every healing spell I know, but there’s nothing to actually heal.”

Jaenelle called in a small, short-bladed Healer’s knife and made a shallow cut in Rosalene’s hand, following the path of one of those silvery strands. Setting that knife aside, she called in another and pricked her own finger.

Daemon snarled, a reflex to smelling his Queen’s blood, to knowing her blood ran.

A phantom caress down his back—a caress that reassured enough for him to leash the instincts of a Warlord Prince.

As one drop of her blood fell on the shallow cut she had made in Rosalene’s hand, Jaenelle said, “And the Blood shall sing to the Blood. And in the blood.”

The Healer wet a small square of cloth with a healing lotion and handed it to Jaenelle, who murmured her thanks—and didn’t grumble at him when he took the cloth and cleaned her pricked finger.

“Clean off her hands again,” Jaenelle told the Healer.

The silvery strands showed once more, but this time when they faded, no blood seeped up through the skin.

“I didn’t think to do that,” the Healer said.

Jaenelle shook her head. “It wouldn’t have made a difference if you had.”

*Because the spell was made to recognize your blood?* Daemon asked.

*And yours.*

“I would recommend drinking a healing brew several times a day for the next couple of days,” Jaenelle told Rosalene. “That will help your body regain its strength and replace the blood you’ve lost.”

“I can take care of that,” the Healer said.

“Then I think we’re done here.” Jaenelle looked at him, clearly letting him make the choice.

He was more than ready to get out of that house, but he had duties as the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan.

“Everyone needs some rest,” he told Collyn, who was still hovering in the doorway. “I’ll return this afternoon, and you and I can discuss what happened yesterday.”

He escorted Jaenelle out of that room and down the stairs to the main floor . . . and escape.

*Daemon, I know you have duties, but I don’t want to stay in this house,* Jaenelle said.

*We’re not going to,* he said as they left the house and walked to the Coach. *Arrangements have already been made for us to stay at the estate house for as long as it takes to settle this.*

She stuttered a step. *Is that why Holt came with us? It seemed odd that Beale would assign a footman to look after us for a Coach ride, but I had other things on my mind.*

*Holt went on to the house to let them know we’re coming.*

*Ah.*

She had seemed grimly calm while she’d looked at the body. She had taken care of Rosalene’s hands with her usual skill as a Healer.

So he wasn’t prepared when she flung herself in his arms and held on with shuddering distress the moment they were safely inside the Coach.

“Jaenelle . . .” He held her, not knowing what else to do—and more unnerved by this reaction than he’d been by anything else. “Jaenelle, what’s wrong?”

“Not yet,” she whispered. “Please. I don’t want to talk about it yet, think about it yet. I don’t want to be completely sober when we talk about this.”

Mother Night. “Isn’t there anything you can tell me?”

Her eyes were so haunted when she eased back enough to look at him. “Do you know the story of Zuulaman?”

They had a summer blanket tucked around them—more for the idea of comfort, since it couldn’t relieve what chilled them—and they were both working on their third very large brandies before Jaenelle stopped shivering.

Daemon kept one arm wrapped around her. He would have preferred the privacy of the bedroom to a locked parlor, but he understood her choice. She wanted this conversation over with before they got into bed to offer each other some comfort and get some sleep.

“He’s not sane, Daemon.”

He wasn’t sure he’d heard her correctly. “You think Saetan got so pissed off about this bitch that he decided to take a walk in the Twisted Kingdom in order to deal with her?”

“I don’t think he decided anything,” Jaenelle said. “I think something about this shoved him over the border. Free fall into madness—and the rage inside that madness is huge . . . and terrible.”

He had walked in the Twisted Kingdom for eight years, lost in madness. He had lost none of his power during that time, but his madness had been self-destructive. If he’d understood Jaenelle’s reference to Zuulaman, Saetan’s madness tended to look outward. Toward an enemy.

“Why?” he asked. “What did you see in that room?”

She shook her head. “The spell in the shirt was an execution, a brutal kind of justice. He was in that room with her as the Executioner. But something changed toward the end.”

Shivering, she tried to tuck herself closer to him. Since that wasn’t possible, he put a warming spell on the blanket.

“It changed,” Jaenelle said. “It became personal. For him. Personal enough to break something inside him.”

She drained her glass, then used Craft to float the decanter of brandy from the table in front of the sofa. She filled her glass and topped off his before sending the decanter back to the table.

Daemon narrowed his eyes and considered the wobble as the decanter settled back on the wood. Then he considered his slightly glassy-eyed wife.

Yes, this was the first time she’d tossed back enough liquor to feel the effects since she’d healed and begun wearing Twilight’s Dawn. She hadn’t taken into account that since she no longer wore the Black, her body wouldn’t burn up the liquor as fast.

So his darling was a lot less sober than she realized. Which meant he could ask the questions he didn’t think she would have answered otherwise.

“He took Vulchera’s head,” he said, keeping his voice soothing. “Why did he take her head?”

“It was all he needed.” Jaenelle sipped her brandy. “He didn’t break her Jewels, didn’t strip her power. She’ll make the transition to demon-dead. He’ll make sure of it.”

“But . . . it’s just her head.”

“Which contains the brain, which contains the mind, which is the conduit to the Self. Or one of them, anyway. All he needs. He’s going to finish the execution. She bled to death. Slowly. That was what the shirt was intended to do. Bleed her out. He would have sealed her into that room. She would have tried to get out, would have tried to get the shirt off. When she couldn’t do either, when she knew she couldn’t do either . . . There was so much fear in that room. Could you feel it?”

“Yes, I could.”

“Bleeding out because she put on a shirt.” Jaenelle laughed, but it was a hollow sound. “I imagine when they burn the body . . . Whatever spell that releases . . . I guess there will be a few men who will sleep better for whatever message rises from that fire.”

There is nothing he has done that I couldn’t have done, Daemon thought. So why am I so uneasy?

“That fear while she bled out, that was the first part of the execution,” Jaenelle said. “After she makes the transition to demon-dead . . . That’s when the pain truly begins.”

“Why?”

She looked sleepy. Her body was relaxing against him.

“Because of you. This is about you, Daemon. About him . . . and you. That’s why you need to be the one who helps him come back from the Twisted Kingdom. He’ll answer you.”

“I don’t know how to do that,” he protested. “I don’t have any training to do that.”

“You don’t need training. This is about fathers and sons. Lucivar needs to go with you.”

“Hell’s fire, Jaenelle. Saetan is my father. Do you really think I’ll need Lucivar there to watch my back?”

She smiled gently. “No, think of his being there as stacking the deck in your favor.”

Suddenly exhausted, and scared sick of what he might be facing, he rested his cheek against her head. “When?”

“Tomorrow after sunset,” Jaenelle replied. “He’ll be done with the execution by then, and I think he’ll go back to the Keep after that.”

“All right.” His breath came out in a shuddering sigh. “Come to bed with me. Just be with me.”

They went to bed for rest, for comfort. And as he went through the motions of the rest of the day, talking to Lord Collyn and dealing with the aftermath of the kill, he tried not to think about what might be waiting for him at the Keep tomorrow.