by Anne Bishop
“You said it in front of Orian’s friends.”
“So did she,” Daemonar snapped, meeting his father look for look. “Titian had done a drawing for Mother, and she was so happy until Orian . . .” He stumbled, not sure what Titian had told their father.
“Until Orian said a true Eyrien wouldn’t draw flowers?” Lucivar said.
He nodded. “Titian likes to draw. She really likes to draw. But after Orian said that, she didn’t want anyone to know about her drawings because . . .” Deep breath, in and out. “Because she was afraid you and Mother would be ashamed of her. She cried.”
He watched Lucivar’s eyes glaze, felt the fury rising from the Ebon-gray to brush against the killing edge. Then he watched his father leash that fury and step back from that edge. That gave him the courage to say the rest.
“If I slapped at Orian to let her know she couldn’t get away with being mean to my sister, then that’s between us, that’s between . . . children. But you’re more than Titian’s father, and if you had confronted Orian, it would be seen as an Ebon-gray Warlord Prince calling a Queen to task for her behavior. That would stick in Orian’s craw a lot longer than an insult from me because all the Eyrien males would take notice of that.”
“Did you say anything else?” Lucivar asked.
“I told her if she jabbed at my sister again, I would bloody her.”
Lucivar studied him. “Would you do that?”
“Yes.” No one was allowed to hurt his sister or his brother or his mother—or his father. Not while he could stand and fight.
Lucivar blew out a breath. “All right. Just keep in mind that you and Orian will be living around each other for a lot of years. That will be easier to do if you can remain friendly, or at least civil, with each other.”
“Forgive and forget?” Daemonar said.
Oh, such a queer look in his father’s eyes.
“Forgive, certainly. Eventually. Especially if your uncle finds a way to erase the hurt Titian feels right now. Forget?” Lucivar shook his head. “What Orian said might have been nothing more than showing off to her friends or experiencing a momentary need to feel powerful by making someone else feel small. Or this could be an indication of who she is at her core—something that wasn’t apparent when she was younger. No matter the reason, what she does and says from now on will be weighed in the balance when she becomes old enough to establish an official court. And I need to talk to the Riada Queen about working with Orian and teaching her what it means to be a Queen.”
Lucivar stood, an indication their discussion was over.
“There’s something else,” Daemonar said.
“Oh?”
He wiped suddenly sweaty hands on his thighs. “I would like you to speak to the Queen on behalf of a Brother in the court.” No need to specify which Queen. For the men in their family, there was only one.
“Oh?” Lucivar sat.
“You and Uncle Daemon go to the Keep every month and spend time with Auntie J., but whenever I need to talk to her, I still have to try to reach the Misty Place, and it’s so deep in the abyss, I can’t stay long. That’s not fair. She’s my Queen too. Why can’t I go to the Keep to visit and talk to her? I won’t pester her. And I won’t go there when Uncle Daemon is there because that’s his healing time. But now that I’m not the only one to see her . . .” He hesitated, remembering that he’d kept that secret from his father for a long time before Witch had made her presence known to Lucivar and Daemon.
Lucivar pushed out of the chair. “I’ll think about it.”
That wasn’t a firm yes, but it wasn’t a no.
Daemonar stood. “Thank you, sir.”
Lucivar snorted. “Sure. Come on, boyo. We have things to do.”
As his father rested a hand on his shoulder and led him out of the study, Daemonar said, “What things?”
“Well, I need to talk to Rothvar and the other men as well as the Queen of Riada. You need to keep your cousin out of trouble for the rest of the day.”
He had to find enough things for Jaenelle Saetien to do to keep her from coming up with another wonderful idea? Hell’s fire. “Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh. And don’t think I don’t know I have the better deal, no matter what Rothvar has to report.”
His father was not wrong.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
Lady Cambrya was a moderately successful artist who was currently living in her sister’s guest room while she sorted out where she wanted to go and what she wanted to do. While the paintings she showed them were pleasant, Daemon wouldn’t have purchased them for any of the family residences. It was Cambrya’s other work that intrigued him.
She had taken some of her drawings and traced them as outlines, allowing someone else to fill in the shapes with colors. She’d taken a dozen of those drawings to a printer and had paid to have copies made that she’d intended to sell at harvest fairs. She’d also created an artist’s primer for youngsters interested in art whose families couldn’t afford private instruction. She’d been gathering her courage to approach publishing houses to see about marketing the primer when the Warlord who had been her longtime partner severed their relationship and demanded that she leave the town house they had shared for decades.
Since his name was on the lease, she’d had no choice but to get out as quickly as she could with the possessions that had mattered the most—namely, her art and these potential pieces of work.
As Daemon knew well, relationships could be thorny, and there could have been reasons why her partner had made this choice after being with her for so many years. It wasn’t his business as the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan to interfere with the personal lives of the people he ruled—unless someone crossed a line and made it his business. Still, there was nothing of the bitch about Cambrya and nothing in her psychic scent that scraped his temper. So he wanted to know about the man. Even if it was none of his business as the ruler of Dhemlan, whom he did business with on behalf of the family was quite a different matter.
Aware that Cambrya was struggling against the effects of his leashed sexual heat, Daemon studied the line drawings and the artist’s primer, letting Surreal tell the woman about the school and what they could offer if she accepted an instructor’s position. He acted like he wasn’t giving the conversation more than his nominal attention, but he was very aware of the woman’s emotions. Excitement. Hope. Relief. And a need for some distance from the part of her life that had just ended.
Silence.
He looked at Surreal. She looked at him.
*I think the school would benefit from having her as an instructor,* Surreal said. *And Cambrya would benefit by being there—and perhaps she would find a special friend.*
Oh, Hell’s fire. It took everything he had in him to keep a straight face. Decades ago, one Sceltie—one—came to the school with a boy named Yuli. There had been Scelties at that school ever since. Most of them happily herded everyone, children and teachers alike, but there was usually one that was looking for a poor human who would receive that Sceltie’s undivided attention.
Then again, Cambrya might benefit from having a special friend.
“The position is yours if you want it,” Daemon said. “Lady Surreal can show you the available cottages in the village. If either of them suits you, we will expedite repairs so that you can settle in as quickly as possible.”
“I’m sure either place would be satisfactory,” Cambrya said quickly.
Wounded. As if she needed to apologize for anything that she wanted for herself or for anything that might inconvenience someone else.
He heard that under the words—and he knew Surreal heard it too. That, more than the woman’s artistic ability, was probably the reason Surreal wanted to offer Cambrya the job at the school.
“I’d like to purchase four sets of these line drawings,” he said. “I
’d also like to borrow this primer. My niece is interested in drawing. I’d like to see how she would use it. If it does what I think it will, you and I can talk about having copies printed.”
“I don’t know what to say.” Cambrya blinked back tears. “This is more than I’d hoped for when Lady Surreal contacted me.”
No, Daemon thought, seeing a kind of gratitude—and hunger—in her eyes that could turn into a terrible—and lethal—mistake. Don’t.
He was up and moving before either woman could react. *I’ll be outside,* he told Surreal. *Can you finish this?*
*Of course.*
Daemon walked out of the house. For centuries, he’d used the sexual heat that was an inherent part of being a Warlord Prince as a weapon against the bitches who had used him and tried to control him. Now that the heat had matured to its full potency, it was a damned inconvenience—and the price he paid for wearing the Black. The cold, glorious Black.
With the help of his Queen, he’d developed ways to lessen the impact of the heat on the people who worked at the Hall and the family’s town house in Amdarh, had found ways to lessen the discomfort it caused Surreal—mostly by living apart from her some of the time, even when they were both in residence at the Hall. But dealing with other women who might not realize that the heat was not an invitation for any kind of intimacy always strained the leash on his temper—and put an edge on everything he was.
He felt the Sadist waking, felt a dangerous edge to the undercurrent of desire to spend more time with his wife, and knew that wouldn’t be possible. He didn’t go to her bed when desire had that edge. To keep her safe. To keep her fear of him quiet enough that they could live together.
He heard the door open and close behind him and turned just enough to look at Surreal and measure her fear as she walked toward him. There was some, but the woman who had backbone and sass, the witch who was his second-in-command, had that fear under control.
“I’ll return tomorrow and take Cambrya over to the school and show her the cottages.” She held up a package wrapped in brown paper. “And I have the sets of drawings and the primer you wanted.”
He nodded. “Surreal . . .”
“No.” She stepped close to him and lightly touched his face. “Let’s stay at the town house tonight. It’s closer than going back to the Hall. Stay with me, Sadi.”
“I can’t tighten the leashes any tighter than they are. I can’t promise you’ll be safe in the way you want, and need, to be safe.” He hated that she feared him even when simple precautions would keep her safe, but that, too, was the price he paid for being who and what he was.
“I know. But I’d still like you to stay with me tonight. Can’t we try?”
She wanted him to stay with her, to be her lover tonight. He wasn’t picking up anything in her psychic scent that said otherwise.
Then he brushed his lips against hers and felt her shiver. There was fear, but it was mixed with a spike of anticipation and desire. And something else he couldn’t quite name.
“We can try.”
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
Lucivar spent his first hour at the Keep reviewing the week’s business with Karla, the demon-dead Gray-Jeweled Black Widow Queen who was now the Warlord Prince of Askavi’s administrative second-in-command. Askavi’s Province Queens would have chafed at dealing with Marian—and his darling wife would have been unhappy and uncomfortable dealing with them. But Karla had ruled the Territory of Glacia, had been in the First Circle of the Dark Court at Ebon Askavi—and had been one of Witch’s closest friends. Any Province Queen who sat down with her knew she wouldn’t be intimidated by their bloodlines and wouldn’t be wary of their power because she had known a Queen who had power.
Still knew that Queen.
“I heard your boy slapped at a young Queen,” Karla said once they had reviewed the decisions she had made on his behalf.
Lucivar sighed. “Yeah, he did.” He should have known she would have heard about that. How she knew? That he couldn’t say. But very little happened in Ebon Rih that wasn’t known by the residents of the Keep.
“Did she deserve it?”
“She said something that made his sister cry. As far as he was concerned, that was reason enough.”
Her smile was sharp and in no way friendly.
He didn’t move, but he saw that smile and prepared himself for battle. Ebon-gray could, and would, win against Gray, but Karla wasn’t someone he wanted as an adversary—and not someone he wanted aiming any kind of dagger at his boy.
“Just as well he was the one who tangled with her since they’re the same age or close enough not to matter,” Karla said. “Any one of the boyos in the First Circle would have done the same. Hell’s fire, all of them would have shown up to explain, in their polite and lethal way, that the next time she acted the bitch, they would give her a reason to cry. And then they would have done it.”
Interesting. He hadn’t thought of it in those terms, but Karla was right. He’d known those Warlords and Warlord Princes when they were on the cusp of becoming men. Given a reason, they could have, and would have, committed a devastating social execution without spilling a single drop of blood.
Karla’s smile sharpened a little more. “Unlike her brother, who can be bossy and overbearing because he’s her brother and she has to put up with him, you have to encourage Titian to stand up and fight her own battles—and learn how to get up again after she’s bloodied.”
Lucivar snarled at her, not because he disagreed but because he didn’t like that she was right.
“Of course, knowing her father is standing right behind her, ready to step up and protect her if she needs him, will help her grow a backbone.”
“You don’t think that will keep her dependent?”
“About as dependent as your wife,” Karla said sweetly.
Which meant not at all. Being dependent was very different from depending on someone, and he depended on Marian as much as she depended on him.
“Well, the boy’s actions are something I need to discuss with the Queen.” He pushed out of the chair.
“Daemonar is his father’s son,” Karla said. “And his uncle’s nephew.”
That, more than anything, was the reason he needed to talk to Witch.
He walked through the corridors until he reached the ornate metal gate that separated the Queen’s private rooms from the rest of the Keep. He stayed away from the Queen’s bedroom and the adjoining Consort’s suite. Those rooms had become Daemon’s territory. But the sitting room across from those rooms had become the place where someone could have an audience with the Queen who shouldn’t exist—and yet did.
The body had died decades ago after a long and love-filled life, but the Self—the mind, heart, personality, and power—that was Jaenelle Angelline, and Witch, had remained in a deep part of the abyss she called the Misty Place. There, for decades, she had been a hope, a dream, a song in the Darkness for those who still needed her. For Daemon most of all.
But she’d been more than that for his boy because she’d understood the young Warlord Prince had not had enough time with her when she’d walked among the living and needed more from the Queen whose will was, and would always be, his life.
Lucivar entered the sitting room and waited. She would feel his presence. Whether she chose to respond, well, that was always her choice.
“Is this a social call?” Witch asked.
He turned toward the voice and watched Craft and will and power create a shadow—an almost-tangible illusion of the Self that had lived within the flesh of the extraordinary Queen who had been the living myth, dreams made flesh.
Not all the dreamers had been human. While most of her body looked human, her golden hair was more like fur, and her hands had retractable cat’s claws. There was a small spiral horn on her forehead and a fawn’s tail at the base of her spine.
The legs changed below the knees and ended in a delicate horse’s hooves. And she had the delicately pointed ears of the Dea al Mon.
But the ancient sapphire eyes were the same in this form as when her body had been completely human and she had walked among the living. Those eyes had looked at everything he was and seen him clearly, reshaping the violence in him into a weapon that fit her hand—and showing him that being with a Queen could be fun.
Hell’s fire, they’d had fun.
“I need to talk to you about Daemonar,” he said.
Those eyes stared at him. Stared right through him. “I am not taking sides in any of your squabbles.”
He snorted. “Since when?”
The feral sound she made would have scared a full-grown Arcerian cat. Lucivar felt impressed—and wary.
He made a placating gesture—and hoped she let him keep all his fingers. “All right, you never actually took sides when he went to the Misty Place to complain about me. You just helped him adjust his thinking.”
“I can help adjust your thinking,” she said.
He sighed and pressed a hand against the back of his neck to ease tension he hadn’t known was there. He’d always enjoyed these pissing contests, but that wasn’t why he was here tonight.
“I really need to talk to you,” he said quietly. “Start again?”
“Daemonar is all right?” Witch asked.
“He’s fine. He tangled with Orian. That’s one of the things I want to talk about.”
“Orian is the young Eyrien Queen?” She frowned.
As he explained what had happened, he watched her. Jaenelle Angelline had been a powerful Queen and could be dangerous when her temper turned cold. Witch was the feral side of Jaenelle’s temper—and far more dangerous.
“What bothers you about what he did?” she asked in her midnight voice.
He’d stayed still for as long as he could. Now he paced, needing the movement. “If Daemonar had gone after Orian as soon as he’d heard what she’d said to Titian . . . Well, he inherited his temper from me, so it would be hard for me to fault him for that. But he waited, Cat.” So easy to fall back into calling her by the nickname he’d given her. A spitting little cat. At the time, he hadn’t known how close he’d been to the truth of it. “He waited to see if Titian would shrug it off or handle it on her own. But she didn’t fight. The words wounded her to the point where she hid her drawings from Marian and me—even hid the fact that she was drawing because she was afraid we would be ashamed of her, would be disappointed in her.”