by Anne Bishop
“What did he do?” She sounded so much younger than she had a minute ago.
Surreal weighed her answer against the painful truth: the girl who had been drugged was the same age as Jaenelle Saetien—a girl nowhere near old enough to have her Virgin Night and come away from the experience with her Jewels and power intact. “He used a drug that should have made it easy for him to rape a girl. She fought back. She survived. He’s dead.”
When Jaenelle Saetien didn’t respond, Surreal walked out of her bedroom. She really needed the feel of those knives, really needed to remember that she was no longer a child struggling under the first man who had raped her. She had to let the movements and her muscles help her remember that she was very, very good with a knife.
“I want to go away to school,” Jaenelle Saetien said, following her down the corridor.
Surreal stopped and stared at her daughter. Go away? When the smell of blood and shit was still so fresh she wondered if she’d brought it home with her, her daughter wanted to go away? “Where?”
“It’s a private school in Amdarh,” Jaenelle Saetien said eagerly. “It’s very exclusive—and has excellent teachers.”
Exclusive obviously mattered to the girl. Excellent teachers would matter to Daemon—if he was even willing to entertain the idea.
“Zoey and Titian are going to be there.” A beat of effort at restraint before the next words burst out. “All my friends are going to be at that school.”
“I don’t think all of them will be there. What about your friends in Halaway?”
Jaenelle Saetien shrugged. “They’re all right, but they’re . . .”
When she hesitated, Surreal filled in the rest. “No longer special enough to deserve your attention? No longer exclusive enough, aristo enough?” She kept her voice mild while she struggled with the furious desire to force open her daughter’s first inner barrier and show the girl what she had seen in that village.
“You don’t understand!” Jaenelle Saetien wailed.
“I understand more than you think.” Titian and Zoey being in attendance might tip the balance in favor of Jaenelle Saetien going to that school. “You won’t convince your father to give his permission by using posturing and snotty attitude. Write a report explaining why you want to go to the school. Make a list of the educational—and social—benefits that being there will provide. Then you’ll have to wait for his decision.”
“Can’t you talk to him?” Wheedling now.
“No. If you want this, you need to ask him yourself.”
“Why won’t you do this for me? You never do anything for me!” Back to bitchy.
Little girl one moment, defiant adolescent the next, wanting to believe—maybe even believing—that she could call herself a woman.
Little fool.
Telling herself that she should make some attempt at understanding, or at least tolerating, the girl’s mood swings, Surreal took a step closer and raised a hand to touch her daughter’s hair.
Jaenelle Saetien took a step back and tossed her head.
So be it. Understanding had to work both ways.
There was nothing warm about Surreal’s smile. “Why won’t I talk Daemon into letting you go away to school? First, because I don’t do favors for a bitch. Never have, never will. And second, sugar, because I don’t want you to be another girl who rips out a boy’s guts with her bare hands because he tried to rape her. But I do hope, if you were in that position, that you’ve inherited enough spine from me to be able to do exactly that.”
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
Daemon walked through the front door of the Hall and let his power quietly flow through the immense structure, picking up the emotions of everyone in and around his home. Raising an eyebrow, he looked at Beale as his butler stepped into the great hall, holding a silver tray with a single piece of folded paper.
“High drama, low drama, or farce?” he asked as he weighed the female emotions that seemed to swirl through the Hall. When Beale didn’t answer, he sighed. “How is it possible that one woman and one adolescent girl can’t manage to live in a place this size without clashing over everything?”
“Your father once said that drama had no purpose without an audience,” Beale replied.
“So the performer seeks out the intended audience?”
Beale inclined his head and held out the tray. “This arrived from Ebon Rih.”
He didn’t see it often, but he recognized Lucivar’s labored writing.
Taking the letter, he turned over the carefully folded paper and looked at the seal. Personal seal, not the official seal of the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih—or the Demon Prince’s seal. He wasn’t sure personal was better than official, but he broke the seal and unfolded the paper.
Bastard,
We need to talk about that damn school.
L
“What school?” Daemon muttered.
“That I don’t know,” Beale replied. “However, after the latest drama between the Ladies, the young Lady SaDiablo informed me that she would have her meal in her room this evening.”
“Did Jaenelle Saetien try to dictate the menu for her solitary dinner?”
“She tried.” Beale held out a neatly written menu. “This is what Mrs. Beale had planned for the evening meal. The checked items are what will be on the dishes for the tray meal.”
No checkmark next to the sweet. That would go over so well.
Everything has a price, Daemon thought. “And Lady Surreal? Where is she dining this evening?”
“She said that would depend on whether you were home for dinner.” A beat of silence. “I think there was trouble in one of the villages. She has been outside working with the Dea al Mon knives for over an hour. The house drama occurred between the time she returned home and her going outside.”
High emotions and household drama. “I need to talk to you and Holt.”
“The young Lady gave orders that she wanted to see you as soon as you returned.”
Daemon’s smile had a cold edge. He called in a book of basic Protocol, which would be perceived as the slap he intended, since basic Protocol—the first level of phrases that were used in courts and were also used to protect the weaker Blood from the stronger—was on a level with the basic manners any child should have learned by the time she received her Birthright Jewel. He handed it to Beale. “Please deliver this to the young Lady with my compliments and convey the message that the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan will see her at his convenience.”
A sparkle in Beale’s eyes. “My pleasure, Prince.”
“I’ll check on Surreal and meet you and Holt in the butler’s pantry.”
“Prince?” A moment’s alarm before Beale regained control.
“This needs to be a private—and discreet—conversation.”
Surreal was still in the backyard, but she’d put aside the elegant fighting knives of her mother’s people. Now she held an Eyrien hunting knife, which she rammed into a straw figure over and over and over.
Daemon stood on the edge of the terrace and watched her, a woman full of raw fury. He knew the moment his psychic scent, and the leashed sexual heat that was still too potent for her comfort most days, reached her. She turned toward him, the knife raised and ready.
“I understand you had some trouble,” he said, keeping his voice courteous.
“Not me, sugar. But I don’t think the High Lord is going to have a pleasant evening.”
Too many warnings today. “Want to tell me why?”
Surreal nodded. “But your daughter wants to see you first.”
“My wife has first claim.” They both knew that wasn’t true. Witch had first claim on him—body, mind, and heart. And power. After all, a Warlord Prince was a Queen’s weapon, and he was hers. Always hers.
Surreal vanished the knife and called in
a small towel to wipe the sweat off her face as she walked toward him.
He watched her. Was his wife approaching him, or Surreal the assassin?
“You should talk to her first,” Surreal said. “Just don’t agree to anything yet.”
He held out Lucivar’s note. “Does this have anything to do with a school?”
She read the note and snorted a laugh. “Well, he sounds thrilled.”
“He does manage to say ‘I’m the prick with the biggest balls’ even when he doesn’t use any of those words.”
“Jaenelle Saetien made it sound like Titian going to the school was all settled.”
“Titian?”
She shook her head. “Talk to your daughter.”
Seemed Jaenelle Saetien was his daughter a lot lately. “I need to have a chat with Beale and Holt first.” A hesitation. “It’s you and me for dinner tonight. Or just you, if you prefer.”
“As a punishment, depriving children of food is frowned upon, Sadi. Even when they’re trying to act like the dominant bitch.”
“The child declared she is having a tray in her room.”
“Hmm. Then you and I can have a quiet meal in the dining room.”
Daemon smiled. “I’ll convey that to Beale.”
They walked into the Hall together, then headed in different directions.
He walked into the butler’s pantry, crammed with two rolltop desks, file cabinets, and a wine rack that held the selections for a few days’ worth of meals. Holt and Beale were already there.
The butler gave him a sour look and said, “I gave the young Lady the book. High drama.”
Not unexpected. “I need your help.” He tucked his hands in his trouser pockets and leaned against the door. “Dealing with adolescent girls is unfamiliar to me. I don’t know where to draw the lines for Jaenelle Saetien when she acts like drawing any boundaries is the equivalent of me killing her Self and yet seems relieved to have boundaries. You were both here when Jaenelle Angelline and the coven lived with my father. He dealt with the Territory Queens when they were this age. He dealt with Witch when she was this age. How did he do it?”
Holt tipped his head. “You were never around adolescent girls?”
“When I was a pleasure slave in Terreille?” Daemon knew by the way the two men tensed that his smile had turned cold—and cruel. “When they wanted to practice their social manners, I could oblige and respond with courtesy. When they wanted to practice playing the bitch or touched me without my consent . . .” He watched them shudder as they realized they were trapped in a room with the Sadist. He said too softly, “I gave them reasons to stay away from me.”
Beale cleared his throat. “Those years with your father were not without high drama and unpredictable emotions.”
“But all the males who became part of the First Circle were also in residence, so dealing with the drama and emotions was spread out among all of them,” Holt said.
“It was my impression that the High Lord had little or no previous experience dealing with girls that age, but after Lady Angelline came to live with him, it seemed to us that he quickly decided where he could yield and which lines he would hold,” Beale said. “And once he drew a line, no one could shift it. Not even his daughter.”
Daemon frowned. “Where were the lines?”
“Where it would make a difference in a young woman choosing good over bad, right over wrong. Good Queen or bad Queen. The High Lord once told the coven after some disagreement, ‘These are not the actions of a good Queen, and I will not stand by and let you become the destruction of your own people. The only way you are going to do this thing is by going through me, and you’d better be sure there is nothing left of me to stand against you. Because I will stand—and I will fight.’”
Mother Night. “Jaenelle Angelline could have gone through him. Could have ripped him apart with one moment’s loss of control.”
Beale nodded. “But he meant it, and they all knew he meant it. Especially the Lady. I don’t remember what that argument was about, but after that, the coven always knew when they brushed too close to one of his lines—and they were the ones who stepped back to avoid a fight.”
“He did support the adolescent drama in other ways. Even encouraged it by ignoring it,” Holt said.
Encouraged it? Damn man had more balls than sense.
Holt added, “He also seemed to convey without actually saying anything that these dramatics held no interest to an adult male, and if the coven wanted his time and attention to discuss whatever they wanted to discuss, they had to act like intelligent, talented young women—at least while they were around him.”
Beale smiled. “Of course, once Prince Lucivar joined the household, he constantly stirred up and shut down trouble in that way he has, leaving the High Lord to act as arbitrator between Ebon-gray Eyrien temper and adolescent female sensibilities.”
“Sweet Darkness,” Daemon muttered. “And they all survived.”
Holt laughed. Beale chuckled.
“Some days there was a fair amount of roaring and screeching,” Holt said. “Depending on the tone of the roaring and screeching, the staff either found things to do elsewhere or we drew straws to determine who had first-row seats to the dramatics.”
He really didn’t need to know that. “So. Allow for some victories without giving up any of the important lines.”
“I would say that is accurate,” Beale agreed.
He eyed his butler. “Would one of those lines I’m supposed to hold be the courtesy that is shown to the staff?”
The sparkle returned to Beale’s eyes. “Yes, Prince, it would.”
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
Surreal had just slipped on the calf-length green dress when Daemon knocked on the door between their bedrooms. She hesitated, studying the dress in the mirror. It was a favorite of hers, but it was old enough that she usually wore it when she was on her own. Still, she thought Daemon would understand that her choice of dress indicated that she would welcome his company as a friend tonight but not as a lover.
“Come in.”
He looked as elegant as he always did. In some ways, the mature beauty of his face, with the thick black hair turning silver at the temples, was more devastating than when he’d been young.
“Want some help?” he asked.
“Sure, sugar.” She turned and lifted her hair to give him access to the zipper.
His movements weren’t careless, but they also weren’t the sensual movements of a man looking for an invitation. Apparently, he wasn’t looking for a lover tonight either.
“You should wear a shawl over that, at least in the corridors,” he said. “I’ve added power to the warming spells in this wing, but it has started to rain, and everything feels damp and chilly.”
“Pick one out for me.”
He chose a shawl with a gold-and-green pattern that complemented the dress—and was soft, thick, and warm.
He was right about the corridors. They were damp and chilly, the first touch of autumn. “Did you add any power to the warming spells in Jaenelle Saetien’s suite?”
“She’s not a child and doesn’t want to be treated like a child.” He smiled. “So she’s old enough to take care of the temperature in her rooms. She knows the Craft required for a warming spell and has the power to create and maintain that spell. She also knows how to add power to an existing warming spell. I doubt the staff working at a school will drain the reservoirs in their Jewels to keep the buildings at a temperature that will match a girl’s idea of comfy.”
“Maintain your own place?”
“Mmm.”
Surreal waited until they were seated in the dining room and Beale had served the first course—a hot, hearty soup she suspected was part of the staff’s dinner since she didn’t remember seeing it on the menu that had been presented to he
r.
“Are you going to let Jaenelle Saetien go to school in Amdarh?”
“Don’t you mean are we going to let her go to that school?” Daemon countered.
“What I think doesn’t matter.”
He lowered the soupspoon. “Surreal.” A warning.
“It matters to you,” she amended. “It doesn’t matter to Jaenelle Saetien. So this negotiation is between the two of you. Frankly, Sadi? Physically, she’s ready for this independence she wants to claim, but I’m not sure she’s emotionally mature enough to live away from home. However, I understand the storms in her right now, at least to some degree, and lately I’ve wondered if I would have quarreled with Titian in the same way if my mother had still been alive when I reached that age. Because of the Dea al Mon part of her heritage, Jaenelle Saetien is growing up a little faster than the children in Halaway who are her friends. Her body has matured a little quicker, and the need to assert her independence. . . .”
Surreal took a roll from the basket and tore it into unappetizing pieces before she realized what she was doing. She pushed the bread plate aside. It vanished, and a clean plate appeared.
“I didn’t appreciate how young I was,” she said softly. “I was already a whore working in Red Moon houses that were almost the best, and I was a well-paid assassin. I was good at both kinds of work, but I was also still a girl trying on attitudes to figure out who I was beyond those two things. I made mistakes during those years. I made a big mistake with you during those years.”
“That’s the past,” he replied just as softly.
The past, yes, but that night had changed things between them for a lot of years. Even now it was one of the dark notes in their complicated relationship. “Jaenelle Saetien will make her own mistakes. She’ll acquire her own regrets. She . . .” Surreal swallowed hard. Did the girl in that village regret killing the boy who had drugged her? Or was she just relieved that she had survived?
“Tell me what happened, Surreal.”
She couldn’t look at him, but she told him about the boy, the girl, the safframate the father had given to his son. When she was done, he told her about Tersa’s warning.