by Anne Bishop
Delora allowed herself a little smile as she watched that particular group of adults and newcomers. She’d been preparing this ground since the first time she’d met Jaenelle Saetien at some children’s party years ago. That the girl had convinced her parents to let her attend this school was confirmation that Jaenelle Saetien would be guided by her instead of listening to anyone else.
And wasn’t that delicious?
She’d never seen Lucivar Yaslana before, but she knew who he was. Everyone who was anyone knew who wore the Ebon-gray. He had no official influence in Dhemlan, so it wasn’t likely he would be useful, even if the winged girl turned out to be malleable. But Daemon Sadi! Beautiful, even at this distance. Certainly desirable. And the way he moved, all power and grace. There was no way to get control over him. Not directly.
Delora looked at Jaenelle Saetien—and smiled. Even powerful men could be trained to make the preferred choice in order to quiet rebellion and have some peace in their home. He might be powerful and dangerous, but the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan was still a man and a father. In her experience, very few fathers had enough spine to resist becoming putty in a daughter’s skillful hands.
As for Yaslana, he might be a rube, but he had a savage reputation as a warrior and, therefore, couldn’t be completely dismissed as insignificant to her ambitions—especially when there was a connection between those two men.
What they needed was a little test.
Delora gave Hespera the slightest nudge to make sure she’d be watching. “Leena, walk across the green like you’re heading for the book exchange. Wave at Jaenelle Saetien and keep going.”
“Why?” Leena asked.
Delora gave Leena the smile other girls recognized—and feared. “Because I want you to.”
While the other girls and the three boys who were the core of their male companions stepped back into the shadows, Leena hurried across the green. When she came abreast of Prince Sadi and his pack of coattail relatives, she looked over and waved.
Jaenelle Saetien waved back, looking desperately embarrassed to be seen with her family, such as it was.
But every damn male in that group, including the younger boy, focused on Leena with a predator’s interest. So did the woman Delora assumed was Jaenelle Saetien’s mother.
No wonder the girl was so desperate to get away from all of them!
Well, she could help with that. She certainly could.
Delora studied the adult males. One Warlord Prince paying attention was dangerous. Two?
They were going to have to scatter that focus, crack that unity.
Time enough to do that once the adults had gone home.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
Jaenelle Saetien wanted to sink into the ground, embarrassed beyond words that Leena, one of the girls who was in Delora and Hespera’s exclusive group of friends, had seen her parents taking her to her room. How humiliating was that?
“I’m not a baby,” she said. “I can find my own room.”
“Humor me,” her father said. “And if you don’t want to humor your father, humor the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan—who outranks you.”
She bristled at the reminder that a condition of her being at this school was following the rules with regard to caste and Jewel rank. At home, she could argue with her father. In public, she now had to address him as the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan—and a man who wore Black Jewels.
“Go on, then, if that’s what you need to do,” he said quietly. “I won’t call you to task for a lack of manners.” He turned away from whatever had held his attention and looked her in the eyes. “This time.”
She heard the warning, and she wanted to say it wasn’t him, not really him, that she wanted to get away from. But couldn’t Uncle Lucivar have dressed a little better? Couldn’t Daemonar? Did they have to look like they’d just come in from a patrol? And did they have to look around like they’d never seen a school or a real building?
She reined in the desire to bolt. “Thank you, Father. I appreciate your understanding.”
His smile held sharp amusement, but all he said was, “Lady,” which was permission for her to leave.
She walked quickly, tempted to run, but running would have raised questions. Or not.
She didn’t want them asking questions, so why did it make her heart hurt to think they might not ask?
She found her room. The bed was made; the clothes were hung or neatly placed in drawers. The desk was empty except for the long list of books and materials she needed to purchase and a piece of paper—a note from her father with the amount of credit available for her use at the book exchange so that she wouldn’t have to worry about buying her books or other school supplies.
It was a generous amount, but it was restricted to whatever could be purchased at the book exchange. It wasn’t the open credit line the other girls had that could be used in all the shops in Amdarh.
It didn’t matter that her father put spending money into an account every quarter and let her use the money for anything she pleased. Restricting this credit line to the book exchange was just another way of him telling her she was still a little girl playing at being a grown-up.
When they had talked during an afternoon picnic this summer, Delora had expressed a concern that Jaenelle Saetien’s father was refusing to see his daughter as an emerging adult, as a woman coming into her own. They had discussed the school and the best way to convince her parents to let her attend, and what she needed to have in order to fit in. They’d talked about rules and parents and all kinds of things. In a moment that was part bitchy and part worried embarrassment that the other students would find out, she’d told Delora about her father having “mental days” and how, even after years and years, he still required special healing and isolation.
Delora had sworn not to tell anyone, had even suggested referring to it as his having a funny turn because there was someone in every family who had a funny turn now and then, and no one would think it was serious. And no one would wonder what was involved in this “special healing.”
Jaenelle Saetien looked around her room and sighed. She’d have to go down to the book exchange all by herself and pick up all those books and supplies. It didn’t matter that she could use Craft to vanish the books and call them back in when she returned to her room. Someone should have offered to help her. They would be helping Titian settle in and buy her supplies.
But you didn’t want their help.
Which wasn’t the point. Or was it the point?
She felt like she couldn’t breathe at the Hall. It was too big—and not big enough. Her father was so important but rarely acted important. And her mother! Mannish in her manners and dress. That was what Hespera and Borsala told her people said about Surreal. Was it any wonder that her father slept alone so many nights or went to Ebon Rih for the “special healing”?
Oh, he still had times when it was obvious that he wasn’t quite right, but he was always more relaxed after spending a couple of days in Ebon Rih, and now that her sophisticated friends had made a few observations about what men and women did together, she wondered if they were right when they hinted about what sort of healing could make him relax that way.
It certainly wasn’t anything her mother was doing.
But it was more than that. It was her name that had begun to chafe because it was a constant reminder of the most important woman in her father’s life—a witch who was all things wonderful and never ever did anything wrong and was so perfect, it made her want to puke.
Not that anyone at the Hall or in Halaway said anything about the Queen who had been her father’s first wife. Not to her, anyway. But because of the name, they made the comparison—and found her wanting. As long as she lived where the Queen had lived, she would be found wanting.
Maybe she didn’t know who she was or who she wanted to be. But the one thing sh
e did know, and the biggest reason why she wanted to get away from the family and attend this school and be with these new friends, was she was sick and tired of being compared to Jaenelle Angelline.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
“Where is Jaenelle Saetien going?” Daemonar asked.
“She wants to get settled on her own,” Daemon replied.
Lucivar eyed his brother, not fooled by the mild tone. *You teach them to be independent. Then when they are, it’s a kick in the balls.*
Daemon laughed softly. *Yeah.* Then the amusement faded. *But independence shouldn’t eliminate good manners.*
Picking up a bit of ice at the level of the Black, Lucivar brushed against Marian’s first inner barrier. *Can you and Surreal find something to do? Go look at something?*
“I’d like to see Titian’s room,” Marian said, turning to Surreal. “Come with me?”
Surreal glanced at him and then at Daemon—and went off with Marian.
Now he focused on the boys and his daughter. “Witchling, you have a stack of books and supplies to haul up to your room, and you have two pack mules available today. Make use of them.”
“Pack mules?” Andulvar asked. “Where . . . ?”
“Father means us,” Daemonar said. “Come on, Titian. We’ll help you get settled in.”
“She’s happy and excited and didn’t realize that you’ve cleared the field,” Daemon said quietly.
“Yeah, she and Andulvar haven’t figured that out.”
“What do you think?”
“A cluster of males and females keeping to the shadows. No dark Jewels among them—yet. They send out a scout and measure the response.”
“And Jaenelle Saetien took the bait.”
“Or she waved at a girl she had met at a social gathering but never mentioned to you, and we’re reacting to a pricking on our skin caused by a memory, like an itch on a missing limb.” Lucivar scanned the area around the green. That cluster of youngsters was gone now. Would have been smarter to have shown themselves and just gone about their business. That choice to stay hidden gave him a reason to pay attention. “What’s wrong with your girl? Aren’t we good enough for her anymore?”
“Well, Surreal and I are on the wrong side of some line most days, and damned if we can figure out why—except that Jaenelle Saetien has me for a father, and that’s . . . difficult.”
Lucivar gave his brother his full attention. “Why?” Not that he didn’t think it was true. His being who and what he was wasn’t easy on his children either.
“I’m damaged and always will be.”
“Dangerous, yes. Damaged? Not so much anymore. Not from where I’m standing.”
Daemon studied him. “You can say that after . . . ?”
“Yeah, I can. I want everything you are keeping my daughter safe. Everything. Understand me?”
“Yes, I understand.”
“As for your girl, just keep an eye on my firstborn. If Jaenelle Saetien is heading for any real trouble, Daemonar won’t stand aside and let her fall. He never has.”
“And maybe some things will be easier to swallow if they come from him instead of me.”
And she’ll tell the boy things she won’t tell either of us.
“Prince!”
The girl running up to them wore a short-sleeve shirt and the bib overalls he associated with farmers and gardeners, but she was definitely a Queen and wore Opal as her Birthright. A light Opal, but that still gave her considerable power.
The last time he saw a Queen dressed like that was when Jaenelle Angelline and the coven were around the same age.
May the Darkness have mercy on whoever is trying to hold the leash on this one.
“Lady Zoela,” Daemon said. “I don’t believe you’ve met my brother, Prince Lucivar Yaslana.”
He’d heard her name for years and had wondered why a formal introduction had never quite happened—or why Titian had never asked to have this friend stay with them in Ebon Rih. Now Zoela beamed so much excitement and goodwill toward him, he felt wary.
“Is Titian here yet?” she asked.
“She’s gone to the book exchange with her pack mule brothers,” Daemon replied. “Have you picked up your supplies?”
“Weston helped me this morning.”
“My sympathies,” Daemon murmured.
She laughed. “Grandmother said he isn’t going to stay with me when I’m on school grounds, but he will stand as escort whenever I’m out and about in the city.”
“That’s reasonable.”
“Weston wasn’t happy about that. About not staying with me at the school, not about standing escort the other times.”
“You’re a Queen. He’s your escort as well as being family. You can’t expect him to be happy about you being on your own.”
“That’s what Grandfather said.” Zoela let out a sigh, then beamed more goodwill at both of them. “I’ll go help Titian pick out the art supplies. We have a pottery class together.”
And off she went, a running bundle of energy.
Lucivar looked at Daemon.
“Lady Zhara’s granddaughter,” Daemon confirmed.
“So that’s Zoey.” When she wasn’t at the SaDiablo town house visiting Jaenelle Saetien and going on excursions Daemon had arranged for the three girls, Titian had waited for letters from her friend Zoey. He frowned. “Pottery. That’s making misshapen things out of mud?”
“Expensive mud, and the end result will be admired.”
“Of course.” Admiring it wouldn’t make it any less misshapen.
Daemon bumped shoulders. “Let’s take a look at the rest of this place.”
By the time they circled back to the green and met up with the girls and took some of the load the boys were lugging, Lucivar knew the position of every building and every piece of open ground. If this place became a killing field, the Demon Prince knew exactly where and what to strike in order to destroy the enemy.
SIXTEEN
The first dance is so important,” Delora said. “Especially for the new students.”
“Making the right friends is critical,” Hespera added. “And not just for the time in school.”
“The friends you have now will be your friends forever.”
Jaenelle Saetien drank in this wisdom, flattered that Delora and Hespera would take the time to tell her these things. They were just enough older to have been at this school for a few years. They knew so much about how to go about in aristo society and who should be cultivated and who should be avoided. She didn’t understand why Zoey was so dismissive of the things Delora and Hespera had to say. Shouldn’t a Queen want to cultivate the people who would serve in her court? And Titian . . .
She’s delightfully rustic. That was how several girls had described her cousin. They said it kindly and with a smile, but inviting Titian to join Delora’s circle for girl talk was always an afterthought. After the first couple of times, when it became clear that Titian didn’t know anything about anything aristo, she declined to join them—to everyone’s relief.
“You’ll want a new gown, of course.” Delora held out a piece of paper. “Something exquisite since you come from such an aristo bloodline. Here are the names of two shops that cater to girls our age. They do custom-made clothes, of course, but they also have designs that are already made and just require the alterations for a perfect fit.”
Jaenelle Saetien looked at the names on the paper. “I don’t know. My mother prefers . . .”
Delora rolled her eyes. “Whose mother doesn’t prefer? But who is going to make the right impression wearing fusty clothes suitable for older women?”
“Well . . .” Surreal might kick about her going to another dressmaker, but if she could get her father to agree, her mother couldn’t say anything, could she?
She smiled at he
r friends. “Yes. A new gown to signal a new chapter in my life.”
“Actually,” Hespera said, “you’ll need two gowns.”
“And you’ll have to buy them soon,” Delora added. “The dance is only a few days away.”
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
“Lord Beron was here last evening,” Helton said as he helped Surreal remove her coat.
“Was he?” Daemon said mildly. “I trust he left a crumb or two in the pantry?”
Helton looked a trifle defensive. “We are always ready to receive the family or their guests, Prince. But Lord Beron is rehearsing for a new play and is working very hard. That doesn’t give him time to prepare proper meals.”
Surreal swallowed a laugh and didn’t dare look at Daemon. Helton and the rest of the town house’s staff doted on Beron.
“You provided him with enough meals to sustain him until his next visit?” Daemon asked.
“Just some leftovers.”
Daemon laughed. “I hope you gave him more than that, but we’ll invite Beron to join us for dinner while we’re in town. You should tell Cora to overestimate the amount of food needed for that meal to assure that there will be leftovers.” He winked at Helton, who dropped his professional demeanor long enough to smile in return.
Surreal felt Daemon’s hand lightly touch her back as he escorted her into the sitting room. His sexual heat swirled around her, a seductive blanket that wrapped around a woman tightly enough to ensnare.
She kept reminding herself that it wasn’t his fault. He kept the heat leashed as much as he could, but being around him for more than a day or two felt like being imprisoned by sexual need.
Unfortunately, the heat didn’t influence his interest in sex—or lack of interest. Would he sleep with her tonight, or was his current preoccupation going to consume his desire to be a lover?