by Anne Bishop
Beron drank some of his tea. “While I was in school, and all the years after, I would come to the town house once a week for dinner. Sometimes both of them were in residence, sometimes one or the other. Jaenelle always knew when I’d wrangled with my grandfather, and she would make up this blend of tea to quiet the mind and soothe the heart. Sometimes we’d talk. Sometimes we just sat and drank this tea—and I would feel better.
“When I got out of school and rented my first flat, proclaiming my independence, or as much independence as one can have in this family, Jaenelle took me to the tea broker—a small shop crammed with jars of teas and herbs. It’s still in business. I can show you where to find it if you’re interested. Anyway, she asked the teaman to make up two jars of the Lady’s blend.” Beron smiled. “Jaenelle’s special blend that she had created from the teas in his shop. It didn’t taste quite the same when I made it for myself. Her handling the tea added something extra, something that was just her.”
Dangerous ground because he heard a yearning beneath the words. “Do you miss her?” Daemonar asked.
“I do. But when I’m feeling heartsore for some reason, I make a cup of this tea, and it’s like she’s here again, listening to what my heart can’t put into words.”
“What do you think she would say about Titian?”
Beron gave him a long look. “Your sister is quiet and she’s sensitive—and she has the lesson of your father’s reaction to Jillian’s first romance.”
“Everyone remembers my father’s reaction to seeing Lord Dillon put a hand on Jillian’s breast.”
“Exactly. Titian isn’t the kind of girl who would take a chance of upsetting her father—or her uncle. Daemonar, you don’t know if the girls are thinking of hot petting and kisses that involve tongues . . .”
He choked.
“. . . or if they don’t want to get into trouble for holding hands and brushing each other’s hair. I think Jaenelle would tell you that this is the moment when you could lose your sister’s trust, and you have to decide if this is so important to you that you’ll step away from Titian.”
“I’m not stepping away,” Daemonar snarled. “But she’ll know that I’m not easy about this. Not yet, anyway.”
Beron called in two ticket-sized pieces of heavy paper and set them on the table. “An art exhibit that is showcasing new work but also is displaying some very old, very rare paintings. Each ticket is for one person and an escort. If you want to let Titian know you’re standing with her, even if you don’t understand her choices—yet—you’ll invite her and Zoey to attend this exclusive preview.”
“Me go to an art show? I’d rather be stabbed with a fork.”
“I know. So does Titian. That’s why the invitation will mean a lot.”
Daemonar drank his tea. He could go up to the Keep and ask Auntie J. what she thought. He could do that. But he figured her advice wouldn’t differ from Beron’s.
Then he looked at the tickets. Had to be expensive if they were for an exclusive preview. “Who were you going to take to this preview? You wouldn’t have bought the tickets on the chance that you’d need them.”
“Who doesn’t matter,” Beron replied with a trace of bitterness. “It turned out she had targeted me as a way to get close enough to rub up against other members of the family.”
For a moment, Daemonar forgot to breathe. “Hell’s fire, Uncle Daemon would have killed her.”
Beron nodded. “Best if we keep that between us, all right?”
“All right.” He sighed. “I’ll invite Titian and Zoey, but . . .” He wasn’t going to beg. He wasn’t.
Beron laughed softly. “I do want to see that exhibit, so I will stand as the other escort.”
“Thank the Darkness.”
Beron vanished the tickets and took the mugs to the sink. “Go home, cousin. Make peace with your uncle and get some sleep.”
Good advice. He hoped Uncle Daemon would be in the mood for peace.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
Daemonar returned before Helton locked up for the night. At least the boy had that much sense.
What surprised Daemon was the tentative rap on the study door. “Come in.”
Daemonar stepped inside and closed the door, but kept the room’s length between them.
Not drunk, Daemon decided, and not in a fighting mood.
“Zoey’s a Queen,” Daemonar said.
“She is,” Daemon agreed.
“A Queen’s triangle is made up of three males to balance the power between genders—Steward, Master of the Guard, and Consort.”
“Or First Escort. But, yes, that is the structure of a court, and it does not, cannot, change.”
“What happens to Titian when Zoey sets up her court?”
Daemon closed his book and set it aside. “There are a lot of years between now and the day when Zoey forms an official court. Some Queens have a Consort and a husband who are not the same man. Some Queens have a First Escort whose duty ends at the bedroom door, and a husband whose relationship with her is personal and outside of the court.” He sighed. “I don’t know what will happen, boyo. They’re very young. First love doesn’t always mean forever love.”
Daemonar’s wings opened and closed, slight movements that usually meant he was agitated about something. “Beron and I are going to take Titian and Zoey to an exclusive art exhibit.”
Daemon smiled—and saw his nephew shiver. “Beron finally realized the bitch was using him to get her feet under the SaDiablo table?”
“It wasn’t her feet she wanted under something,” Daemonar muttered.
“I see,” Daemon said too softly.
“I didn’t mean . . .”
The men in the family needed to be able to talk to one another, needed to be able to confide in one another. He wouldn’t damage the strength of the bond between Daemonar and Beron by going after the bitch.
But the High Lord of Hell wouldn’t forget about her either, and someday she and he would have a little chat.
“Lucivar will be here in a couple of days.”
“Did you tell him?” Daemonar asked.
“I told him. He didn’t sound impressed.”
Daemonar laughed reluctantly. “Since he can’t promise to rip off a cock and shove it down the offender’s throat, what do you suppose he’ll use as a threat?”
Daemon pushed out of the chair and walked to the door, then waited for Daemonar to open it before saying, “Knowing your father, I’m sure he’ll think of something.”
TWENTY-THREE
Surreal turned her cup so that the handle faced her left hand. She lowered her right hand to her lap and called in her sight-shielded stiletto. Whoever was approaching her table at this coffee shop was making considerable effort to avoid attracting attention.
In her experience, sneaky usually equaled enemy.
She created a tight Gray shield around herself, sipped her coffee, and waited.
The person who slipped into the chair opposite hers was female, felt like an Opal Jewel—and was sight-shielded.
An Opal aural shield went up around the table, keeping anything that was said private.
“I heard you’ve been asking about girls who were broken on their Virgin Night,” the woman said.
The voice had a husky, sexual allure, but Surreal had the impression the speaker was young enough not to have made the Offering to the Darkness. Which made the Opal the speaker’s Birthright Jewel. And that made her unknown visitor a potentially powerful witch when she reached her mature strength.
“You have a problem with that, sugar?” Surreal kept her face turned away from the rest of the room. The Blood in the coffee shop would detect the aural shield and might already know the identity of the sight-shielded witch, but there was no reason to draw more attention to this chat than necessary.
“I’ve made some discreet inquiries and heard that you established a place, a sanctuary, where young women—witches—can go after their lives have been . . . damaged.”
The inquiries must have been very discreet if the people who worked at the sanctuary or on the nearby SaDiablo estate hadn’t realized someone was sniffing around.
“I repeat,” Surreal said. “You have a problem with that?”
“No. I have someone I’d like you to consider if there is room for another person.”
“I’m listening.”
“She’s a friend of mine. She’s not aristo or a Sister of the Hourglass . . .”
That told Surreal the speaker was both.
“. . . but she would have been a strong witch—and she was, and is, a person with a strong moral code.”
Mother Night. “She was deliberately broken?”
“Yes. ‘The girl lusted for a cock. What was the boy to do?’”
“Did she lust for that particular cock?”
The speaker made a disparaging sound. “The first time he suggested she have some fun under him, she said no, thank you. Then she said no, loudly and in front of witnesses. And then . . .”
A flash of anger rattled the dishes on the table before the speaker regained control. “And then several of us were invited to an outdoor party, hosted by the aristo family whose son didn’t want to keep his cock behind his zipper. My friend didn’t want to go—there was something odd about her being invited in the first place—but her father insisted.”
Surreal felt cold. She’d heard this story before. But not in Kaeleer. Not in Dhemlan. “Your friend ate or drank something and began to feel strange. Then someone, probably not the cock, helped her to someplace a bit private where she could rest.”
“She doesn’t remember much after that. Images. Then she was tied down and gagged, and a hood was pulled over her head. Then he came. I think he hit her with a belt, judging by the welts I saw. Hit her buttocks, her legs. He put a hand over her face, blocking her ability to breathe. Just a few seconds at a time, but over and over. She tried to use Craft, she tried to use raw power to strike back, but she said she couldn’t find it—and he was just a little bit stronger. Just enough. And when she was too frightened to think, that’s when he did the rest . . . and broke into her body and broke her power. Shattered her ability to wear her Birthright Jewel, and destroyed the potential of whoever she could have been.”
“She went home and told her parents?”
“No. She came to my home, and my parents and I took her to the District Queen to have the Queen’s Healer make a record of the damage. She couldn’t name the boy. She hadn’t seen him, and all his friends swore he hadn’t gone near her that afternoon.”
“What did her father say?”
“He said she’d been acting the slut, and it wasn’t the boy’s fault if she’d ended up broken,” the speaker said bitterly. “Of course, his wife was wearing new, expensive clothes shortly after that, and he had plenty of money to toss around on wagers. For a while. Then that aristo family left the village, and the wife was no longer able to buy expensive clothes and he was struggling to pay off his bets. Lately, he’s been making cutting remarks about how a girl who only had one chance of getting pregnant and having a child didn’t have much to offer a husband who could help out the family.”
Surreal pushed the tea aside, her stomach too queasy to tolerate food or drink. “Anything else?”
Silence. Then, “When he was . . . pounding . . . himself inside her, he said the descendants of Hayll’s Hundred Families would rule Dhemlan one day, and he was helping to bring that day about a little sooner.”
Hell’s fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful. This was a connection to the secret acquisition of Hayllian memorabilia and the other obscenities that were being smuggled into Kaeleer. This was confirmation that at least some of the girls had been broken deliberately, like they’d been broken in Terreille.
But who was the bitch who fancied herself to be the next Dorothea SaDiablo?
“How fast can your friend be ready to leave?”
“Anytime. She’ll be running with the clothes on her back and whatever is in her hands.”
“She has to be sure, because there’s no going back,” Surreal said. “Every person who comes to live at the sanctuary . . . A record is made at the Keep as to why the person is there and if her relatives are a danger to her. Or him. There are a few boys there as well.”
“I think her father knew,” the speaker whispered. “I think the aristo paid him to make sure she would be at the party.”
“Have your friend meet me at the edge of the village in an hour. We’re running.”
“Her father may try to stop you if he realizes she’s leaving.”
Surreal smiled. “It’s been a while since I skinned a man alive, but I haven’t forgotten what my mother taught me.”
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
*SADI!*
Daemon surged to his feet, dropping the stack of invitations he’d been reviewing with Holt—an instinctive response to the fury in Surreal’s voice.
*Surreal?*
*Where are you?*
*The Hall.*
*Stay there. We need to talk.* She broke the communication thread.
Daemon looked at Holt, who looked at him, wary and wide-eyed.
“Problem?” Holt asked.
“Surreal is heading home, and she is pissed.” Daemon resumed his seat. “I don’t know if I’m the cause, but she hasn’t sounded this angry in a long time. You may want to make yourself scarce until I know what this is about.”
“Should I inform Beale to keep the staff away from this part of the Hall?”
“Yes.”
Holt stood and gathered his notes. “I guess there’s no point deciding on invitations.”
“Oh, I’ll look at them and make some preliminary decisions.”
Once Holt was gone, Daemon leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs at the knees, and steepled his fingers, resting the index fingers against his chin—and wondered if Surreal would walk into his study and aim a crossbow at him to make sure she had his undivided attention.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
Daemonar hesitated on the town house’s steps, surprised to feel the tug of that fragmented mind.
What was Tersa doing in Amdarh?
The front door of the SaDiablo side of the town house opened. Helton looked at him, then looked toward the park that made up the center of the square. “I think she’s been waiting for you.”
“For me? Are you sure?” More likely, Tersa would be looking for Uncle Daemon, her boy.
“The winged boy’s son. I told her you would be home soon. She walked into the park.”
Daemonar nodded, then crossed the street. The park had a small fountain that provided drinking water for birds and small animals—and children who couldn’t be bothered to go inside when they were thirsty. There were flower beds and benches, stands of trees at either end, and a grassy, open center that had been great for sparring and playing with Scelties or other children.
When he reached the open center, he stood still and opened his first inner barrier just enough to feel that tug again.
There. Beneath the trees.
He strode to that end of the park, then slowed down. Tersa rarely ventured out of Halaway. The familiar village provided touchstones for her broken mind. Amdarh was too busy, too noisy. If she was here . . .
“Tersa?” he called. “Tersa? It’s Daemonar. You wanted to talk to me?”
He waited. He’d learned a long time ago that you couldn’t rush Tersa, especially if she was trying to find a path back to the borders of the Twisted Kingdom.
“How many sides does a triangle have?” She stepped from behind a tree and walked up to him, holding out her hand.
How many times over the years had she asked him this question?
Cupping one hand under hers, he used the forefinger of his other hand to draw three lines on the palm of her hand. Over and over and over.
“A triangle has three sides,” he said. Before she could contradict him, he added, “But a Blood triangle has four sides.” As he traced the shape on her palm, he named the sides. “Steward, Master of the Guard, and Consort—and the one who rules all three.” He pressed his finger in the center of the triangle to indicate the Queen.
“That is not your triangle,” Tersa said. She slipped her hand under his and began tracing lines on his palm. “Father, uncle, nephew. Father, uncle, nephew. Queen’s weapons, all. Dangerous. Deadly. Necessary.” Her finger kept tracing the lines. “Don’t die, young Prince. She will be very displeased if you get careless and die.”
Mother Night. “Have you seen me standing on a killing field, Tersa?”
“Love will bring you to that field. Love . . . and betrayal.”
She released his hand and stepped back. She looked around, suddenly shivering as she wrapped her arms around herself. “Is this Draega?”
Draega? A familiar word from a history lesson? Draega was . . . Ah! The capital city of Hayll, in the Realm of Terreille.
Daemonar felt as if the sun had faded without warning.
“No, Tersa.” He gently put an arm around her shoulders, hoping he wouldn’t frighten her into running. “This is Amdarh, the capital of Dhemlan, in Kaeleer. Your boy’s house is right over there.” He pointed. “I’m pretty sure there are nutcakes today.”
“Nutcakes? I like nutcakes.”
“Me too.”
“You will share?”