Dreams Made Flesh bj-5

by Anne Bishop

  Lucivar swore. "He's a Warlord Prince. Someone tried to hurt his Queen. What do you think is going to happen?"

  "It was an accident."

  "You believe that if you want to. You seem willing to believe a lot of things lately."

  Before Zhara could reply, they all heard the quiet clink of glass against glass. She glanced toward the sitting room…and the two women left with more speed than dignity.

  Lucivar closed the front door, then leaned against it for a moment. He didn't want to walk into that sitting room, but someone had to dance with the Sadist, and it looked like it was going to be him.

  Taking a deep breath, and hoping he wasn't about to make Marian a widow, he walked into the sitting room and closed the door.

  "Brandy?" Daemon asked as he filled a snifter halfway.

  "Sure." Lucivar walked toward his brother, watching for any sign that things would turn lethal. Daemon sounded calm, but that didn't mean a damn thing.

  Daemon poured brandy into another snifter and handed it to Lucivar.

  "I was willing to let it go," Daemon said softly. "I told myself it was just words. Some petty bitch sees a male she wants and goes after him in one way or another. How many times had we watched that game played out in Terreillean courts over the centuries?"

  "Too many," Lucivar said, wishing he could test the brandy for poison… and knowing the insult would probably get him killed. "Hell's fire, when that little Rihlander was planning to trap me a few years ago, I exiled the bitch."

  "Just exile? Did you have a weak moment, Prick?" Daemon's smile was still on the chilling side, but not quite on the killing edge anymore.

  Lucivar shrugged. "At the time, killing her would have caused more problems."

  Daemon nodded and took a large swallow of brandy. "If this game had stayed focused on me, I would have let it go. Jaenelle didn't believe the rumors, and I don't give a damn what anyone else thinks." He looked away. "And I thought, if it got physical, I would be the target."

  "You were in that carriage, too."

  "But I'm not the one who was supposed to get hurt. It happened fast, Lucivar. We'd been using that same cab all afternoon. Anyone following us would have had time to put a spell on it…or at least prepare the spell for a fast strike. The way the cab rolled… It was too fast, too violent. Had to be Craft-enhanced. Which means someone hoped Jaenelle would be hurt."

  "In order to have you." He could see it too clearly. A shield would have protected her from broken glass or wood, but being thrown around in a rolling cab could have resulted in a damaged neck or spine. Jaenelle could have been crippled, perhaps forever, just when she was starting to reclaim her life.

  "In order to have me," Daemon agreed.

  "So what are we going to do?"

  "Whoever caused the accident killed the driver but didn't finish the kill. I have him. After he makes the transition to demon-dead, he may be able to tell me something."

  "You have plenty of experience in finishing the kill and none when it comes to dealing with someone newly demon-dead."

  "So?"

  "Why not take the cab driver to the one person who does know how to deal with the demon-dead?" Lucivar took a swallow of brandy. "If you don't tell Father about what happened today, he's going to kick your ass. You know that."

  The room went cold. "Do you think he can?"

  Hell's fire. No. "Jaenelle is his Queen, too, Bastard. If she's in danger, he needs to be told."

  The temperature in the room eased closer to normal.

  "I don't want to leave Jaenelle," Daemon finally said.

  "Then I'll take the driver to the Keep."

  "All right."

  "And after we find out whatever the driver knows?"

  Daemon watched the brandy as he gently swirled the snifter. "Jaenelle wants to help me find whoever is behind the rumors. I'm not happy about that, but I understand the need. If I try to keep her away from everything that might hurt her, I'll smother her…and I'll lose her. She won't stay if she's thought of as less than what she was."

  "She is less than what she was." Lucivar shrugged, ignoring the skitter of nerves down his spine at the way Daemon looked at him. "But she'll never discover what she can do if we keep standing in the way."

  "Exactly." Daemon sighed. "There's a party in three days. One of those mind-numbing affairs. So Jaenelle and I will play out a little game at the party. Maybe we'll even find out something. Either way, I think I can convince her that she played out her part and should go back to the Hall."

  "A mind-numbing party," Lucivar muttered. "Sounds like fun."

  Daemon's eyes and smile finally warmed. "I'm delighted you think so, since you'll be there, too."

  Lucivar swore. "Why do I have to be there?"

  "Because if someone there goes after Jaenelle and somehow manages to get past me, I want to know they'll have to go through you in order to hurt her."

  "Done." He set the snifter on the table. "You'd better include Surreal in this party. If you piss her off, she'll threaten to pin your balls to the wall."

  Daemon grinned. "She does have a way of expressing her opinions, doesn't she?"

  "That she does. So what happens after the party?"

  The grin changed into a viciously gentle smile. Daemon set the snifter down and turned his right hand palm up so Lucivar could see the snake tooth slide out of its channel beneath the ring-finger nail.

  "After that," Daemon said, "I'm going hunting."

  Twelve

  1

  Daemon shrugged into his black jacket and adjusted the cuffs of his white silk shirt. He didn't want to go to this party, didn't want Jaenelle anywhere near the aristo Blood who would be crowding the rooms. But her plan to try to draw out whoever was behind the rumors sounded safe enough, especially with Lucivar and Surreal in attendance.

  That didn't mean he liked it. And he wasn't sure he could do it.

  To distract himself, he silently rehearsed the phrase in the Old Tongue that he'd painstakingly pieced together over the past few weeks. He'd learned a few phrases of the Blood's ancient language over the centuries from scholars who still had some knowledge of those fluid words, but nothing he'd known had come close to what he wanted to say. Something private. Something erotic. Something he could whisper to Jaenelle to tell her what she meant to him.

  Unfortunately, there were only two people in all of Kaeleer who were fluent in the Old Tongue. He couldn't ask Jaenelle to help him translate the phrase since he wanted to surprise her, and Saetan… Well, no matter how sophisticated the relationship, no matter how adult the people involved, there were some things a son just couldn't ask his father.

  So he'd struggled with the books he'd found in Saetan's private study deep beneath the Hall, books that were filled with the grammar and vocabulary of that old language. What they didn't tell him was how to pronounce those words.

  Maybe he could talk Jaenelle into giving him a few lessons while they were on their honeymoon. After all, he was going to offer to teach her a few things, too.

  A quiet click. The bathroom door opened.

  He turned to face her as she entered the bedroom. He'd seen desire mingled with the heat of lust in other women's eyes, and had hated them for it because they saw only the body, wanted only the bedroom skills he'd had no choice in learning. But seeing those feelings in her…

  A different kind of heat flowed through him, and all those bedroom skills finally had a purpose.

  "You look beautiful," he said as he crossed the room and held out his hand.

  "So do you." She blushed.

  Watching the color wash over her cheeks made him hungry.

  Drawing her into his arms, he nuzzled her temple. "What would you like to do on our honeymoon?" The look she gave him made him grin. "Besides that."

  Her blush deepened.

  He eased back enough to trace a finger over the gold chain that held Twilight's Dawn. "I was thinking we could see what skills you might have now with a different Jewel."
<
br />   A touch of wariness filled her eyes. "Craft?"

  "I was thinking more along the lines of cooking."

  Her eyes widened. "Cooking? But I can't cook."

  His fingers followed the chain back up to her neck. "You couldn't before. But you couldn't call in your shoes before, either."

  "I don't know, Daemon."

  The words were doubtful, but her expression was eager.

  His hands caressed her back. His lips brushed her cheek. "We could start with something simple. A roast."

  "A roast," she repeated, as solemn as any student learning her first difficult spell.

  "We start with a choice cut of meat." His hands caressed her hips, her ribs, gave her breasts a teasing brush before circling back up to her shoulders. "Rub it gently with herbs to season it and bring out the flavor." Since her head had tipped back, exposing her throat, he took the invitation and left a trail of delicate kisses from her throat to her ear. "Then we give it heat, but carefully, slowly, so the juices rise and tremble on the surface to be savored."

  "Are you sure we're talking about cooking?"

  He licked her ear, enjoying the little tremors going through her.

  "My legs are weak," she said, sounding breathless.

  He froze, fighting against the panic that the strain of the past few days had been too much for her. But before he could think of a careful way to ask, she added, "When your voice gets that purr in it and you kiss me like that, my legs get weak."

  His body relaxed in one way, tightened in another. He brushed his lips over hers. "We could skip the party, stay home, and"… the tip of his tongue touched her bottom lip… "discuss the merits of basting."

  She stared at him. "I'm supposed to be annoyed with you. How am I going to be annoyed with you?"

  "By remembering the second part of the evening's entertainment."

  "What's that?"

  "The kiss-and-make-up part." He smiled as phantom tongues delicately licked her nipples.

  She wobbled, then held on to him to stay upright. "Mother Night."

  "Ready?" he purred.

  "For what?"

  She sounded nervous. He never wanted her to fear him, but nervous… Oh, he knew exactly how to play with a light case of nerves.

  Since he could think of a dozen answers to her question…and only one of them would get them out of the bedroom…he stepped back enough to guide her toward the door.

  "For the party of course."

  "The party. I remember."

  He grinned. Strange to feel savagely volatile and lighthearted at the same time. "Let's collect Surreal and Lucivar and go play party games."

  2

  Surreal scanned another room full of milling people. It felt like every aristo in Amdarh was stuffed into this house. "Parties like this were more fun to attend when I was a whore."

  Standing beside her, Lucivar also scanned the room. "Why?"

  "Watching all the prissy bitches trying not to act scandalized that I was there was almost as entertaining as watching the men I'd slept with sweat over what I might say to the prissy bitches. Now that I'm considered part of an aristo family, these little evenings aren't as interesting."

  "You're not 'considered' part of an aristo family," Lucivar growled. "You are part of an aristo family."

  "Whatever."

  "We've been here an hour. You don't have to stay."

  "I'm not here for the food or the entertainment. Thank the Darkness."

  She didn't catch most of the low, snarling response except for the words "moon's blood."

  "It's the fourth day," she said with insulting precision. "I can wear my Jewels again."

  "The males here don't know that," he snapped. "They'll just pick up the scent. You might as well hang a sign around your neck that says, 'I'm vulnerable. Hurt me.' "

  She gave him a razor smile. "Exactly. Any male who looks at me and sees 'prey' is a man I want to have a private chat with."

  He gave her a long, assessing stare. She knew that look. This was Lucivar assessing a warrior's potential to step onto a killing field and be able to walk away from it once the fight was done.

  "You have your knives with you?" he asked.

  "I used to be an assassin as well as a whore, remember? Yes, I have my knives."

  "Are they honed?"

  "Yes, they're honed. Would you like me to test one on you to prove it?"

  He just stared.

  Surreal sighed. Since he was Eyrien, a Warlord Prince, and a relative, getting pissy with Lucivar about weapons was pointless. She decided to change the subject. "What's wrong with Daemon and Jaenelle? They were snuggly in the carriage on the way to this party, and now…" She frowned. "Now Daemon has this look on his face…"

  "His court mask." The sudden tension in Lucivar's body and the wariness in his voice made her uneasy. "His what?"

  "That's the way he always looked in the Terreillean courts when he was a pleasure slave. Cold. Bored. His face was a mask that revealed nothing of what he was really thinking. It was a look that said, 'You can touch my body, but you'll never touch me.'"

  That distracted her. "He actually let the bitches touch him…and they lived?"

  "I didn't say they lived," Lucivar replied grimly.

  Surreal shivered and went on to the second part. "Then there's Jaenelle. One moment everything is fine, and the next it's like she almost believes the rumors."

  "Hell's fire," Lucivar said. "This is the game. Daemon told me they were going to try flush out whoever was behind the rumors. This is how they're doing it."

  She thought it over, and her stomach churned at the possibility. The last time she'd been involved in one of Daemon's "games," the Sadist had scared the shit out of everyone in that Hayllian camp.

  "It's a game," Lucivar repeated. "He knows his role…Mother Night, he's played it enough times over the centuries."

  "And Jaenelle is pretending to waver between refusing to believe the rumors and wondering if there's some truth to them?"

  "That's my guess." He sighed. "Come on. We'd better find them."

  "I prefer watching the Sadist's games from a distance." But when Lucivar threaded his way through the crowd to reach the ballroom, she swore under her breath and followed him.

  Lektra pulled her cousin Tavey into a small alcove where she could keep an eye on the ballroom and still talk with relative privacy. Watching Daemon fawn over Jaenelle was beyond intolerable, and if he continued playing the ardent lover so publicly, all her efforts to free him would be ruined. So she had to do something now. It was unfortunate that she didn't have time to find a male who could make the lie believable, but she had to hope that the shock of the claim would make Daemon react without thinking.

  "This is what I want you to do," she said. Tavey's eyes widened as she told him.

  "But he's a Warlord Prince," Tavey said, his voice rising until she shushed him.

  "Exactly. By Protocol, if he's told to walk away, he has to walk away."

  "But doesn't she have to tell him to go?"

  "She'll never tell him. So you have to."

  "But I don't even know her!"

  "Shush!" Lektra looked around to assure herself no one was paying attention to them. "That doesn't matter. He won't know that." She paused and made her lips quiver. "Tavey, if you don't do this for me, my love will never be free, and if he ends up having to marry her, I'll be so miserable I…I don't think I'll be able to stand living anymore."

  "Don't say that, Lektra. Don't." Tavey squeezed her hands. "I'll do it. I promise."

  She sniffled and gave him a brave smile. "I won't forget this. And once Daemon and I are married, I'm sure he'll use his family's influence to get you a position in whatever court you want."

  "Wouldn't mind having a month or so with Sadi's 'cousin.' "

  "You want the whore? You can have her. I've already made plans for getting her out of the way for a while to insure she's not a distraction. There's no reason why she can't provide you with some company while she's
staying in the country."

  "Is something wrong?" Daemon asked as he escorted Jaenelle around the edge of the ballroom.

  "I'm trying to look petulant," she replied. "Don't I look petulant?"

  "You look like you have gas."

  "Daemon." She choked back a laugh.

  His lips twitched. This party was turning out to be more fun than he'd anticipated. Oh, not the party itself, but playing out this game with Jaenelle was definitely entertaining. It had been easy enough to slip behind that cold, bored expression that had served him so well in the Terreillean courts. Problem was, the mask kept slipping. They kept slipping, forgetting their roles of suspicious woman and discontented man. Dancing with her for the first time in months was too delicious a feeling to spoil with a game.

  But he'd agreed to play this out, so that's what he would do.

  "Are we still scheduled to have a public quarrel?" he asked, slipping an arm around her Waist once they found an open space where they could watch the dancers.

  "Yes, we are, because I'm upset with you." Jaenelle frowned as she looked at him. "Why am I upset with you?"

  "So that we can spend hours tonight doing the kiss-and-make-up part of this pretend quarrel," he purred, using Craft to change the sexual heat that, even leashed, poured out of him into psychic seduction tendrils that gently coiled around her while phantom hands stroked the inside of her thighs.

  "Mother Night," she gasped.

  Suddenly she was leaning hard against him, letting him support her.

  "Feeling a bit weak in the legs?" he asked too innocently.

  Her laughing snarl turned into a warm smile when she noticed the man swiftly approaching them.

  Handsome, graceful and lean, with a mane of brown hair artfully disheveled, the man had fair skin, which meant he wasn't native to Dhemlan, and green eyes that were focused on Jaenelle. An Opal-Jeweled Warlord Prince. A rival.

  Daemon hated him on sight.

  "My darling," the man said, pressing his lips to the back of the hand Jaenelle held out to him.

  "Prince Rainier," Jaenelle replied, still smiling.

  "I'm wounded," Rainier said.

  Not yet, but you will be, Daemon thought.

  "My favorite Lady finally makes an appearance at a party and hasn't asked me to dance," Rainier continued. "But that's all right. I'm content just to flirt with you."