by Sunny
“Why tell her? Would she not be the last person you would want aware of our secret?” Nico asked.
“She is the one person here that I trust most to keep it.”
None of them asked why, though I knew they wanted to. I was glad they did not, because it was a question I could not have answered.
“So do we just wait here?” Nico asked, restless.
“Yes, they are aware that someone landed and will come seeking us shortly. Better that we be here, waiting, than approach them unknown from the forest. That might make them nervous.”
They proved to be nervous enough as it was. On the tail of my words, two vans sped onto the private airstrip, halting abruptly and spilling out a dozen Monère guards armed to the hilt with swords and daggers and a few discreet guns tucked here and there.
A tall dark-haired man, powerfully built, with a sweeping mustache, the kind that curled up at the ends, stepped out of the third vehicle, a green sedan. He nodded to us cordially, but his eyes looked over our little group with sharp assessment, noting our few weapons—daggers only, the sword and gun once more in the long carry bag. His look swept over my men, lingering curiously on Talon.
He approached with a smile, bowed with courtly flourish, and took my hand in his, kissing the back of it. One of the few men I allowed to do so. “Princess Lucinda,” he greeted in a husky baritone. “We are surprised but most pleased to see you here again.”
“Captain Gilbert,” I said, sliding my hand gently free from his. “My apologies for not being able to notify you ahead of time of our arrival. These are …” I made the barest pause before adding, “my men.” And I introduced them to him.
“Is Mona SiGuri, or any of her men, here?” I asked.
“No, Princess.”
“Good. If she should arrive, I would ask that I be notified at once, and that she not be allowed near any of my people.”
“It shall be as you wish,” Captain Gilbert said, nodding.
But I was not yet finished with my requests. “And if there are, perchance, any other demons that you might see—my brother and the High Lord excepted—I would ask that the same orders apply to them.”
Captain Gilbert’s eyebrows raised so high that they disappeared beneath the sweep of his dark hair. “Believe me, Lucinda,” he said, my remark startling him out of his distant formality for a moment, “if another demon appears, you will be the first one we will come running to.”
Accompanied by the guards, we drove sedately into a compound nestled deep in the wilds of Minnesota along the northern border abutting Canada, where the air was brisk and clean, and human neighbors nonexistent.
Seated between Nico and me, Talon shivered. Only a small ripple of skin, but Nico sensed it and turned so that his knees brushed Talon’s. His two hands reached out, engulfing our smaller ones, connecting us, black skin, white skin, and gold.
“Cold?” I asked Talon, though his skin felt warm. Nico’s skin was actually the coolest among us, though not cold exactly. It was neither cold nor heated, but a temperature in between.
“No, mistress.” Just nervous, said his eyes.
“Call me Lucinda,” I said. We are bonded, after all, you and I and Nico.
“Yes, mistress,” Talon said, his eyes lowering to the floor, contradicting my order. I let it go with an inner shrug as we pulled up before the grand manor house, an old stately building that towered three stories above us.
Tradition. Even the Monère had it. And standing, waiting in welcome for us, was one of those traditions—the steward of the great house, an impeccably groomed man the same height as Nico but slenderer, with flashes of white sprinkled among the blackness of his hair, proclaiming the seniority of his age.
He bowed in deep welcome. “Princess Lucinda. You honor us with your presence.”
I gave him one of my rare smiles, a smile with nothing but warmth. “Mathias,” I murmured and reached up to give him a kiss upon the cheek that flustered the little man. A pleased blush pinkened that dignified face.
“As proper as ever, keeping the rest of us in line by the example you lead,” I teased and introduced the others to him. “My men,” I said, finding it less awkward to say those words aloud the second time around.
The steward bowed again in welcome. “Gentlemen. Princess. Please do not hesitate to let us know how we can be of service to you during your stay.”
“I will not be staying long, Mathias.”
Mathias continued as if I had not spoken. “Perhaps you might find it easier to take a suite in the Great House, Princess.”
I smiled at the predictability of the little steward, a game of sorts that had started many years ago and continued on between us during my infrequent visits: the briefness of my rare visits, and his urging for a longer, lengthier stay.
“Thank you, but no. I will stay in my brother’s lodgings, as usual. And in there, only briefly.”
“Is there anything you might need, milady?”
Here we veered from my usual habit—which would have been to decline his kind offer. “Yes,” I said, surprising him. “Please send a healer to my brother’s residence; one of my men has need of her skills. And if you could possibly find some fresh clothing for Nico and Talon, I would much appreciate that.”
“It shall be brought to you shortly, Princess.” Mathias bowed again, and quietly gave instructions to two hovering footmen, sending them running off in different directions.
Captain Gilbert, who had been standing quietly throughout the exchange, took my hand once more in his. “Princess Lucinda, I will inform the Queen Mother that you wish an audience with her.” His dark eyes gleamed up at me as he bent over my hand once more. “I will see you shortly,” he said, a question neatly couched as a statement.
He waited for my soft answer, “Yes,” before releasing my hand. Then strode off briskly across the courtyard toward Council Hall, where the Queen Mother presided. Three of his men followed behind him; the rest dispersed to their various posts.
At Mathias’s instructions, a young footman picked up our belongings, the two backpacks and long carry bag, and trotted off in the opposite direction toward the small, private residences flanking the Great House. We followed behind at a more leisurely pace, moving as fast as Jonnie’s slow and careful walk.
“Do you think the healer will be able to help Jonnie?” Stefan asked in a quiet voice too low for the Mixed Blood to hear.
“I don’t know,” I replied, equally soft. “There are scarce few Mixed Bloods among the Monère, even less than I have encountered during my travels. Perhaps the healer will have a better idea; we had two Mixed Bloods residing here at High Court not long ago.”
“Are they here still?”
“No, they departed to the south territory of Louisiana, in the service of Mona Lisa, our first Mixed Blood Queen.”
This surprised Stefan enough to make him stop walking; I halted as well. “A Mixed Blood Queen,” he said, stunned by the concept. As we all had been.
“Three-quarters of Mona Lisa’s blood is Monère, only a fourth of her is human. Our Mother Moon blessed her with our strength and gifts, and with the ability to draw down its rays. To Bask.”
“I would very much like to have Jonnie meet this new Queen one day, and the two Mixed Bloods who serve her.”
“Perhaps one day he will.” The mention of the future turned my thoughts inward, and we traveled the rest of the way in thoughtful silence.
The house where my brother resided during his frequent visits to High Court was nestled farthest back from the Great House, apart from the other small residences, with the thick woods but a dozen yards away. I stepped into the small abode and breathed in Halcyon’s familiar scent; not only his physical scent but his psychic one—the lingering traces of his power that were detectable only to another demon dead. Good thing, because my men—how quickly I had come to think of them as such—were unsettled enough as it was. They stood unmoving at the threshold.
“Come in,” I urged. With
a distinct swallow, Stefan and Nico entered. Jonnie and Talon followed cautiously behind, peering with awe at the comfortable but simply furnished nest that was like any other human house in all things but one. The closed decorative shutters outside were simply that—decorative. There were no windows inside.
The footman, a young Monère with light sandy hair, emerged from the adjacent room. “I put your bags in the bedroom, Princess,” he said, a rosy blush darkening his cheeks, his eyes darting fascinated gazes at me before flitting shyly away.
“That’s fine,” I said and murmured my thanks. Throat bobbing nervously, the young Monère darted away.
“Have a seat, make yourselves comfortable.” I waved my hand toward the settee and wing chair by the far wall. “I’m going to clean up.” And so saying, I walked into the bedroom.
The shower felt like a luxury, hot water beating against my skin, washing away the grime of dirt, sweat, and blood … and the stink of fear and desperation. By the time my hair was lathered and washed and skin cleansed, only sad regrets lingered like a faint bitter aftertaste.
The threat of Mona SiGuri could be neutralized, or controlled at least. But the other demon, Derek … For as long as he was still in existence and loose, he would be an ever-present danger, hovering in the background, always ready to strike. If not at me directly, then at my men. Thinking and worrying about that brought me to a solution that solved so many things. A solution I would not have sought, or even thought of, had not the presence of the other demon compelled me to it. Perhaps I should thank him for that before I killed him.
Nah. On second thought, probably best just to kill the demon bastard.
I toweled myself dry and raided my brother’s closet. Many clothes but few colors. Typical Halcyon. I selected a few garments and slipped into them. His white silk shirt strained tight across my bosom, and the sleeves hung long beyond my fingertips. His black pants fit just as badly, stretching across the flare of my hips, the fullness of my bottom, but gaping loose at the stomach and going inches beyond my feet. The latter was taken care of with a belt. The other problems, the too long sleeves and pant legs I rolled up.
I stepped back out into the small living room, toweling dry my hair, to find them still standing there by the door, unmoved from where I had left them. A pile of clothing was stacked neatly in a chair.
“Oh, good. They brought you clean clothes. Go ahead and use the shower. Extra towels are in the linen closet by the bathroom.”
They just stared at me in silence, stunned looks on their faces.
“What?” I asked.
“You look …” Stefan’s voice trailed off.
“I know,” I said, tossing the wet towel onto a side table. “Quite ragged. My brother, as you can see, is taller and slimmer than I.”
“Far from ragged,” Stefan murmured, his eyes warm and appreciative. “You look lovely. Stunningly so, in fact, in your brother’s colors.” White shirt and black pants, Halcyon’s preference. Just as mine was a maroon or a deep wine red top paired with black leather pants.
I dismissed the compliment, feeling sloppy in the ill-fitting clothes. “Have you met my brother?”
“No, I have never had that privilege. But all know of him.” Stefan’s eyes fell to the sleeves that chose at that moment to loosen and roll down. If the pants did so during an awkward time, I might trip or worse, be thrown off balance accidentally and stab someone next to me with my dagger-sharp nails. A potential hazard I could not afford. Regretfully, I slashed off the extra lengths with an easy slicing of nails, butchering my brother’s quality apparel.
Stefan gazed at the ragged edges of my pants and sleeves. “You need to stitch those up.”
“I don’t sew,” I said, waving my fingers, long nails flashing. “Handy for slicing and dicing, but not for domestic chores.”
“Allow me then.” Stefan retrieved a small sewing kit from his backpack. Leading me to the settee, he knelt and began to hem up my right sleeve with neat little stitches.
“You sew,” I said, surprised.
“And I am handy at many domestic chores.” He grinned, looking so boyish for a moment. Until the light caught and reflected the few silver strands scattered like white tinsel among the silky darkness of his hair. Those signs of his age, of his life, racing quickly by, sobered me.
The others still dithered at the doorway, as if they couldn’t decide who should shower next. I decided for them. “Nico, why don’t you use the bathroom facilities next?”
He hesitated. “Lucinda. I don’t think that’s a good idea. The High Prince—”
“Would want you to be clean before meeting the Queen Mother.”
The stalwart warrior gulped. “We are to go before the Queen Mother?”
“Yes.”
“Couldn’t you just go?” asked Nico plaintively.
“I’m afraid not,” I said, my tone gentle but firm. “She will want to meet you.”
He swallowed, looked shaken.
“She will want to meet all of you,” I added for good measure, and watched the rest of them blanch.
“Go on, Nico.” I waved him toward the bedroom. “Shower quickly so the others will have enough time to clean up also.”
Reluctantly, Nico did as I bade, advancing timidly into Halcyon’s bedroom, almost making me smile. Almost, but not quite. Not with what gleamed white and vivid before my eyes.
My hand—the free one—reached out and lightly stroked the few silver strands decorating the raven darkness bent before me.
“Does it bother you?” Stefan asked without looking up. “My white hair?”
“No,” I replied. But I lied. It did bother me, this evidence of the years of life irretrievably lost to him, wasted so unnecessarily. A part of me wanted to know the name of the Queen, the last one who had finally compelled Stefan onto the path of outcast rogue, stealing those years from him by forcing him to leave the sanctuary of her shared light. A part of me whispered it would be better not to know, in case I ever met her. So I did not carve my nails down her face, tearing flesh from bone if I knew who she was.
I could not do anything about those years Stefan had already lost, but the rest… that I could do something about.
A piece of paper resting by the pile of clothes caught my eye. I picked it up and read it. A handwritten note from Mathias. The efficient steward had remembered something I had forgotten—the feeding of my men.
Bring them down to the dining hall in a short while, he wrote. í will have some light repast prepared for them.
Perhaps our bloodied and dirt-stained clothes, our paucity of baggage, had clued the efficient steward in to our hasty flight here. Or perhaps Mathias had simply known that a demon would not have thought of something she did not partake in herself here— food.
I glanced around the room I sat in. One other thing this place lacked was a kitchen. No need for it when all demons required was hot blood directly from the source of provision.
Silly to have forgotten something so necessary to the well-being of my men. Emphasizing how ill equipped I was to see to their proper care.
Would I have thought of their need for food when I had gone to slack my own hunger? Perhaps. I would never know now.
Nico emerged from the bedroom garbed in clean borrowed clothes. Jonnie went next into the bedroom as Stefan finished hemming my sleeves and bent down to my pant legs, lifting and putting first my right foot, then my left on his bent knee. I watched the nimble play of his fingers wielding the needle deftly and dexterously like a little sword. Admired the neat, even stitches he placed. Admired even more his comfortable matter-of-factness in doing what was traditionally women’s work. And felt touched by the pleased smile that kicked up a corner of his mouth, the obvious satisfaction he took in doing this small thing for me.
“Much better,” Stefan murmured when he was finally done, and rose to his feet. Pulled me to mine. Taking my hand in his as if it were the most natural thing to do, without thought, without fear or worry that my nails w
ould tear his skin. So much trust in that simple gesture.
I murmured my thanks. For one sweet moment I let my hand linger in his. Then I slipped free of his gentle grasp. Made myself walk slowly to the door so that I could tell myself: See, I’m not running from that lopsided smile.
Eyes looking out the door, one foot over the threshold, I paused. “When everyone has cleaned up, and when the healer has finished, return to the Great House. Mathias, the steward, will have some food ready for you. I’ll meet you there,” I told them.
Slipping outside, I closed the door gently behind me.
Twenty-three
The pleasure Stefan had felt in caring for his lady drained away with her withdrawal. With her leaving.
Stefan watched Lucinda go quickly down the stone walkway, heading in the direction of the manor house. No sound betrayed her movements or told of where she headed. He’d had to open the door after she left and peer after her like a lovesick swain, which he was. A jealous lovesick swain. One that burned to know where she went.
The spray of the shower from the other room filled his ears, and the sense of another’s presence brushed his awareness as Nico came to stand beside him in the open doorway.
“They let us keep our weapons,” Stefan said to the other man. “And set no guard to watch us, even though the captain had to know, or at least suspect, what you and I are—rogues.” The thrum of their power, stronger than any of the guards that had milled about them, as strong as the captain himself, would have betrayed them, if nothing else.
“We are no longer rogues,” Nico said mildly. “We are Princess Luanda’s men, and they are treating us as such.”
She disappeared around the bend. Was no longer visible to Stefan’s sight or to any of his other senses.
“She does not know how she looks in her brother’s clothes,” Stefan murmured.
With her wet hair slicked back from her face, those gilded locks darkened almost to bronze, she had been a study of contrasts and colors. The ivory silk had brought out the loveliness of her warm, tawny skin. The hair, that striking golden mane that danced and flowed about her face when it was dry, had been dark and subdued, allowing one’s eyes to appreciate what it could not before—the striking beauty of those dark chocolate eyes, the exquisite arch of high cheekbones, the straight patrician nose, the delicate line of her jaw, the flare of her brows like dark wings painted across her aristocratic brow. Female beauty in its purest aesthetic form … until your gaze fell upon the ripeness of those exotic lips, the flare of her hips, the womanly roundness of her buttocks, the lush swelling of her breasts pushing against the tight constraint of her shirt with her nipples faithfully outlined in exquisite detail.