by Anne Bishop
“Did I need to?” Witch asked.
No. As wife or Queen, he was hers to command. “So I guess we’re all settled.”
“I guess we are.” Jaenelle stood up, walked around the desk, and gave him a kiss that narrowed his focus to just one thing: sex.
“I’m going to talk to Rainier and explain his new duties,” she said. “Why don’t you apply yourself to the paperwork so that we can take a long nap after the midday meal? You can warm up my feet.”
“I’ll warm up anything you want,” he purred.
Laughing, she eased back and picked up the stack of letters. “I’ll answer these for you. Just to save you some time.”
“You do that.”
When she closed the study door, he blew out a breath. “Get your mind out of your pants, boyo,” he muttered. Although his pants weren’t exactly where his mind was fixed right now. It was more on the things he wanted to taste. . . .
He shifted in his chair and pulled a stack of reports to the center of his desk. Before he’d read the first page, there was an enthusiastic scratching on the door.
*Daemon?*
*daemondaemondaemondaemondaemon.*
Sighing, he used Craft to open the door. Shuveen, Boyd, and Floyd rushed over to him. Shuveen was the first to jump into his lap, giving him time to put a shield over his crotch before Boyd and Floyd scrambled to join her. One Sceltie on his lap, he could handle. Three Scelties? Someone was going to plant a paw on his balls.
Easy enough to tell them he had to work and they needed to leave him alone—and he almost did. Then he thought about family. What would have happened to Mikal if Tildee hadn’t been with the boy, hadn’t received her training here at the Hall?
There was no black-haired, blue-eyed daughter to climb in his lap and ask for a story, but he and Jaenelle had raised quite a few kindred youngsters over the past few years, and now there were Beron and Mikal, who would need help and guidance and love.
He looked at the three Scelties, at the brown eyes filled with happy expectation. Whose lives would they change one day because of what he and Jaenelle taught them?
“One story,” he said. “Then I have to work.”
He waited for them to carefully turn around so they were all facing the desk. Then he put his arms around them, called in the storybook, and began reading Sceltie Saves the Day.
THE HIGH LORD’S DAUGHTER
A story that spans decades ...
ONE
In the dream, Daemon opened his eyes and knew three things: He was lying on a beach, he was naked, and he was dead.
There was pain in his chest. Huge, terrible pain. It had dulled to an ache now, but the memory of that pain was reason enough to keep his eyes focused on the gray metal sky above him and not allow his fingers to explore the flesh around the ache.
Shifting position, he climbed stiffly to his feet, careful to keep his eyes focused beyond his body. He wasn’t ready to see the damage, wasn’t ready to face the truth.
Promise me.
He spotted the tent, the loosely woven fabric billowing in the early-morning breeze. He’d seen that tent before, more than seventy years ago. It had held a treasure then, a promise, a dream. Now it held . . .
When he reached the tent, he slipped inside. Nothing there except a washstand in one corner. A small towel and a full jug of water sat next to the basin. He poured water in the basin and washed his face. As he raised his head, he saw the edge of the framed mirror now floating above the washstand.
Daemon closed his eyes and straightened up. Then he opened his eyes and looked in the mirror. Looked at the hole in his chest where his heart had been.
How was a man supposed to survive a wound like that? How was he supposed to pretend it wasn’t there?
Promise me.
He tried to speak, but his throat closed, preventing him from saying the words. Protecting him for a little while longer. Because once he said the words ...
Daemon opened his eyes. Early morning from the look of the sky. Groaning, he sat up, scrubbed his fingers through his hair, and looked around.
Brandy bottles were lined up on the wooden seat nearby, except for the last one, which lay on the damp ground next to him, almost empty. That explained why his shirtsleeve was wet and smelled. Just as the number of empty bottles on the wooden seat explained how he’d ended up sleeping outside—again.
Outside, he thought as he climbed to his feet, but still within the Hall. The sunken garden, that place of peace and power that his father had made for private meditations, was protected by the imposing structure Saetan had built as the SaDiablo family seat.
He found no peace in this garden—at least, not while he was sober—but he ended up here on the nights when his sleep was haunted by dreams, or on the nights when he couldn’t sleep at all.
Raised flower beds bordered all four sides except where the stone steps led down into the garden. A raised stone slab and the wooden seat were positioned between the two statues that dominated the space.
As he brushed at his clothes, Daemon kept his eyes fixed on the grass. He couldn’t look at the female statue, couldn’t look at that face. Not today. So he turned to the other statue, as he’d often done over the past year. The crouched male that was a blend of human and animal. A feline head supported by massive shoulders. Teeth bared in a snarl. One paw/ hand braced on the ground near the body of a small, sleeping woman while the other was raised above her, its claws unsheathed. Glittering, green stone eyes stared at him.
Honor, cherish, and protect. It was the male’s duty, and his privilege, to honor, cherish, and protect. To serve.
He had one last duty to perform for the woman who had been his Queen—and his wife.
Vanishing the brandy bottles, Daemon left the sunken garden and returned to his suite. The conspicuous absence of servants in the corridors meant Beale had known where he was and had made sure no one would see him before he chose to be seen.
When he reached his suite, he turned the physical lock on the door. That simple request for privacy wouldn’t alarm anyone, even today.
A fresh set of clothes was laid out for him—his typical black jacket and trousers and a white silk shirt.
He stripped out of his clothes and left them on the clothes stand for Jazen to deal with. Naked, he stepped in front of the dresser and looked in the mirror. No torn flesh. No gaping hole in his chest. He saw the visual evidence of his pain only when dreaming.
Promise me.
Tears filled his eyes as he looked at his gold wedding ring. His right hand trembled. His left hand closed into a fist so tight his nails broke the skin in his palm. Protective. Resisting the need to obey that last command just a little while longer.
A year to grieve, because your heart won’t ever let go if I ask for less. So take your year to grieve, and when that year is over, promise me you’ll take up your life again. Promise me, Daemon.
They’d had seventy years together. Seventy rich and wonderful years. Jaenelle had been healthy and vibrant right up to the afternoon when she had kissed him and gone to her room for her usual nap, leaving him in his study with a mound of paperwork.
She lay down to take a nap—and never woke up.
Dreams made flesh did not become demon-dead. She had slipped away from him without warning, without a chance to say a final good-bye—or hold on to her for a while longer. But a few months earlier, during a quiet evening of the last Winsol they’d shared, Jaenelle had asked for a promise that amounted to her last command.
One year. She had been dead one year, and it was time to keep his promise.
He called in a small, beautifully carved jewelry box and used Craft to open the lid. Inside was her wedding ring.
Forcing his left hand open, he removed his wedding ring, placed it next to hers, closed the lid, and vanished the box.
Then he went into the bathroom to shower away the grief—and hide the last tears.
Comfortably settled in a small, sunny breakfast room, Surreal ate a solitary meal an
d waited. Sadi would be down soon, dressed as elegantly as usual—a contrast to the gold eyes that had been dulled by grief for the past year.
She almost hoped those eyes, and Daemon’s highly intelligent brain, would remain dulled by grief for one more day. She would prefer having this particular fight after the fact.
The door opened. Daemon walked into the room, followed by Beale, who set a fresh pot of coffee on the table and retreated.
Daemon took a seat and poured a cup of coffee for himself. “Surreal.”
“Sadi.” She topped off her own coffee, debated for a moment about the wisdom of scratching his temper, then leaned back in her seat and stared at him.
Grief had dimmed the beauty of his face, but that wasn’t a permanent change. Seventy years was nothing to someone from the long-lived races, and since he was only eighteen hundred years old, he still looked like a well-toned Warlord Prince in his prime—seductive, sensual, washing the room with sexual heat just by passing through. She had spent the past few years discouraging idiot women who looked at Jaenelle and figured Sadi had to be looking for sex outside of the marriage bed because how could a man who looked like that want to bed an old, white-haired woman in her nineties?
Jaenelle had gotten old in years, but she was never old, and whether those idiot women wanted to believe it or not, Jaenelle Angelline had been more than able to handle Daemon Sadi in bed and out.
Surreal just hoped she had done her job as second-in-command sufficiently well that Sadi hadn’t been aware of those women. He wouldn’t have done anything while Jaenelle lived because that would have called attention to why those women were sniffing around him. And he hadn’t been interested in doing anything for the past year. But now? Had any of them come to his attention enough that he would hone his temper and go hunting?
“Something wrong?” Daemon asked, sounding edgy and brittle.
“You look like shit.”
“You do know how to flatter me.”
The silence that followed was uneasy on her part and chilly turning toward predatory on his. That was why she wanted to jump up and hug Beale when he entered the room and set a covered dish in front of Daemon.
Beale lifted the cover. Daemon looked at the simple breakfast and swallowed hard.
None of them knew if Daemon’s refusal to eat anything before the midday meal was a personal gesture of mourning or an inability to keep down food during the first few hours after waking up alone, but they had all known he would be at the breakfast table today whether he could keep the food down or not.
Daemon said, “Thank you, Beale,” picked up his fork, and began to eat his first breakfast in a year.
Surreal finished her own breakfast, glad of the delay, however fleeting, before she told him about the day’s task.
“What are you doing here?” Daemon asked. “I thought you would be in Amdarh for . . . something Holt had mentioned.”
“It’s a celebration for Lady Zhara, and it’s next week.” She swallowed some coffee, then added, “You’ll also be attending.”
He put down his fork. “No, I will not.”
“Zhara is the Queen of Amdarh, the capital city of Dhemlan, and you are the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan. So, yes, you will be attending.”
The room chilled, and Daemon said too softly, “No, I will not.”
She waited. He’d regained enough of himself that his face and eyes didn’t betray the vicious internal struggle she knew had to be going on—just as she knew the decision had been made for him and who had made it.
“So you’ll be there as my companion?” Daemon asked coldly.
The moment he appeared at a social event, everyone would know he’d ended his year of mourning, and there would be women drooling over the chance to ride his cock—and make use of anything else they could squeeze from the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan. There were also women who believed they were in love with him and wanted to gain his attention.
And there was a woman who had loved him for a lot of years and would continue to do her best to hide it because that was still the only way to help him.
“Actually, sugar, I’ll be there as your guard, but I have a thigh sheath for my stiletto, so I’ll still be wearing a dress.”
Daemon blinked. The chill faded from the room. “You’ll have a knife?”
“I’ll have several. I usually do. But at least one will be visible, so no one can say they didn’t have sufficient warning if things get messy.”
His lips twitched. He picked up his fork and took another bite of his breakfast. “So you came to the Hall this morning to tell me about this celebration?”
Shit. “No, I came to clean out Jaenelle’s suite. Helene will help me.”
Daemon set down the fork again. “No,” he crooned, “you will not.”
She’d sometimes wondered if, with the right provocation, he would kill her without hesitation. She didn’t have to wonder anymore. The answer was in those glazed, murderously sleepy gold eyes.
She gave a pointed look to the bare ring finger of his left hand. “You made your promise, Sadi, and I made mine. Today I’m going to keep that promise. Jaenelle wanted her suite cleaned out after the year of mourning ended. There are specific things she wanted saved and taken to the Keep. The rest are to be given away or sold.”
He snarled at her, but it was a sound of pain rather than anger. Unfortunately, being driven by pain made him more dangerous.
She pointed a finger at him. “And that right there is the reason why I’m doing this and you’re not.” She wanted to get out of this room before her bowels loosened past controlling, but she didn’t want to spend the next few decades wondering if the Sadist would pay her a visit. “You would never disobey your Queen. Why do you think I would disregard a request from her?”
He looked away.
“If there is something particular you would like to keep and it’s not on the list of items Jaenelle wanted stored at Ebon Askavi, I’ll set it aside for you,” Surreal said gently.
Daemon hesitated, then shook his head.
“Will you be around if I need to ask you about something?”
“I’ll be in my study at least for the morning,” he replied. “I expect Holt has a long list of items he wants to review with me.” He pushed back from the table. “Keep your promise, Surreal. I won’t interfere.”
She waited until he left the room before she allowed herself to sag for a moment. Then she straightened up and took a last sip of coffee. The sooner she and Helene cleaned out Jaenelle’s suite, the better it would be for all of them.
TWO
The Arachnian Queen, the Weaver of Dreams, delicately touched one thread of the web spun by Witch before the living myth became a song in the Darkness. This web had slept many years because the dreams it held had been too unshaped to become flesh. But something had changed, and now the golden spider could sense the whisper of wishes, of longings.
Specific dreamers. Most unusual to tie threads to specific dreamers when the shaping had not yet begun. Too much chance that the dream would never be flesh if one of the dreamers stopped wishing, stopped wanting. But that was why Witch had made the web this way—because these dreamers had to wish long enough, had to want hard enough, even if they weren’t aware of the wanting.
As long as the dreamers gave her something to work with, the Weaver would keep her promise and add to the web Witch had begun. And someday, another Arachnian Queen would add the last strand to this dream.
THREE
Standing in the family parlor of Lucivar’s eyrie, Daemon grinned like a fool and didn’t give a damn. He looked at the Eyrien baby girl in his arms and purred, “Hello, beautiful.”
She studied him with solemn eyes. Then she broke into a grin.
“Hell’s fire,” Lucivar said. “She’s barely out of the womb, and she’s already half-seduced by your voice.”
“As she should be,” Daemon replied, loosening the blanket enough to get a better look at his niece. “Look at those perfect little
fingers and those perfect little toes.”
“She is a darling.”
Daemon tucked the blanket around the baby. “Does Surreal know you named your daughter Titian?”
“Not yet. I have to go up to the northern camp tomorrow and most likely will be gone overnight. Surreal is coming here in the morning and will stay with Marian until I get back.”
Had Surreal told him she would be staying in Ebon Rih? Or would he find a note on his desk when he returned to the Hall? Sometimes he had the feeling that she was trying to avoid him, but he didn’t know why. Did she have a lover she didn’t want catching his attention, or was she still pissed off about the woman he’d bedded one night a few weeks ago? Damned hard to tell with her lately.
“Is there trouble?” Daemon asked.
“No, but I’ve already postponed this visit twice while waiting for the witchling to be born.” Lucivar reached for the baby. “Let me have her.”
Daemon took a step back. “Why?”
“Since I helped make her, I get to hold her.”
“You’re sharing.”
Lucivar narrowed his eyes. “Fine. But if she messes her diaper, you’re not handing her back until you clean her up.”
Daemon looked at Titian, who began grinning again the moment she had his full attention. “Tch,” he said. “You have a silly papa. He thinks I’m going to be scared off by a little poop.”
Lucivar snorted. “Suit yourself.”
Daemonar bounded into the parlor. “I get to hold her now.”
“No,” they said.
“Yes, I can,” Daemonar insisted. “Mother said I can.”
“No,” they said.
“Why not?”
“Because we’re older than you, and we outrank you,” Lucivar said. “So we get to hold her.”
“Neither of those things are true about me,” Saetan said as he walked into the parlor. “Hand her over.”
Daemon hesitated, but the gleam in his father’s eyes warned him not to start this particular pissing contest. So he transferred Titian into Saetan’s arms.