by Anne Bishop
He didn’t think Cassie’s mother was a fierce woman. Didn’t mean she couldn’t be dangerous if there was need, but he thought, maybe, she’d be the kind of woman who wouldn’t be afraid to hug a boy.
Was his mother still alive? Did she know how to find him—if she wanted to find him?
He hadn’t wondered until now. Maybe Powell, being the Steward of the court, would know how to find out.
A knock on the shed’s door. He used Craft to vanish the box before the door opened and Ranon walked in.
The Shalador Warlord Prince glanced at the empty potting bench.
“None of my business,” Ranon said, “but I saw the box this morning. Well, a few of us did, and we wondered. . . .”
Gray called in the box and showed Ranon what Devra had sent to him.
“Look at this one,” Ranon said, picking up one of the cuttings. “It’s got one flower open and one still in the bud. Maybe that’s why it took her a few days to send a reply. She must have waited for some of these flowers to bloom so she could send them to you.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
Ranon set the cutting down. “Look, Gray, planting this bed is going to be a lot of work.”
“I know.”
“When are you planning to do this?”
“I’ll need a few days to study the book and select the plants that will work best in the place I’ve cleared. Then I’ll need to see what I can find.”
Ranon nodded. “I’m heading to my village, but I’ll be back in a couple of days. Three at the most. When you’re ready to plant, I’d like to help. Shira said she’d help too. And I think there are a couple of other men in the First Circle who would be willing to help.”
Gray studied Ranon, seeing more than a Warlord Prince who seemed to rub against Theran the wrong way.
“You liked Yaslana, didn’t you?”
Ranon gave him a considering look. “That one scares the shit out of me, but I’d follow him into battle without a doubt or second thought.”
And you’d have both if it was Theran who was leading.
“Thanks for the offer,” Gray said. “I’ll figure out the planting day and let you know.”
Ranon smiled and walked to the shed door. Then he paused. “Shira wanted me to ask. Are you the reason Cassidy isn’t sleeping well?”
Gray grinned.
After a moment Ranon laughed. “Good for you, Gray. Good for you.”
* * *
Cassidy sat on the edge of her bed, fingering the key she’d found in the old wish pot—something she’d done every day, hoping the key would provide some clue to the treasure that was supposed to exist on the estate. Of course, her mind wasn’t on treasure. Not tonight. Her mind was on . . .
“Lia and Thera, your male descendants are a pain in the ass.”
At least Theran and Gray could share the blame for her being unable to sleep tonight. Theran had run hot and cold all morning—wanting her to write to the Shalador Queens and then being opposed to her writing to any of the other Queens who must have heard by now that there was a Territory Queen to whom they owed allegiance. Then this evening, Gray had just run . . . hot. But not hot enough to do more than kissing and petting. Not hot enough to go to his room and make use of his bed.
But that could be Lucivar’s fault because at one point this evening, when Gray pulled away because what he really needed was more, he had snarled something about writing to Daemon to find out if he really had to follow that stupid schedule.
She hadn’t met Daemon before the dinner party, but she’d spent enough time around Lucivar to know the Eyrien wouldn’t hesitate to give Gray a few bruises if Gray didn’t stay within the boundaries Lucivar had set. So until Daemon convinced Lucivar to alter the rules, she wasn’t going to ask Gray for more.
Wasn’t sure she’d have the courage to ask for more anyway.
Doesn’t matter who decided what, she thought sourly as she turned the key over and over. It still means another sleepless night.
A scratching on her suite’s door. She got up to let Vae in, mostly because the sofa in her sitting room was a comfortable place to brood.
*Cassie? Cassie! You are not sleeping. Why aren’t you sleeping? It is sleep time. Everyone is sleeping. Except Talon. But it is not his sleep time.*
Cassidy barely had time to settle into a corner of the sofa before Vae was beside her, pressing close.
“You need to be brushed,” Cassidy said, noticing how much loose fur was now coating her trousers.
*I will nip Theran tomorrow,* Vae said. *Then he will brush me.*
Oh, good. Serves you right, Grayhaven, for being a brainless ass.
*You have smells,* Vae said happily.
Cassidy was about to remind Vae that it wasn’t polite to talk about human smells—especially the female kind. Then she realized the Sceltie was focused on the key in her hand.
“It’s a key, Vae. It’s made of metal. It doesn’t have smells.”
Vae sniffed the key again, jumped off the sofa, and trotted into the bedroom. *I will find the smells.*
“You do that.” If the dog was hunting for nonexistent smells, at least she’d stay out of trouble. Maybe.
Keeping one ear cocked toward the bedroom in case Vae began rummaging where she shouldn’t, Cassidy slumped in the corner of the sofa, feeling frustrated and wrung out.
Sometimes when Gray kissed her, she knew she was being kissed—and held—by a grown man. But other times, she felt like she was kissing a fifteen-year-old boy who was fumbling through his first exploration of a female body. And in some ways she was. But she wasn’t fifteen anymore, and those times when he seemed more boy than man made her uncomfortable.
And yet she couldn’t back away from the intimacy or end the relationship altogether, because her heart recognized something in Gray that she had never felt with or for any other man.
*Cassie?*
Maybe it was for the best that Lucivar had set such firm boundaries around what Gray could—and couldn’t—do in terms of sex. Physically she was ready—more than ready—for more. Emotionally . . .
*Cassie!*
“What?” She felt frustrated and snappish, and her voice proclaimed her mood.
*I found the smells.*
“What smells?”
*The smells that match the key.*
Cassidy tangled her legs and almost fell off the sofa in her haste to get to the bedroom.
She didn’t see anything messed up or displaced. She also didn’t see a Sceltie.
“Vae?”
*Here! The smells are here!*
“Where?”
The tip of Vae’s tail suddenly stuck out from under her bed, wagged at her, then disappeared again.
Cassidy hurried to the bed, dropped to the floor, and lifted the bedcovers. “Get out of there before you get stuck.”
*Won’t get stuck,* Vae said. *Smells are here.*
Under the bed. The treasure had been hidden for centuries. Wouldn’t someone have looked under the bed?
That wish pot had been in the shed for centuries too and hadn’t been found.
“Get out of there, Vae,” Cassidy said. “I have to move the bed, and I can’t do that while you’re under it.”
She waited impatiently while Vae wiggled out from under the bed. Then she used Craft to lift and shift the bed as far as she could.
Vae went back to sniffing the carpet, then began scratching.
“Wait,” Cassidy said firmly. She moved the night tables and rolled up the carpet.
No trapdoor. No visible sign that there was anything different about that part of the floor. No lock embedded in the wood.
*Here,* Vae said, placing a small white paw near the spot that held the smells.
Cassidy ran her fingers over and over that spot. And found nothing until she held the key over that part of the floor.
A shadow so subtle she wasn’t sure she was seeing anything. But the key slipped into that shadow like a well-oiled lock, and when
she turned it, a rectangle of floor as long as her arm popped up. When she moved it aside . . .
Vae sniffed. Sneezed.
Ignoring the box in the secret compartment, Cassidy took out one of the books and opened it to a random page.
Like the letter in the wish pot, the ink had faded, although not as badly.
“A journal,” she said softly.
*Paper?* Vae asked, sounding disappointed.
“Yes, paper. But valuable.” It didn’t take more than reading a few lines to realize this was Lia’s journal—and a few lines more to realize the entries were made near the end of her life.
Cassidy riffled the pages until she found the last entry. Which was written by a different hand.
Lia is dead. And Dena Nehele grieves.
Without the Gray Lady, Dena Nehele will fall to the twisted ideas Dorothea SaDiablo spews. It won’t happen next year, or the year after that. The dreams and visions I see in my tangled webs all show me the same thing—Lia’s granddaughter will hold the land for a while. Long enough to keep the bloodline from dying out with so much else that will die in the years ahead. And Jared and his grandsons will continue fighting to keep the shadows at bay.
I will die before the seasons change, slaughtered here at Grayhaven, which should have been the safest place, while Jared, Blaed, and Talon are fighting elsewhere. I will not tell them because if they are here, they will not survive—and they must survive a few years longer. They must.
Lia is dead. Tomorrow I will grieve. Tonight I will set in motion all the spells we created to keep the treasure safe—and the hope that is hidden with it.
Thera
Cassidy closed the journal and started to put it back. Then she hesitated. If she left it all where it had been safely hidden for so long, would the key work a second time? Or was this part of the spell done, and this was the only opportunity to retrieve these items?
Not willing to take that chance, she pulled all the journals out of the compartment and set them aside before she removed the last item—the trinket box.
During all this, Vae stayed with her, not really interested or curious, but still watchful.
Cassidy opened the trinket box and smiled as she lifted a few pieces from the jumble of jewelry.
No expensive pieces here, no precious stones. She imagined that, during Lia’s lifetime, the pieces weren’t jumbled to deceive someone into thinking they weren’t important. Because these trinkets were important. When she went through the journals, she’d find each piece recorded. Gifts from Lia’s children. Sentimental presents from her husband. Not expensive, but priceless nonetheless.
She spent an hour wiping the journals and trinket box clean of dust before hiding them in the bottom of a trunk of her own belongings.
Then she put the piece of floor back in place.
*The smells are gone,* Vae said.
The key was embedded in the wood, and when she tried to remove it, it broke cleanly, becoming nothing more than an odd gold glint in the wood.
She put the rest of the key in her own trinket box, then finished putting the room in order.
Time had made its shift from late night to early morning before she finally climbed into bed with Vae stretched out beside her.
Just before she fell asleep, she realized why the servants had acted so oddly when she’d chosen these rooms over the fancy Queen’s suite.
This must have been the suite that had belonged to Lia.
CHAPTER 25
KAELEER
Vulchera slipped into the bedroom and looked around. The maid had turned down the bedcovers and plumped the pillows. Everything was ready for the Warlord when he bade the other guests good night and came up here to his chaste bed.
Damn Sadi for his lack of discretion. Why in the name of Hell did he have to explode like that? She hadn’t been aiming for him at that house party. Not initially. But when he wouldn’t even flirt with her, when he looked at her with those cold yellow eyes like she was some kind of scabby street whore, when every remark he did make to her had been blandly worded but so heavily laced with contempt everyone knew he wouldn’t consider soiling himself by being with her . . .
Well, she had her pride, didn’t she? She’d wanted only to give him a twinge of discomfort, a little payback because the other men who had been present at Rhea’s country house had taken a good measure of Sadi’s feelings and avoided her.
She’d wanted only to make him uneasy. She certainly hadn’t intended to do anything that would upset Jaenelle Angelline. Anyone who had heard about what Sadi had done to Lady Lektra last spring knew better than to aim anything, even a barbed comment, at Sadi’s wife.
But he had exploded when he found her in his room, had heaped his rage on Rhea’s head to the point where the Province Queen had “suggested” she leave their little house party—and had made it clear there would never be another invitation.
They had been friends, and she’d truly liked Rhea. Besides, having a Province Queen as a friend had put her in contact with the kind of men who could be most useful, and it had provided her with some clout she wouldn’t have had otherwise when she’d asked for favors from those men, even if Rhea hadn’t been aware of providing that clout. Now it was all spoiled because she had miscalculated the depth of Sadi’s rage.
None of that mattered now. Rhea still wanted to believe that she had intended to meet a lover who was an available male and had gotten the rooms mixed up. But they both knew Rhea’s court was going to break under the weight of Sadi’s temper, and that the friendship was just the first thing to break because of her mistake.
It wasn’t prudent to play this game again so soon, especially at this particular friend’s house. His wife didn’t like her. He didn’t like her, but he was an aristo Warlord who had wanted a bit of spice instead of what he usually found in his marriage bed. The shirt she’d kept as a memento of that evening gave her a standing invitation to his house—at least until his youngest son went through the Birthright Ceremony and he was granted paternity.
But she had to know—had to—if Sadi’s threat had been an empty one. She’d gone to her Healer and was assured there was nothing wrong. She’d gone to a Black Widow, who assured her there was no sign of any kind of spell around her.
Assurances. But not enough assurance, not when the person aiming a spell at her was a Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince. She had to know if Sadi really could strip her of the ability to get any pleasure out of sex.
She’d picked the Warlord at this house party because he was married and he’d made it clear he wanted to romp. At any other time, she wouldn’t have done more than flirt with him, because he wasn’t wealthy enough or influential enough to do her favors. But he would help her prove that nothing would happen to her—as long as she avoided crossing paths with Sadi.
The candle-light in the lamp on the table beside the bed was on a low setting and, oddly, lit only one side of the room, leaving the other side midnight dark. She shrugged off that detail even quicker than she stripped off her clothes until she was down to high-heeled shoes and sheer panties.
And wasn’t that considerate of him? she thought when she noticed the shirt draped over a chair.
Heavy silk, lovely to touch. She hadn’t seen him wear anything like this, wouldn’t have guessed he could afford a shirt like this.
Unless this was the shirt he offered women for a romp.
The thought wasn’t appealing, and even less appealing was the possibility that he might not think her being here was anything special.
But there was a hint of spice rising up from the shirt where her hands had warmed the silk. Not cologne, just a spicy male scent that made her feel fluid and female.
She slipped on the shirt, loving the way it settled over her skin. She buttoned the cuffs, then buttoned half the buttons down the front.
She twirled once, twice. The shirt caressed her skin as it settled around her.
A bead of sweat tickled her as it followed the channel of her spine.
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br /> Damn, damn, damn. She didn’t want to sweat. At least, not before she and the Warlord were heavily into the romp part of the evening.
Then she caught sight of herself in the mirror over the dressing table.
Dark specks on the shirt, growing bigger by the moment.
More sweat trickling down her spine.
What in the name of Hell was going on?
She walked over to the mirror to get a better look. The shirt was clinging to her shoulders. As she reached the mirror, she pressed her fingers on a patch of now-dark silk.
When she raised her fingers, they were wet—and red.
She was sweating blood. How could she be sweating blood?
The shirt. Had to be something in the shirt.
She grabbed the fabric with both hands, intending to tear the shirt off.
Blood gushed from her hands.
She released the fabric and stumbled toward the door.
Help. She needed help.
The door wouldn’t open.
She pounded on the door, leaving bloody handprints.
“Help me! Somebody, help me!”
No response from the other side of the door.
“They can’t hear you,” a deep voice said in a singsong croon. “They won’t help you.”
She turned toward the voice coming from the dark side of the room. “My lover will be coming up to bed at any moment.”
Movement. Then a man appeared on the edge of the dark side of the room. Most of his face was still in shadow, but his smile was viciously gentle. “The Warlord? No, my dear, he won’t be coming up here. He was encouraged to leave and is, by now, on his way home.”
“What do you want?” she cried.
The shirt got wetter and heavier, clinging to her skin. Her legs trembled with the effort to remain standing.
“Odd how much terror can be produced by a piece of cloth,” he said in that singsong croon. “Don’t you think it’s odd? A simple shirt can destroy a person’s life. How does it feel to be on the receiving end of that fear?”
She heard the splat of blood dripping off the shirt and hitting the carpet.